Thirteen weeks ago I had a phone consultation with my GP, who told me that my blood sugar (7.2 mmol/l) and HbA1c (6.5%) indicated that I was diabetic, and that I ought to shed a lot of weight. (His initial demand was pretty alarming, but was a result of (a) an arithmetic error, and (b) an old-fashioned idea (lacking support from evidence) that a man approaching sixty ought to have a BMI no higher than 25 kg/㎡.)
Anyway. Christmas basically stalled my progress for four weeks (I can show you on a graph), but as of this week my mass is down by 8.4 kg, my fasting glucose is 5.0 mmol/l, and my Hb1c is 5.2%. Rough estimates of body fat based on carefully consistent use of a cheap home bioelectric impedance kit suggest that I have maintained lean mass (at about 73–74 kg) throughout. If I keep saying “I can’t eat that — I’m diabetic” for another 21 weeks I ought to be a healthy weight (20% body fat, BMI 28.4) by the time I see my doctor next, which will be in 26 weeks.
On the other hand my ferritin is 345 mmol/l (whereas my haematologist likes it to be under 80 mmol/l) despite an uninterrupted series of four-weekly venesections. So perhaps I’ve mobilised a store of iron from somewhere. I am on antibiotics for a dental abscess. And I can feel a bout of bipolar depression coming on.
So. Qualified raptures.
