Trying

There is nothing funny or cute about diabetes.

I can't cheat my own body. It knows when I eat Ben and Jerry's.

It knows when I am sleeping. It knows when I'm awake. It knows if I've been bad or good.

But it doesn't bring me presents when I'm good.

It takes the hard road. When I do the wrong things my body takes it out on my kidneys. It messes with my vision. It sneaks into my heart . . .

And not with music accompanied by little pulsing hearts and flowers.

It fills me with lethargy. Which masquerades as depression and makes my doctor want to prescribe happy pills when what I really need are diabetic meds.

So, I have to be good - for goodness sake, and also my heart's sake and my vision's sake, and the fact that I like walking on all ten toes.

My brother goes before me. He drank. He smokes. He had bypasses. He plays games with his insulin and food and he has had two toes rot off his feet so far. Some days he can barely hold his head up and look straight at me. Some days he is so confused it is scary and other days he jokes about how he's, "Still alive, dammit."

He is a living horror movie. A zombie in the making. A man dying in bits and pieces, having the pieces cut off when they turn black. It terrifies me.

And so I am trying to do better in every way I can.