Alrighty, so first thing's first. At the third week weigh-in, the news that's fit to print was as follows:
20 stone, 3.25 pounds.
Ahem.
That's a single quarter-pound lower than at the week 2 weigh-in. So essentially, I've lost one good hard ogrefart.
On the upside, it's still technically going in the right direction, which I was in no way sure it would be until this morning. So, join me in waving the world's smallest rattle in celebration, before we knuckle down and focus properly for next week.
Then I went to see the doctor. All in all, it was a good meeting - he revealed a whole lot of stuff, which pretty much breaks down like this:
My echocardiogram result from Hammersmith Hospital came back completely clean - every atrium, every ventricle, every valve - a o-freakin'-k.
New information for most people - last year, I went to Newham Hospital for a whole range of tests because, not to put too fine a point on it, I was bleeding when I pee'd, and - and here it will pay you not to have a visual imagination - in certain other situations. So in November 2010, I went to the hospital for a bladder examination, kidney ultrasound, the whole shebang. When I was on the table, and they tried to stick a camera into my urethra, they discovered that they couldn't get the normal camera into me. I have to tell you now, when you're lying on an operating table with a burly Mediterranean gentlemen grasping your genitalia, there are certain words you hope not to hear.
For my money, "Oh Hell, we'll need the wide-bore and the spreader" pretty much takes on all...erm...comers.
They proceeded to stick something the shape and size of a golf tee into me, and completed the investigation.
When they were done, the line "Oh, while you're here, we might as well do a prostate test" really didn't endear them to me any further.
For the record, and just to make sure we're on the same page - not my favourite day.
Now, apparently, the results have come back. I have platinum-standard kidneys, a bladder that's fine but doesn't appreciate being poked, and a kink.
That's right - I'm a kinky dick. You all knew that by now, right? Apparently, it's not a serious thing, and the way to properly cure it is to go back to the world of the screw-in golf tee, so I don't see that happening any time soon.
And then we discussed this project. He was positive, liked the fact that I've lost four pounds and an ogrefart in three weeks, loved my stories of what I'm not eating and tales of the exercise bike, and offered me a referral to a diabetic dietician.
"Oh, there'a another thing we can do," he added. "We can give you drugs."
I remembered writing on here that I wasn't gonna go the way of drugs - meaning speed - so my Inner Pussy spoke up.
"Oh no," he said, "this isn't speed, this is Xenical."
Xenical, for those who don't know, is a drug that scours your body looking for fat, beats it up and flushes it out of your system. For the Doctor Who fans here, it's Adipose without the alien plot. For everyone else, it's the S' Plan Diet in handy pill form...
It's also pretty much designed to work like an experiment in masochism. It's designed to suck ass...so to speak. And so, by forcing you to spend hours glued to the toilet for any fat-related faux pas, it's basically a chemical truncheon, waiting to beat the shit out of you if you act like a stupid sonofabitch.
So here we go - adding voluntary aversion therapy to the mix. Perhaps not the moment to mention I've had a bowl of cereal and two pizzas today...
Ahem...
Oh, and I'm at another seminar all day tomorrow. In Cambridge. Here's hoping the pizza and the Xenical don't kick the bejeesus out of me jussst yet...
No comments:
Post a Comment