I'm thinking of a number. Please don't let it be above 105!

You thought it would be someone important didn't you? Sorry to disappoint but this particular space is occupied and it typically has some pretty squirrelly things to convey. It is Wednesday, July 28, 2010. This week marks the third anniversary of my own version of "D" Day. That's how long ago I first heard the doctor say, "Sorry to tell you this but you are a full blown diabetic." Me? You got the wrong patient dude. Someone has mixed up the blood tests or the charts or something. But, alas, that was not to be the case and I am here to tell you that this piece of news brought about a type of warfare that I never dreamed I would be waging. By the way, the answer to the image with the chicken question was: He kicked the bucket. I know I am a member of a very large club that is growing by leaps and bounds and is now even reaching into elementary school for Type 2 candidates. I wish I knew who to blame. I don't think it is inherited because we have no huge presence in our family history. Gene pool pollution or southern fried chicken? At this time I would say it is the chicken that crossed the road to mess up my time in the 60's. Not those 60's. I'm talking about my age. I used to think only crackers when someone used the term grams. Now I immediately think about nutrition labels. They even have some pictorial nutritional aids out on the web. Imagine how I felt the day I saw a picture of the 1.5 oz. box of raisins along side 8 lumps, count them, 8 lumps of sugar! The box proclaims them to be all natural but they obviously are loaded up with fructose, 8 lumps, who ever heard tell? Where's the 'don't ask, don't tell' program when you need it? Maybe I should limit my label reading to the 'best if used by date'.

My theory is that I would still be at war if I relegated myself to a steady intake of those styrofoam lookalikes and taste-a-likes called rice cakes. I think my DNA sees something like that in my system and he is not only embarrassed but he also becomes incensed that I would stoop that low. He then calls up the blood glucose dude and tells him to shoot me a bad number just for the heck of it. It can be quite exasperating. Some days I work really hard and I carefully choose each item but the next morning my fasting blood number is much higher than I would have expected. The next time I am hesitant to look after downing a plate full of cheese covered chicken fajita nachos but am knocked down when the reading is barely above the top end of normal. Go figure. That's why they call it a war. It's pretty sad when you have to compromise one of the top skills you have worked so hard to develop throughout your lifetime. Eating. That's right bucko! Eating. My grandmother used to set it down in front of me and then sit down to watch me dig in. She would then brag on me because of what a good 'eater' I was becoming. My mom too. My mother-in-law too. My wife too. The folks who operate the buffets too. I had a following folks and three years ago it got trashed. All that hard work traded in for pin pricks, diets, and trying to battle the forces of food arrayed against my will power each day.

Okay, you can tell that I am in exaggerated overkill mode today. I am blessed to have found out early that I have this disorder. I am blessed that while it is serious I have been able, thus far, to manage it successfully, even if I have often zigged when I should have zagged. I am blessed to be able to laugh about it even though I would love to go back. But here I am, nearly 50 pounds lighter, facing each day with at least some sense of discipline, weebly wobbly at times, but typically out there on the battlefield. Eight lumps. Do you suppose it's because they come from California? You know things are pretty weird out there. I've become a fan of drug development. How about one that will allow me to eat what gained me both the great reputation and the weight but it totally nullifies any and all negative side effects? That would sell folks, that would sell! Don't forget, you heard it here first. I may be diabetic but that doesn't mean I can't dream. But until that day I will just have to be satisfied with my meds and my warfare while I lay myself down to sleep with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head. I love parodies and never think because of my joking around that I am not eternally grateful for the blessings God has given to me, including His help through medicine and motivation to keep on keeping on in this struggle. Have a great day and may God bless us all! Amen. ......More later.