Today’s post is more of the same. Last time there was trouser drama. Today too. Two weeks ago, there was medical doom and gloom. Today too. For months, there have been rubbish weigh-in results.(Here, here, here and here. Today too.
Trousers first. I donned my belt on Thursday and did my laundry on Friday, so when I went to work on Saturday I had clean underpants on and a belt holding my jeans up and nothing could possibly go wrong. Except it did. About halfway through my workday on Saturday I went to the loo and while I was doing up my belt afterwards, it snapped in half. Completely useless.
Another trouser apocalypse! I spent most of the rest of the day teaching with my hands in my pockets, holding my trousers up. The next morning, I tied a necktie round my waist and it’s been holding my jeans up since. I’ll hopefully make it to one of Dublin’s only two fatman clothes shops and get myself a belt in the next few days.
And so, to the medical stuff. I’m writing this post in a waiting room in St. James’ Hospital. Yesterday, I got a letter from the aggressive doctor I saw two weeks ago. It included my blood test results from the last time I was in hospital and said:
YOU ARE NOT DIABETIC.
THERE IS EVIDENCE OF INFLAMMATION.
GO TO THER COLLEGE DR WITH THESE RESULTS AS DISCUSSED.
Dr Rubbish O’Crap
I may have changed her name. But all the rest is exactly as she wrote it. She wrote me a letter with Caps Lock on. Classy. I vaguely considered writing a reply:
Dear Dr O’Crap,
IT WAS NICE TO MEET YOU TOO. INFLAMMATION OF WHAT??
But I didn’t.
I went to the college doctor. And he was lovely. He’s the first doctor to actually listen to me in years. He still didn’t have much to say, but it was nice that he listened. He wasn’t worried by the blood tests.
He was worried about the blood pressure though and sent me to hospital for an ECG and a chest X-ray. And he warned me, like the last two doctors, that I was in danger of sudden death.
I really do think that if someone is in danger of dropping dead at any minute, then it’s a bit mean to tell them about this, as it surely just scares them half to death, which is the last thing someone who is in danger of sudden death needs.
He puts my BMI at a little over 50. That’s a category all of its own. There’s overweight, then obese, then morbidly obese, then me: super morbidly obese. I’m the kind of fat they make TV shows about.
I don’t think they will find anything wrong with me. They never do. I always secretly hope that they will. That I’ll be diagnosed with some horrible illness that’ll force me to diet. I know I shouldn’t think like that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t. Of course then there’s the fear that I would be diagnosed with something and continue to eat badly, but let’s not think about that.
And even if they don’t find anything wrong, it doesn’t mean I’m not sick. I am. I had to lie down after getting dressed this morning because putting on my shoes winded me completely.
Anyway, even though I was in St. James’s Hospital two weeks ago and I must have passed it 100 times, I wasn’t sure of the best way there this morning so I checked Googlemaps. Because Googlemaps hates me, it gave me directions to St. James’s Hospital in Leeds. Apparently, it would take me 31 hours on foot, not including the ferry trip to Liverpool. In the end, I just drove along the South Circular Road and the hospital was just there, waiting for me.
The tests didn’t take that long. The ECG nurse didn’t comment on the fact that I had a tie around my waist like some kind of homeless hobo. She did ask if I “had blood pressure”. Surely if I didn’t have any blood pressure I’d be dead, but I didn’t say that. I’m a good person and so I said that I do indeed have blood pressure.
I’ve left the hospital now and am at home. I was greeted by two large signs on the kitchen door. One begged us to deal with the rubbish situation. The bins are absolutely disgusting today. Like a fetid Himalayas, they tower and stink in equal proportion. The second notice is asking where the hoover is. Someone has obviously locked it in their bedroom. Or stolen it.
I am still enjoying life in Halls. I went for a Christmas dinner with some of the boys on Sunday night. We went to an all-you-can-eat Chinese. Because nothing says Christmas like mounds and mounds of Chinese food in a canteen on the Northside. It is great to be a student: all you can eat main course, three desserts disguised as one and of course there was no question of leaving a tip.
I weighed myself first thing on Monday morning. I’ve gained weight. All since Friday. I jumped on the scales on Friday and I’d actually been good. But I ate epically this weekend and destroyed any good work I’d done.
Measurements: mainly up a little
Neck: 17.5 inches/ 44.8 cm (up)
Arm: 16.25 inches/ 41 cm (up)
Chest: 51 inches / 129.7 cm (up)
Waist: 54.75 inches/ 139.1cm (down!)
Thigh: 26.5 inches/67.7 cm (up)
I weigh 23 stone 3 pounds/ 325 lbs/ 147.4 kgs. My BMI is 49.2 and my body fat is 10 stone 3.5 lbs or 44.2%.
I’ve gained three pounds or 1.7 kilos.
To be quite honest, I’m not sure if I could lose half a pound at the moment. To maintain my weight, I need to average over 3704 calories a day i.e. 22 bananas or 7 Big Macs. A day. In other words, I would lose weight if I simply ate 6 Big Macs a day. But somehow I have a feeling I’d sneak in a seventh burger every day.
I will fix this. Somehow.
In other news, the wrong person won the X Factor, the right person is going to win Strictly Come Dancing and I submitted another chapter of my thesis. My non-smoker’s teeth are whiter than they ever were before and my new deodorant smells very nice. Christmas is still rocking. Also, I’m going to a musical on Thursday, which never, ever fails to cheer me up. (Other than the time I went to see Michael Collins: The Musical, but the less said about that the better.)
Wish me luck!