JARDINE: Friendly nagging changed my life

A few months ago, a friend chewed me out because I'd put off getting a routine health checkup. Is three years between exams considered procrastinating?

He'd recently been through a serious health issue, and I think brain surgery qualifies.

Make the darned appointment, he said. You owe it to yourself and your family to stay on top of your health. He promised to keep bugging until I made that darned appointment.

So I did.

Because my longtime doctor had retired, I had to find a new one. In mid-June, I went in for my checkup. The doctor sent me down to the lab for the standard bloodletting to check for diabetes, high cholesterol and triglycerides — stuff that can, like, kill you if you don't pay attention. I was supposed to come back a month later to go over the results.

The next morning, though, I was interviewing someone for a column when my cell phone rang.

"Mr. Jardine?" the voice on the other end began. "The doctor wanted me to ask if you are absolutely certain you'd fasted for at least eight hours before you gave blood yesterday."

Yes, I told her. It had been more like 12 hours.

"Is there a problem?" I asked — a dumb question because she wouldn't have called otherwise. She paused.

"Let me call you back," she said.

A few minutes later, the phone buzzed again.

"The doctor would like to see you sooner than your July appointment," the caller said.

"OK, when?"

"She has an opening tomorrow morning."

I arrived the next day, and the doctor came into the room with a piece of paper in hand. The results of the blood work, she said, weren't good. My bad-to-good cholesterol level was out of kilter. My triglycerides (fat levels in the blood) were way high. I weighed too much (198 pounds) for my height (5-foot-5½), which, by the way, somehow had decreased by a half-inch since the last time I'd been to the doctor. I'm shrinking.

And to complete this grand slam (and I don't mean a Denny's breakfast special), "You are diabetic," she said.

Really?

"Yes."

The choice, she said, was pretty simple. Cut the bad stuff out of your diet now or risk needing insulin shots down the road, assuming you don't have a heart attack first.

You mean milkshakes for dessert every night are bad? Fettucini Alfredo (a k a heart attack on a plate) isn't health food? Tri-tip and rib-eye steaks aren't the best way to get my recommended daily dose of iron? You don't rehydrate with Pepsi?

Seriously, this was serious or soon could be. This is the wake-up call many people in their 50s get, and far too many choose to ignore.

I decided to go cold turkey. I haven't had ice cream since that day. No red meat, either. I avoid anything containing processed sugar. Soft drinks, white bread, mayonnaise, egg-based noodles, candy — all verboten.

Only white chicken meat or fish, green salads, multigrain bread, fruits and vegetables. Cheerios or oatmeal for breakfast. I even began swimming 20 laps three or four times a week.

In mid-July, I returned for the follow-up and had new blood work. My overall cholesterol had dropped and the ratio between good and bad had narrowed considerably.

My triglycerides level, 248 in June, dropped to 79. My blood sugar dropped as well, though still a bit above normal. And I weigh 178 pounds, down from a porky 198 in June. I feel better and, well, lighter.

I deserved a hearty pat on the back, right.

Wrong.

My blood sugar was still a bit too high. And my good cholesterol was still too low, she said.

And how do I raise it?

"You need to lose weight," she said.

I'd already lost 20 pounds, I countered. I no longer buy "relaxed fit" jeans.

"You need to lose more," she said firmly.

I asked what a person my height should weigh. She pulled a small card out of her pocket, checked the height listed on my chart and said, "148 pounds."

I laughed. I haven't been 148 pounds since high school. I just turned 53. Does the chart consider bone density and muscle mass?

"You need to lose weight," she repeated.

There's about one sure way I'd ever see 148 again, I joked: a bad case of malaria. She didn't laugh. Or smile.

Here's another thought: Why not tell me how tall I'd need to be if I weighed, say, a more realistic 165? I'll just grow.

She smiled, almost.

There's no way I will drop to 148 pounds, nor do I want to. I would look emaciated at 148. But 165 is reasonable and now just a few pounds away. I'll go back for another follow-up in a couple of months, and promise to be more diligent about yearly checkups in the future.

My old pal from high school, the one who had brain surgery, really didn't tell me anything I didn't already know.

It just took a bit of friendly nagging to get me to make the darned appointment that changed my diet and probably my life.

Jeff Jardine's column appears Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays in Local News. He can be reached at jjardine@modbee.com or 578-2383.