No dice. The nurse slides it to 50, and slides the top slider.
I am 87 pounds.
I am still 87 pounds.
Seconds and thirds on those occasions and with those leftovers. At every meal with friends, having them note that I'm eating as much as or more than they are.
Not one. Fucking. Pound.
Pulse in my ears, and the first phrase that comes to mind is my favorite curse from The Adventures of Barry Ween, Boy Genius - "Mother-sucking cock-fucker." But that's only the first. In my head, I run through a litany that would make a sailor faint. Outwardly, I am silent, just nodding when told to go to the room behind me.
By the time the doctor comes in, I've gathered myself. She's clearly not happy. "At least you didn't lose any this month," she offers.
Yes, that's the good news - my level of malnutrition has remained constant. Go team.
The bad news is that it is not an ulcer. Which means that it is not something that a round of antibiotics will cure. She scribbles a prescription for a proton pump inhibitor to reduce the gastric acid in case that's affecting my appetite and I'm not eating as much as I think I am, and asks me to keep track of what I eat for the next two months, til my next weigh-in. She refers me to GI for a consult and, if they deem it necessary, colonoscopy. She admits that this is because she's baffled and wants a fresh set of eyes on the problem.
I come home. I get my traditional post-doctor two-cheeseburger-large-fry at McDonalds (there's your food log, that and two Nutri-grain waffles for breakfast). I hear "Everybody Knows" in the car, which isn't a good song to hear when you're like this, when you're angry and frustrated and helpless, when the good news is that they don't have to stick a fucking tube in you yet, but that word is there: yet.
I am not happy.
I... have nothing else to say, really. That sums it up, that gross understatement. I am not happy.
EDIT: Yes, they've checked my thyroid, several times, and it's fine.