Fairness

I went to speak to a counselor (not the fun kind).  I was surprised when in the midst of talking, he asked me if I ever thought that this was not fair.  I told him that it was a stupid thing to think--what is fairness, after all.  Fairness in the health sense is the thought that some higher power gave me a disease rather than, perhaps, someone more deserving of a disease.  Being that the highest power that I believe in is The New Yorker, this is a silly thought.

But damn, did that plant a thought into my head.

I don't think of my diagnosis as unfair.  It happened.  But I have begun to have less tolerance for those who have their health and, frankly, do stupid things.  It has materialized mostly as I watch people I know and people I don't know smoke.  Growing up with a mother who smoked, my frustration was nothing new.  But it's been taken to a new level.

So in that sense, it's not fair.  I didn't smoke because of asthma (add it to the list) but I also ate healthy and organic.  And look where it got me.  

Intelligent design proponents, eat your heart out.

I am afraid no more!

Fuck it, he said, parousing the aisles of Trader Joe's.  I will not let diabetes stand between me and my love.

I bought chococats.  To paraphrase Michael Stipe: Snack unafraid.  I'll not be hungry instead.

In another life

Three days ago I celebrated the one month anniversary of the diagnosis.  Looking back from then, it was hard to remember a time when I wasn't monitoring my food, stressing about insulin, and the like.  Really, it's as if that was all in another life.

Every now and then, I feel like I can't go to sleep, so I go through old pictures, via Facebook.  My drink of choice this evening: camp pictures.

Anyone who knows me will know that camp is one of the loves of my life.  Nothing in this world means more to me than it and nothing has shaped me more than it.  This is putting it mildly and briefly. 

But in recollections of camp, I do remember a time before my fingers looked like bleeding starfish.  It was a time before anything in this wretched Sophomore year happened.  It was easy.

Nothing is easy anymore.  My living situation - not easy.  School - not easy.  Friends - not easy.  Family - never easy.  

It's better to do one thing well than many things with mediocrity.  I'm beginning to wonder even one is doable.

My Professor, the Supreme Dick

I'm not one to throw insults around (at least where they can be cemented) but this one is apt.  Here is an email exchange with one professor I have, in a class in which my midterm grade was sub-par.

-----------------------------------

Professor J****s,

I have a feeling this might be in vain, and under normal circumstances, I know it would be.  But I wanted to ask you about my midterm grade.

I lost most of my points on the multiple choice.  But specifically, most of the questions I got incorrect came from a class I missed when I was in the hospital.  Questions #7, 8, 9, 13, 18, and 23 pertained to the lecture on ************  ********* policies, and while I made sure to read that chapter, I missed out on some information that was on the exam.

I was hoping there might be some sort of extra credit, or at least consideration, that I could do given my circumstances.  My grade was a 73, and those questions amounted to twelve points that I missed.

Thank you for your consideration,

---------------------------------------------------

This was the one-line response:

No, sorry.  Suggest you try to improve on the next exam.

-------------------------------------------------

Are you fuming?  I am.

There are a lot of things I could say about someone like this.  Now, I understand if I cannot be granted an extra credit assignment.  Okay, it was a long shot.  I can also understand why, at the moment, extraordinary considerations cannot be taken.  Perhaps something in the final grade could be factored in.

But the only thing I have to say to this one line, snobbish in its blue font, is that it is the mark of a supreme douchebag.  (Not to mention that the second set of words is a fragment, you illiterate).  The reason I missed that class wasn't that I got drunk and broke my leg.  It was not under my control.  A part of my body that should work stopped working.  Had I attended that class, I would have left Against Medical Advice, which is the dumbest thing for a single lecture.  I'm not sure what was expected of me: should I have stormed out in a gown and hospital socks?

So my question to you, professor, is the following: what the fuck is wrong with you?  It's not that my request was denied.  It was the snippy, almost sardonic response with which my request was met.  You're an adjunct with a day job, not Noam Chompsky.  And on top of it all, you're a shitty lecturer who expects all the knowledge to come from readings and for class periods to amuse you with your stupid egotistical tales.  

Seeing as how the grade is indiscriminately based on two tests, with no other factors, I'm strongly considering linking you to this hallowed blog, you malicious ogre.  

P-U-M-P

I don't know what you heard about me.  

But if you can't get no insulin out of me. 

No snicker bars no duds no can-dy.  

I'm on a mother fucking P-U-M-P.

Essentially, I'm taking the baby steps towards a pump.  But the above line is a much better way of telling you this information.

A Spoonful of Sugar Makes the Medicine Ineffective

Disclaimer: the title of this post was just something I thought was clever.  It has nothing to do with the post.

I don't believe in karma.  I don't think there's any cosmic force keeping things in balance.  I'm a nonbeliver.  But if I did, this would certainly support the hypothesis.

In the middle of the summer, one night at camp, one of my great loves in life, I sent a text message to a few people close to me.  I don't remember the wording, but it was something close to this:

"This might just be late night ramblings, but between camp and school, I'm about as happy as I've ever been."

Happiness cometh, happiness leaveth.  Or something like that.

The precipice I fell down was steep and sudden.  It changed my life.  It made me not enjoy the things I used to enjoy.  It made me think differently.  It made me think badly.  It took away the ability to care about things I once cared about.  It took away from me.

For want of not turning this, once again, into a livejournal, I'll leave things there and get back to the disease.

I successfully traveled with diabetes, although insulin in a moving bus was a terrible experience.

Making the wrong decision and knowing it

I know right now I'm doing the wrong thing.  I'm sitting in class, one which the teacher has been accommodating for, and I can feel that my sugar is low.  I should probably be eating something, but I don't was to be disrespectful to the professor.  I left early last time.  

Oh well.  If nothing else, I'll get to feel drunk without being it.

The last few days

I've not ceased writing.  This post is essentially a place holder.  I've had a rough few days, but in the interest of this not becoming a LiveJournal, I won't be airing grievances with life online, at least in public.