Dear Oprah,

I used to be a fan. I used to watch your show all the time. Probably every day. That was back when I was in school and was home by the time you were on.

After I got into the real world and started working, I rarely saw your show. And frankly when I did, it was pretty sensationalized. As a member of the media, I pretty much hate sensationalism. I may be in the media minority when it comes to that, but it's a direction that I simply can't stand our industry has gone in.

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There was a time when The Mr. and I could wear the same size pants. In fact, he put on a pair of my jeans one day and though they fit it didn't take him long to realize why they didn't feel right.

I thought we were heavy then. I'd love to be back in that size jeans. That was before kids. That was before 12 years of marriage. That was a long time ago.

When I look back 15 years ago at pictures of us I think about how skinny we looked. And though I didn't see it then, we were; especially compared to how we look now.

The Mr. has been contemplating weight loss surgery for years. We talked about it casually. We knew people who went through it. We knew the fantastic results. We knew it was a tough road.

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I will sleep alone tonight.

It was dark when we left this morning and traffic was heavy.

We waited. Waiting rooms. People. Doctors. Nurses.

I waited. Alone. Then said goodbye and see you later.

Go upstairs, it'll be quieter there, Dr. B said. I did. It was.

I waited. Alone.

Bit my tongue when the old man said "My headache's not because of my sugar."

Texted. Facebooked. Should have brought my phone charger.

11 a.m. Dr. B smiled at me. I waited some more. Then paid $13 for lunch.

I updated family and friends.

When I saw him he was awake. And beautiful.

I crafted. I fetched. I helped out of bed. I walked. I kissed. I hugged. I loved. (READ MORE)

“Aaaaaaaaaargh!” I screamed. I practically slammed my meter down on my bedside table. The Mr., who was half asleep next to me, was startled.

“What?”

“85!” I said angrily as I stomped down to the kitchen. It was 10:30 p.m. and I was in bed and in no mood to deal with a blood sugar that was too low to go to sleep and a downward trend on Dexcom.

I ate a granola bar, though I didn’t want to. And drank a few sips of milk. And took inventory of dinner: steak, potatoes, green beans, birthday cake, milk.

I went back upstairs and watched Dex like a hawk continue to go down. I reached for the SweeTarts. And then I got cranky. I could feel it all over, but I showed it by saying “I hate Valentine’s Day” after watching a commercial for jewelry or chocolates or something equally Valentine’s Day. “It’s just so commercial.” (READ MORE)

Last week I called my OB's office.

"Hi. I'm a patient of Dr. I. I'll be 35 next week, haven't had a period in 57 days and I'm not pregnant," I told the triage nurse. "And the last few cycles have gotten progressively farther apart."

"Well," she said, "women can have signs of perimenupause as many as 10 years before they actually go into perimenopause or menopause."

Fantastic, I thought. Just what I needed to hear: You are officially getting old.

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5:30 a.m.: 94 mg/dL. Finally, a decent fasting. (And then there was about 10 jelly beans so I could go for my walk, a quick 1 unit bolus in the middle of my walk to counteract the jelly beans, and then another quick 1 unit bolus before I disconnected to get in the shower. And two hours later I was 108 mg/dL. Ah, how I love a good site.)

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