(Prior posting from my old webspace)

It’s been a summer of revelation and great change. I can honestly say I’m glad I have experienced the bittersweet. It keeps my determination and focus front and center.

One change this summer I’ve experienced was adapting to my new physicality. Living with Diabetes has been a challenge, to put it mildly. I’ve made great strides in modifying my inability to do anything but sit on my ginormous asses and bellyache, as well as switching up a great many things I’ve scarfed down mindlessly over the nearly 45 years of my life.

You can teach an old bear new tricks.

All those wondrous sugary sins now seem irrelevant. All things white and winsome in every respect now brand themselves as culinary weapons when I see them in the supermarket. My cart spilleth over with diet drinks, brown rice and sugar free ice cream. The sugar plum fairy… services will be held at Forest Lawn Cemetery in the near future I hear.

My body is a temple. Well, one that may have been in and around ground zero during some unnamed natural holocaust, but it’s a temple nonetheless.

I’ve voluntarily made a foray into a medieval torture chamber. The dungeon, aptly located in a basement, is replete with neon lures and electronic promises of sexy effortless smiling health.  It’s Sirens serenade you towards your fate with it’s video screen presentations of people happily being flayed, stretched, water tortured and contorted into new and exciting bodies. If Salem had such a place all those centuries ago, perhaps there would have been more confessions forthcoming.

But I am determined to take back my life.

So I bravely tread softly into the lair of doom, and pour copious amounts of liquid onto the racks and pressing devices made available to me with my paid membership. I renounce on every push and pull of the apparatus ripping my arms out of their sockets that I will never again allow the forces of evil to feed me with temptations of savory lustful sin, that I will feed only one stomach from now on, and renounce all that is delicious in my ambition of healthful pursuits.

When I sweat, I can feel a river pour down my scalp. Somehow…it’s a good thing.

But with all this change in living, you’d think I would physically be in a better zone. Truth is, some things haven’t improved. Take for example the two blimps I walk upon. From the knee down, my legs have now morphed. Into what you ask?  Lets just put it this way. I could be stunt doubling for a certain “tire mascot” if I took the time to paint my lower limbs white. It makes for interesting moments when putting on my runners.

As an added bonus, I get the pleasure of watching my hands and fingers follow suit. It’s not pretty to see my engagement ring literally take on the role of tourniquet. And after several weeks of this, I finally broke down and saw Dr. Happyheart. Now…this Doctor was not to be forgotten. A total of maybe five feet in stature, this little brown pill jockey smiled and sang through my entire visit. I have to admit I loved his energy. It was wonderful to hear about his many wives in Africa as he doled out my medications. And then we came to my newly sized paws. He poked fingers into my feet, hands and shoulders, and prescribed me a diuretic. Explained with my physiology changing as well as the weather, and that I was walking around with the equivalent of lake Titicaca sloshing around my extremities.

So, without really appreciating what was about to happen, I foolishly took my prescribed dose the following morning, drank my large coffee, and went out to run some much needed errands.

I now know how a boating lock works. I was about to become a sentient counterpart to them. In the middle of Walmart, I feel a little activity taking place one moment. It was soon followed by significant jump in aquatic tension. Very suddenly and without warning, there was a tsunami in progress, and I was helpless to stop it. So F R A N T I C A L L Y  I start looking for in store pit stops. Finding none, and with sweat pouring off me from the strain of that rogue wave threatening to overtake my underpants, I seize a hapless employee and with a measure of self control which I didn’t know I’d still possessed, I beseeched them to come to my immediate aid and point me towards the in-store customer water closet. I rolled and ran faster than is humanly possible with crossed legs upon reception of this information.

So, with porcelain savior in front of me, I let loose. With God as my witness, I had to have raised the water table on the Atlantic by a good two centimetres in that one maneuver. It never seemed to stop. I was expecting to see a man in a wooden barrel work himself into the act, it was that big a waterfall.

After I finished, and I picked myself up off the stall floor after collapsing in relief and exhaustion, I go to leave the bathroom, just to find my bladder had other ideas.

I am thankful for that shopping cart. It masked one spreading sin beautifully. There was no way I was leaving Walmart without my rolling blockade.

Last thing I needed was to be featured in “The People Of Walmart” online.

It would have been an interesting day left at just this incident, but that pill just kept on keeping on. In every single store, that physical lock would fill in rapid stages, followed by a mad dash to the facilities, followed by more and more darkening short fronts. This went on for nearly three hours.

By the time I returned home, it had finally ended. My ring looked great on my now normal sized finger. My feet almost looked like feet again. And I now understood the whole “lock away moisture” thing they keep peddling on the diaper commercials. I was wet, icky, smelly and in need of a power washing. My shorts implored me to line them with Depends next time I ventured out.

T’was a learning curve.

I’ve now learned that the arc for my medication is in and around three hours. I’ve learned that if I want some modicum of dignity remaining in my life to not take these oceanic tablets unless I had three free hours to devote to living in the bathroom.

I’ve learned that whilst tipping the age of forty may have opened my eyes and prospects to a bright new future that old age sucks, and is not for wimps! I pray for forgiveness to June Allyson, whom I snickered at as she peddled her sundry fossil friendly undergarments. I have lashed my back in remorse for sniggering at that helpless creature that “had fallen and couldn’t get up”. It appears I’m careening towards my own land of Craftmatic adjustable slumber in my 58 Edsel, one that has no functional brakes to speak of.

I wonder if denture cream and colostomy bags can be used for arts and crafts in the home. I’m sure it’d go well with the “Pin” mask I’m making from my diabetes needles.

Cheerz.

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