Living in my little bubble, I had almost forgotten how exhausting life is beyond being a slave to the dictator. The dictator being my broken ass, of course. I went to the grocery store, then to the bulk foods store with my Mom today. Only two hours out of my day, and I felt like my brain had turned into a black hole. I don’t even remember what it feels like to have energy, or not feel like shit. It’s a little sad, but I find it makes dealing with the present easier since I no longer have anything to compare it to. Maybe I’ve gotten a little too comfortable with misery, as it’s often suggested by certain people that my doctors aren’t doing enough, or I’ve given up. I don’t see it as giving up. I see it as adaptation. There’s no sense in arguing with them, because it’s fairly difficult to understand unless you’ve been through it or have a thorough understanding of Western medicine. I sit and take it like a champ and count down the days ’til I’m outta here (25, suckas!).
My Dad is having all of his teeth yanked next week, and had a pre-op appointment today. When he had x-rays done, they made him remove his insulin pump. Guess what? They forgot to give it back to him, and he forgot to ask for it. His appointment was in Cincinnati, and being several hours away, he thinks he’s going to wait until next week to get it. We JUST restocked the bread and cereal supply today, so if he thinks he’ll be able to zero carb it ’til then, he’s crazy. He can’t resist the call of the carbs. He does have syringes from before he got his pump, so I guess he can go old school. The thing that gets me is if he can control his blood sugar through diet, why blast through insulin while eating like crap? Eventually it will stop working, and then he’s fucked. Even halving the number of carbs he currently eats would be a tremendous help. He knows and he doesn’t seem to care. I’m willing to do all sorts of crazy things with my diet if it means I’ll feel a little better, but maybe I’m a weirdo. I’ve said enough to him, and hope he figures it out before it’s too late. I think he wants to die, but death by diabetes isn’t exactly a quick death.
Understandably, Mom’s first year of retirement sucked because she spent too much time around pooface. She’s happy I’m here so she has someone to talk to who isn’t a jerk, although I’m keeping my fingers crossed that she runs out of shit to talk about soon. She did a painting at paint night, drunk.
Look at those happy fucking trees! Dad told her she should have thrown it out, but she didn’t, so now it’s mine. I told her it will make a perfect mate for the thrift store hippie bus painting in the throne room. Acrylic isn’t her area of expertise. She paints watercolors, and even does commissioned pieces for people. She’s pretty good! She started painting after her aneurysm as therapy, and found a talent she never knew she had. My only discovered talent is leaning against the railing for balance and sliding up when my hands are full. Maybe I should be the world’s first pole dancer with neuropathy, POTS, and Crohn’s? She wins, either way.