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I wrote recently about my first fast. I loved the experience and I hope you decide to look into it for yourself to see if it’s something you’re interested in doing. But now that a few days have past, and I’m back to eating, “normal” again, I wanted to let everyone know how things are going.

Since the fast I have had a few highs, some mild depression (psychological, as well as physiological), but overall some WONDERFUL blood sugars!

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After church I typically end up sitting down with a few of the members I get to see once and week and catch up.

This Sunday I was sitting with Paul. Paul is an older gentleman who is witty, funny, and sharp as a tack. I believe he is in his late 60's and read all the bible verses that day in church. He used to be a radio announcer so he has an awesome voice.

We asked each other how we were doing and I felt compelled to share my weekend of ridiculously high blood glucose readings.

"I have been sky high all weekend and cannot get my blood sugar down," I told him, not sure if he could sympathize.

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I'll admit I've never seen Buckaroo Banzai; however, the catch phrase "Wherever you go, there you are" has become as much a part of our popular culture as "Beam me up, Scotty" or "Time to make the donuts!" Yet, with about one in eleven US residents having -- or being at risk for developing -- diabetes, it's no wonder that almost every time we turn around, we meet (or learn about) somebody else "with the D".

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I'm not talking about the temporary states of anxiety or paranoia, lassitude or somnolescence, that accompany our glycemic highs and lows, but the long-term, "you should get psychological help for this" effects of living with chronic disease in general, and diabetes in particular.

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There are two very important people in my life who are considering weight loss surgery. I won't lie: I've thought about it, too.

I'm not really that excited, though, about the type of lifestyle you have to lead after bariatric surgery. Seems to me there's a lot of liquid involved and the recovery is long and slow. How would that affect my family? My family life? What about my job?

I've thought about a lap band, too. That seemed to be much less invasive and more my style. From what I understand, a lap band makes your stomach smaller and doesn't change the way your food is digested.

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There's an old saying about leading a horse to water but not being able to make him drink. I've been trying to make a certain horse in my life drink water for some time now.
 

I recognized the signs a long time ago. I knew she needed to see a mental health professional. I begged, I pleaded, I guilted. I tried to reason with her. But it's hard to do that long-distance. And over e-mail.
 

I consider myself a good listener. Someone who can listen to someone non-judgementally and offer advice. But there comes a point when experience isn't good enough.
 

It's hard to watch other people suffer. And this person was suffering. There were so many issues that need to be addressed and she always said she was too busy. It's even harder to watch someone suffer when I have experienced the benefits and relief that come from professional mental health help.
 

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What it boils down to are food and money.

For starters, diabetes robs from us the ability to "just" eat when we are hungry, not-eat when we're not, and not have to weigh, measure, and log every morsel that passes our lips. Then, it robs from us the (admittedly ill-advised) pleasures of the occasional ice-cream sundae or wolfing down half a pizza pie. And because we can't be certain of the foods that we don't prepare ourselves, it robs us of the ability to eat at friends' and relatives' homes, or even casual-dining restaurants.

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Other than the expected shock, you never know how you'll react to someone passing away in front of your eyes -- or while you are en route to a critically-ill relative -- until it happens. I don't usually experience grief in terms of torrents of tears. I do experience a degree of depression, and psychological paralysis, and for months afterward (sometimes even years!) I think I see deceased people walking in crowds (they're pretty obviously someone else who looks similar). Right now, logistics are the only thing in my mind.

Logistics -- not that my mother has left this world, and my father is in his own Alzheimer's world. How are we going to make sure my sister can continue to survive? How are we going to deal with personal effects? What can we keep, and how do we sell what must be sold? How are we going to foot the unpaid bills of burial -- not to mention whatever emergency-room bills follow?

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Not only am I in a strange bed in a place that has not been "home" for over eight years, I'm trying to deal with the financial, emotional, and logistical elements of our current situation. Rather than resting and staying asleep, my mind is trying to figure out how to move our office into our already-packed living room, plus adding additional book cases and filing cabinets, without sacrificing my ability to put up my sewing machine, keep my only means of transportation (bicycle) in the apartment, and find space for sentimental treasures, plus finding a way to monetize that which we cannot keep or store, so that we can finance the process.

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