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We found 7 result(s) that match your search "My Philosophy":

I'm the kind of person who, no matter how horrible I feel, at least attempts to get out of bed to go to work. It's a philosophy that stems from my childhood when my parents told us that if we weren't barfing and didn't have a fever we were going to school. If we still felt bad after we got there then we could call them and we'd talk.

 

It's a philosophy that has served me well. At least I think so. And I've happily passed this philosophy on to my children. I don't think I'll ever forget the day that No. 1 woke up with an upset stomach and I told him he at least had to try to eat breakfast. Yeah, he barfed. Nice job, Michelle!

 

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One underlying theme of diabetes blogs and complaints is the difference of our daily routines from those of people who have never known a blood glucose test, never chosen foods based on specific ingredients or an organization's endorsement, never had to dress in a manner different from those around them, and never had to follow a ritual not of the mainstream. Yet we see, meet with, and talk to people who do this on a daily basis, who could never think of not doing this (or who would never consider it)... who do not have diabetes, nor are they housemates of people with diabetes. (READ MORE)

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I'm battling pretty severe nausea again this evening. I decided to stop the Metformin and just stay on the Wellbutrin until my body adjusted. But at this moment, I'm greatly reconsidering that decision and thinking that I might stop the Wellbutrin altogether. I'm not sure that it's the right choice for me or for the people who love me.

 

I didn't exactly plan to tell my mom this evening that I'd started the antidepressant, but it came up and I got exactly what I expected. A lot of shock and a lack of encouragement about being on them. She doesn't believe that my life is bad enough to warrant antidepressants (because in her mind, they are only to be used for extremely bad situations like the death of a child or a sick spouse or some other catastrophe).

 

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Sunday night, my throat started hurting pretty badly. I haven't had any type of cold or cough in probably two years. Usually the first signs, I can kick whatever I have with extra vitamin C and this juice that I drink. I did the usual, but it stayed irritated.

 

So Monday night, I ate some tomato soup and tried to drink as much water and juice as possible. I was 113 and thought I'd covered the food okay. I went for a run, hoping the endorphins would bump up my immune system. After a quick shower, I was 96. I wasn't sure how the food and running might hit me, so I just waited.

 

But while waiting, I got distracted. So it was an hour and a half later before I checked again. I felt okay, but I wanted to double check. And thank goodness. I was 55. I drank some juice and ate some crackers trying not to over treat. I didn't want to waste my run by consuming more calories.

 

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My mother is reading aloud.  I love it when she reads aloud.  She doesn’t just speak the words, she actually feels them.  Her mouth turns up and down with the emotions of the characters and her hands are moved by the flow of the words and the story.   I am transfixed.  

 

We are sitting in the courtyard of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum on the Fenway in Boston.  I adore the way this place smells.  Like old things and blooming things and stone and wood, all mixed up.  I like the way the faces on the paintings look through the glassless windows in the walls that face the courtyard, as if they’re spying on us.  Seriously or sternly or wistfully eavesdropping as my mother reads.  

 

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I don't know why I'm not a better guesser, a better suspector of an outcome. Often while The Mr. and I are watching TV or a movie -- or even if I'm telling him a story -- he is quick to say "I know where this is going." He used to be able to tell me he'd predicted the end of a movie within the first 10 minutes. I just like to sit back and enjoy the ride. But, just for the record, I figured out the ending to The Usual Suspects way before he did. :-)

 

Anyway, my point is that I really had no clue what was in the envelope that came from my psychiatrist's office the other day. No idea that it was bad news. No freaking clue that it was anything other than happiness. 

 

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One of the earliest "grown-up" movies I remember seeing in the cinema was a comedy called Cold Turkey, starring Dick Van Dyke. The premise was that a small town would win what, for them, was an obscenely large amount of money if everybody in the entire town could stop smoking, "cold turkey" — that is, suddenly, as if the "off" button had been pressed and the power disconnected — for an entire month. The lengths the town fathers went to, to win, and the lengths the tobacco company went to, to ensure they didn't, made for laughter and hijinks that were accessible to even middle-school children.

 

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