My doctor called me on Friday to communicate the results of my recent bone scan. “The news isn’t good,” she said, somewhat dramatically, I thought, though my perception may have been affected by the fact that I picked up the phone while in the middle of an especially emotional scene in an episode of Nashville, my current guilty pleasure.
“You have osteoporosis.”
Moment of silence. She proceeded to inform me that she would refer me to to an osteoporosis clinic since my “case” is somewhat complicated given my age and other medical conditions.
First things first: I’m not dead, though my future as an MMA fighter is. I’m not sure exactly how (else) this will affect me, in the short-ish term. My diet is, ironically, already very high in calcium, but I’ve started supplementing anyway; after I see the specialist, I’ll know what else I should do besides making an appointment with my epileptologist to discuss switching anti-seizure medications, as my GP suggested. Good times.
I’m determined that putting a label on a condition that I wasn’t aware I had until a few days ago and over which I have minimal control will have as little emotional impact on me as possible. Plus, maybe it’s only natural I get a disease usually associated with the elderly, given my natural predispositions. I mean, I threw a geriatric theme party a few years ago because I love old-person stuff so much. (Decorations included bottles of Ensure and back issues of Ladies Home Journal, and digestive cookies, party sandwiches, and other bland delights were out in full force. I did, however, resist the temptation to cover the couch in plastic.)
In all seriousness, even if I’m a little shaken by this development, I’m also thankful that this was caught sooner rather than later—thanks, compression fractures!—so that it can be addressed before it progresses further. It’s me against you, bones. Or me against me, I guess.