A surfeit of brocolli

Tuesday November 7, 2006

It was a bit of surprise when the phone rang this morning and I found myself talking to my new doctor. He’d had the results of yesterday’s blood test back and it seems my cholesterol reading is elevated over the comfort level. Again.

Whoops.

He’s bumping up my ‘statin dose and I have to attend to my diet once more, trimming out the nasties and eating more cholesterol-kindly stuff in their place.

I’ve noticed it before. It seems always to be when I’m feeling really good with myself, moving well and with decent energy levels, and sleeping well, too, that I get this particular bit of unwelcome news.

On reflection I should have expected it. Over the past few months I’ve let my guard down a little, eaten too much comfort food, and far too much from the chiller cabinets. I’ve already rebelled from that, and my basket has been turning steadily healthier day by day. Even so, too many chips and too many pies have had their way with me and my body is making too much bad cholesterol once more.

Hey ho. The message is clear—Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal—and I shall heed it. I have a follow-up blood test in two months to check my progress and I shall meet the target if it kills me with brocolli. Not that I’ve ever heard of anyone dying from a surfeit of brocolli.

Needless to say, the wind was knocked out of my sails a little today but, at the finish, I decided to turn turn adversity into profit and used the situation as the subject of today’s OMPOWRIMO poem. Routine stuff, I’m afraid.

 

Hold the butter
 
An unexpected cholesterol warning
turns the soft grey sky harsh and cold.
 
“I thought I was being pretty good.”
“You need to do better. A lot better.”
 
An endless prospect of broccoli
stretches out in a long green sigh
 
and, like my parsnips, it will have
no butter and few fine words.
 
 
John Bailey
Somerset, November 2006

 

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