Greetings friends, from the hospital. I think I get to go home today, but it’s still early and it’s the weekend, and I have yet to see a doctor and they’re still just bringing me broth to eat (NO MORE BROTH) but that’s not what I feel like writing about.
Here’s a fun side effect of being overweight and in the hospital: everyone keeps assuming I’m diabetic.
Like, they went ahead and added insulin to my list of medications without ever asking me if I took insulin.
But perhaps I should back up.
Maybe it’s my own fault. They asked me if I had any medical history of diabetes when I got here and I told them I had Gestational Diabetes in 2013. I guess somewhere along the way they lost sight of the gestational component, my chart indicated regular ol’ diabetes, and every time I got a new doctor or a new nurse I got to explain alllll over again that, nope: Just fat! Not diabetic!
I thought it was weird that they kept checking my blood sugars, and then everyone seemed surprised when my results were normal (because I’m not diabetic).
“Well, your first test was a little high,” they told me.
Oh, you mean after those two bottles of Gatorade on an empty stomach?
Since then? Totally normal blood sugars.
BECAUSE I’M NOT DIABETIC.
So color me surprised after I’m admitted and my new nurse is going over my list of medications and she says, “And you get insulin three times a day.”
Not a question, mind you.
So we start again.
Two days and two nights later I guess I finally have enough documented normal blood sugars that the order has been updated and I don’t have to keep defending my already wounded pancreas’ ability to make insulin.
Now if we can just get someone to sign off on me eating some actual goddamn food, we’ll really be on a roll.