90 Day Lab Results - Not Good

I’m pacing the floor in the exam room. It smells like sanitizer and old plastic. The kind of smell that tries to hide what it really is. This a holding pen for people who gave up trying to fix themselves.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead—cold, constant, indifferent. A blood pressure cuff dangles on the wall like a passive aggressive threat. There’s a poster peeling off the wall about “heart-healthy diets” and a smiling cartoon heart. I wonder how many corpses that heart has smiled at.

It’s been a little over 90 days since Feb 14, 2025. My left eye went rogue. Cranial nerve palsy. Vision fucked. Double vision. My left eye partially paralyzed and partially rolling around my socket. All caused by my Type 2 Diabetes. Blood numbers trashed. A1C at 10.0. Triglycerides somewhere around 700.

The woman I call my “doctor” is a Nurse Practitioner. She’s been decent, I guess. Gave me the minimum viable patience. A smile. A checklist. She let me try different lifestyle changes—but with that smirk. The one that says, you’ll be back.

I never asked too much of her until I had to. That’s on me. I let my body rot while I played executive chef and traveling guru. Let my glucose destroy my nerves while I smiled through tastings and workshops. Always consulting for others, never for myself.

She told me to eat more good grains, heart healthy cereals. Skim milk. Eat more oatmeal, steel-cut of course. Lots of fruits and veggies. Beans, corn, and rice. Canola oil, from a spray can. Olive oil. Lean meats. Oh don't forget, cutback on beef. Absolutely no butter, ever. Margarine is your holy savior.

You know—the same shit that helped get me here. The same shit from the American Diabetes Association.

When I brought up keto, carnivore or fasting, she laughed. Told me it wasn’t healthy, actually dangerous for me. Told me I needed statins, lots of then. Told me I needed GLP-1s, prescribed Ozempic.

She even asked me to explain what a carb was.

I was wearing an eye patch. She talked to me like a child.

I laughed. I’m a chef. You think I don’t know what a carb is? She may know protocols, but I know food. I know how to cook a carbohydrate into something that will make a grown man weep. I've studied food longer than she's been alive.

I didn't say any of this. But I sat there, like a diabetic pirate, just listening to someone who uses her degree to talk down to someone.

I left that appointment compliant in appearance. But underneath, I was pissed. Not at her. At myself. At how far I’d fallen. At how broken I had become. I had all the pieces of a shattered life. And no one was going to put them together but me.

I wasn’t looking for her permission. I was preparing for war.

So I built my own fucking recovery.

I've been taking Metformin for years, that and some Lisinopril. Cause that's what you do when you’re told to by white coats. I knew I needed to change but I wasn't ready to take Ozempic or a statin.

I kept Metformin and Lisinopril. Dropped everything else for 90+ days. Went full keto, then slid into carnivore. Zero sugar. Zero processed food. No seed oils. Zero grains, pastas, breads. No cheats. Not one fucking morsel. Hard? Indescribable, but the old sugar addict in me had to die.

I fasted 16:8 daily. Started walking. Then rowing. Then started CrossFit. Logged everything. Every ounce of water, every blood ketone, every exercise, every single glucose reading. If my body twitched, I wrote it down.

I didn’t follow the American Diabetes Association's oatmeal fantasy. I cooked like a diabetic chef—for survival. Flavor, function, and fire. Used all my experience and talents as a chef and saved myself, one meal at a time.

I took meal plans from the American Diabetes SOCIETY and made recipes. I created over 145 recipes. Check them out: https://www.bloodsugarchef.com/items

It felt like it was working.

I came back to life. The mind-fog lifted. My deformed excuse of a left eye starting working again. Months of the eye patch went away, replaced by pounds of beef and pounds of weights. My legs started to thicken with real muscle. My sleep got deeper. My mind sharpened and became incredibly focused. The gym didn’t get easier, but I didn't want it to get easier.

Now, 90 days later I’m back in that same damned Exam Room 3.

Was I fooling myself? Were the talking YouTube heads like Dr. Ken Berry and Michelle Hurn, Registered Dietician wrong?

The check-in nurse—what I call the “Fluffer”—called me back to the exam room. Took my vitals. Asked her routine questions. All smiles and warmth. The kind of kindness that disarms you right before you get medically fucked.

She says I’m 4 pounds heavier than last time.

I feel like she was quietly judging me while the remnants of a glazed donut lingers on her XXL scrubs.

I sheepishly smile back. She doesn't see the new steel in my resolve or my legs.

My Nurse Practitioner walks in. No labs yet. “They’re being faxed,” she says. Asks how I feel.

"Better than I’ve ever felt.”

The mental clarity. The strength. I’m waking up rested. I’m breathing deeper. I’m not afraid of mirrors anymore. I can see again.

She nods. Polite. Neutral. Maybe skeptical but glances at the scale and reminds me I've gained weight.

I hand her my CGM reports. That's a Constant Glucose Monitor, for you uninitiated.

A printout thick enough to demand attention. She flips through it with the casual detachment of someone used to being lied to.

She says change like this takes long time. That 90 days isn’t enough for any remarkable change.

Then a knock at the door. The Fluffer returned, my labs in hand, followed by the aroma of breakroom donuts and burned coffee. I didn’t have to look. Three months no sugar, no carbs—my sommelier nose has gone feral. One whiff and I could name the brand, the glaze. Glazed Raspberry filled Krispy Creme. Oh, I knew exactly what kind of pastry sin just walked in.

She hands the lab work to the NP.

Imagine watching an android short-circuit on a question it wasn’t programmed to answer—head tilt, spinning pinwheel buffering eyes, like a walking 404. Full-on Blue Screen of Death.

 “Your A1C is 6.4...”

 “Six point four — down from 10.0"

 “What about triglycerides?” I ask.

 “200. Down almost 500 points."

My labs aren't good, not decent. They're a personal best. My war cry etched in ink and blood.

She nods slowly, eyes scanning. “Well, looks like the statins and the Ozempic is working.”

I let the comment hang in the air while she looks for any deviation in numbers to lecture me about. All of my measurable labs were substantially improved.

Then I tell her.

"No statins. No Ozempic.”

She looks up. Her face doesn’t twist. It softens. Not out of empathy—out of calculation. Something’s not adding up.

I pulled out my 90 day summary. Food logs. Sleep patterns. Exercise routines. Ketone levels. Every bite of ribeye. Every tablespoon of butter. I show her how I live now. Not because I need her to approve—but because I need her to see.

She listens. Not defensively. Just quiet. Like she’s trying to make room in her head for something that was never part of the plan. This isn't on her checklist. These results aren't in her American Diabetes Association SOP manual.

I wasn’t trying to embarrass her. I really liked her as a person. I respected every bit of credentials she had earned. I wasn’t angry. I was steady. Defiant, yes—but respectful.

I told her I’d be finding a new primary care provider.

She nodded. It wasn’t hostile. It was resignation. Like she understood. Like maybe she even agreed, but couldn’t say so. Not here. Not under this roof. Not under this system.

I walked out, past the nurse's station, past the cute-chubby "Fluffer." Past the weight scale, past the Krispy Kremes and instant coffee, right past the ghost of my weaker self in Exam Room 3.

I left the office calm. No victory lap. Just quiet. Heavy. The kind of heavy that only comes from knowing you’ve carried your own body back from the dead.

The air was thick around me. The hallway seemed quieter. The walls buzzed less. The door felt lighter when I pushed it open.

Outside, it was hot. Uncomfortable Texas heat. The air smelled like asphalt, sweat, and second chances.

I got into my truck. Closed the door. Everything inside was still and warm.

And I cried. Wept. It was primal and vulnerable. It was redemption. It was relief.

Not because I was broken—but because I finally wasn’t.

For the first time I felt in control. Like I had a fighting chance.

This wasn’t luck. This wasn’t fate. This wasn’t a fucking miracle.

This was 90+ days of discipline. Of screaming muscles. Of cravings. Of 3AM doubt and 5AM resolve. Of measuring, logging, hurting, choosing the hard path over and over and over and over again.

But let’s be clear—this isn’t the end. This isn’t the finish line. My numbers can and need to get better. This isn’t some happily ever after where I ride into the sunset with stable labs and six-pack abs.

I've had 43 years of metabolic failure. You don’t reverse that in 90 days.

The fight has to be long. It must be difficult. That’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it matter.

This is where it gets dangerous.

Not at the beginning—when you’re broken, blind, and scared and every day feels like survival.

No, this part. Right here.

When things start working. When the weight drops. When the labs come back clean. When people start saying things like “Wow, you look great” and “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

That’s when the devil of comfort shows up.

Not with fire. With a couch. With a snooze button.

He whispers, “You’ve earned a break.”

“One bite won’t kill you.”

“You’ve made it.”

Bullshit.

This is the part where most people get soft again. Where the fire fades. Where the spreadsheet stops getting filled in. Where the vision that saved their life gets traded in for just one little taste of the old habits that nearly killed them.

Not me.

Not now.

I didn’t come this far to negotiate with the weakness I already buried.

And let me be clear—this isn’t me rejecting medicine or science. I’m not here to burn it down.

I’m here because I realized it’s already on fire.

The system is broken. Hijacked. Muted by liability. Gagged by lobbyists. The people sworn to heal us are too scared to speak outside the script. Too scared to risk their license by saying what works. Too scared to challenge the dogma that keeps people sick just long enough to bill them again.

I don’t think the American Diabetes Association wants you to get better.

I think the American Diabetes Association wants you compliant.

Predictable.

Profitable.

There’s probably a van outside with a team of hooded ADA goons ready to throw me in the back for saying it—but I’ve earned the right to say whatever the hell I want.

This is my life.

My blood.

My fight.

And I’ll burn every bridge necessary if it means I don’t go back to the grave I was sleepwalking into.

If Death wants me,

he better be ready to look into me eyes.

Because I won’t be on my knees.

Not this time.

I’ve clawed my way out of the dark.

I’m burying the weaker man I used to be.

I know pain. I know doubt.

And I kept going.

This is a warning.

I stared into the abyss.

Whatever’s looking back?

It better start running.

Because I’m not finished.

This is just the beginning.

And I’m coming for it.