(Prior posting from my old webspace)

Saw my new Endocrinology nurse finally. Gotta admit she’s on the ball. We’re working towards a common goal…to get me back in the saddle.

I often wonder if my saddle would need to be an XXXL or an XXL. Poor horse. By the time I finish this ride, it’s gonna look like “Algebra the bow backed mule” from The Little Rascals.

Well, with her instructions spinning around inside my cerebral vortex, I awoke this morning to my usual steaming cup of finger prickin’ and tummy sticking’.

Now, you’re dealing with a man that has never been much of a fan of needles. Over the years, with my numerous jaunts to the emergency room for the many fun things that keep occurring with me physically, you’d think I’d get used to blood ‘n’ stabs. But I never really warmed up to being in the presence of nurse Vlad The Impaler, let alone this junkie trip I now must implement into my daily routine.

What a colossus! What fun! Boy, I love needles. I’m saving all my “fits” for Halloween. I plan to go out as “Pinhead” from Hellraiser. I figured if I adhered them all over my face, I wouldn’t have to worry about people invading my personal space that night. Plus the lovely aroma of insulin would surely make my costume a hit! Trouble is, I don’t know if they have enough pleather on planet earth to make my bodysuit. And would Pinhead be as effective on the body of a living Kewpie Doll?

So, I go through my newly instructed morning Olympics. I rise, open the curtains a crack so I can at least pretend I’m a man in possession of working eyes. Then I fumble for the “black pack”, the one that contains my electronic vampire meter. I then take the auto-fang out of the holster, and deliberately stab myself.  Of course, as you may know, fingers are good sources of blood. Anyone that’s ever cut themselves on a fingertip know precisely what I’m talking about.  On this morning, lucky me, I failed to look at the length of needle I’m using on the dialer built into this nasty device, and in doing so, I now have enough razor sharp metal to not only snap through my skin, but the entire finger.

So I release the spring, only to snap fully awake as the sudden realization that I’ve not only punctured the skin on my finger, but have hit bone. As I dance around in shock and terror, I also am now becoming horribly aware that my finger has come to resemble a fatal fissure in the Hoover dam.

I once saw an episode of “Will and Grace” where Grace gets a leak in a water bra, and and was forced to deal with the ramifications. This mirrored my finger. Blood not just being extruded, but literally pumped upon the walls, carpet, desk, vampire meter, lamp shade.. all in a matter of seconds.

So, as any good sensible half awake man would do, I stuck the life pulsing fountain of joy into my mouth, and dined on Type O.

Do I get that job in the “Twilight” series? My chest may be in my stomach now, but I can hoist it up. Sexybeast…

So, after Spacklefest 2010 commenced, I took my hemorrhaging finger to the lavatory, and ran cold on it for seemingly an hour. Once I got that puppy to cease and desist, I realized that I hadn’t even taken my reading.

AAARRRG!

So with a little more mindful technique, I redid the test, and got my reading. Of course, it’s off the graph. I can feel my life surging with sugar laden paradise as I sit there and ponder what’s next.

So, I reach for the other new love in my life…my insulin pen. Now, you’d think after that loving session I just finished with the Vampiro-matic that I’d be more alert.

I dial my setting, get the air out of the syringe, redial and make welcome the needle to Mr. Bellyfat. A second later, that lovely scent of hospital permeates my nostrils, and I’m good.

Now, like any sharp object you use medically, you dispose of these needles in a bin. But I’m a careful person, wouldn’t want to risk anyone being cut, so I recover my needles for safety.

Good Samaritan, and a good practice, IF you pay attention. This particular morning,  Mr. McGoo takes over from my chorus, blind and clearly not tuned into the right station.

I go to put the cap on, and who repeats the earlier performance of “Blood and Sand”. And this one hurt a whole lot more. This needle is sharper than a laser scalpel. I never knew that much blood could pulse from one little wound. But unlike the first performance, this one made like lava and oozed. What parts of me were not covered in blood from the first act of stupidity were now being attended to by the second.

So once again I’m heading for the sink, blood shedding all over my smurf blue carpeting, and dotting the tops of my feet. I get this under control once my finger spent about two thirds of the water supply in Ottawa. It just keeps on getting better and better. The longer it soaks, the longer it taunts me with the promise of relief, only to revisit me once I stop the immersion. I’ve now got the walls from the Amityville Horror right on my fingertips.

It’s finally stopped it’s quarts of plasma pooling over my fingertip. And I think to myself just how I’m supposed to keep this going for the rest of my life.

My fate is that I must do this thing. I don’t get to choose. My choice is that I will be a better man for the doing. This is where I finally get to shine, and learn to treat my ruin as a shrine.

I only get one body, and Kewpie Doll shaped or not, how this temple is to sustain me is my choice.

I choose to make this a good day. My menstruating fingers won’t blight that for me!

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