I spent January 30, 2010 crying, trying to pack for New York, waiting for the doctor to call and researching diabetes. As I read information online about the disease, I kept telling myself I couldn’t have diabetes. My symptoms weren’t so extreme to point to type 1. But type 2? I was 26, thin and active, plus had no family history of diabetes. It didn’t make sense.
My doctor called that evening with the results of a handful of blood tests. Everything was fine, except my A1C. He had that kind, concerned tone in his voice again as he told me that the result of the test, 7.2, indicated I had diabetes.
Not able to believe the news, the first thing I asked was if I could still go to New York the next morning. He said he thought I would be okay, but urged me to pay attention to how I felt the next few days. He reminded me to look at the list of symptoms he had given to me and find a nearby emergency room. Comforting.
He also told me that he’d talked to the doctor I’d be meeting with in six days and she recommended I begin taking Metformin. He asked me to fill the prescription he had written me before I left for New York. At 8 p.m. on a Saturday night, I drove to CVS in a complete mental fog. As the pharmacist informed me of the potential, awful-sounding side effects of Metformin, I decided not to take the medication until I was back from my trip.
I left for New York early the next morning. While I’d been looking forward to the trip and the chance to catch up with friends in the city, the next few days were a complete blur. I tried to focus on work, but found myself just going through the motions as I staffed a conference and made conversation at client meals. I was anxious to get back to LA and see a doctor who could make sense of what was going on.