I am going to begin this, my very first blog post here, with a confession.

I have fallen off the wagon.

Not the booze wagon; even before my type 2 diagnosis in February 2006, my drinky drink days were mostly behind me. (College was fun, from what I remember.) No, the wagon I have fallen off of is the healthy living, weight-losing, diabetic-under-control wagon.

When I was diagnosed last year, my a1c was hovering above 10, and I was about 35 pounds overweight. I was also terrified. I was 38 years old, with that big number (let's call it "thirty-ten") lurking in the near future. My own father died at the age of fifty-one after about twenty years of poorly managed diabetes. I was determined that this wouldn't be me. (READ MORE)

It's been an odd few weeks here on the Beedies front.  When my doctor sent me to see the endocrinologist a few weeks ago, it was with the grim admonishment that I was most likely going to have to go on insulin.  My comfortable little world of better living through pharmaceuticals was going to be swept away, and in its place I would find myself trudging through a grim dystopia of syringes in my bathroom, sad little bottles in the butter tray of my fridge and a pocketful of Jolly Ranchers to fend off hypoglycemic death.

I am perhaps overstating the possible state of affairs.

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As Type 2 diabetics, we're often told that the best thing we can do for ourselves is lose weight. And that's undeniably true. But no one tells you ahead of time how weird that process can be.

Now, I write about my own weight struggle a lot, so perhaps it's time for me to own up to some actual numbers. I'm not an "alert the media" level fat guy. When I was diagnosed with diabetes almost two years ago, I went on a panic-and-phentermine-fuled weight loss frenzy, and I lost about thirty pounds. At 6'2", I got down to about 205 pounds. So not Jude Law, but not Jabba the Hutt, either.

This was quite a difference from the worst of my college days, when I weighed (and I can't believe this, even as I type it) about 280 pounds. I was a mess, a big sloppy boozy lummox. I'd managed to lose about thirty of those pounds before I was even diagnosed, because let's face it, Dean Wormer in Animal House was right. "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son." (READ MORE)

A funny thing happened this week. I turned forty.

Okay, perhaps it wasn't so funny.

The morning of my birthday, I took a long moment in front of my bathroom mirror. My apartment complex management was kind enough to replace the subtle lighting over the mirror that we'd had for two years with new, direct lights that look fancy but which might be more appropriate for an interrogation than the gentle transition from being asleep to facing the reality of my new life as a forty-something. Looking in the mirror, I swear I could hear the faint creaking sound of my bones as they calcified. (READ MORE)

For a variety of reasons that all add up to a perfect storm of unfortunate for yours truly, I have gone off my diabetes medications and shall be off of them for a few days. I ran out of both at the same time, and it happened on a weekend, and a holiday weekend, no less, so there was no one at my doctor's office to call. Furthermore, if I'd been paying attention (and really, why would I? It's only my health we're talking about here), I would have seen that I had no more refills on my prescription, meaning that in order to get more, I would need to make an appointment and go in to see my doctor again, which of course I should have done a few months ago, but my book came out and I've been busy being Mister Fancy Pants, etc. etc. etc., blah blah blah. Really, there are a number of excuses, but they all come down to my own personal dedication to being the very best cautionary tale I can be for the rest of you. No need to thank me, I do it out of love. (READ MORE)

If life is in fact a series of actions and consequences (and good Lord, I hope it isn't), then the fact that I eventually developed type 2 diabetes (known affectionately around the Rummel-Hudson compound as "the Beedies") is about as mysterious as why it gradually gets lighter outside at roughly the same time each morning. ("Did someone install stadium lights out there? Lets investigate. Oh, look, the sun...")

In college, I lived a life of excess. Despite the fact that I also drank way more than I should have, the main culprit was food. Glorious, wonderful food. I live in Texas, so take those food items and deep fry them. (To this day, the idea of chicken fried steak repulses my northern friends, and yet just now, when I typed those three lovely words, I got a little slobbery.) I drank too much soda, I ate too much crap, and if something green ever went past my lips, it was probably an M&M. (READ MORE)