Lately I’ve had a number of diabetes complications. I’m very disconcerted. I don’t know – I thought that if I kept on an even and disciplined course – I’d lull it to sleep. I quit smoking three years ago. I’ve maintained my weight loss. Although I don’t count carbs anymore, I do count portions. I spend a portion of my day monitoring my blood sugars. I limit the work of my feet and I check their underside each morning with a mirror. But recently I’ve learned there is no upside to diabetes. So, I was either naïve or just goddamned stupid because I felt quite surprised and very disappointed when the complications popped up like a pimple on a prom day.
I try to be realistic about my future. A couple of years ago, I sat in an emergency room with my feet dangled while an emergency room doctor examined me. I asked him a question. I said that I wanted to avoid being “whittled.” Well, he looked at me and laughed. My bluntness stunned him. I said, “Well isn’t that exactly what we’re talking about here?” And he said it was exactly the right word. He told me he was also a diabetic and he wanted to avoid being “whittled” too. We shook hands as partners with the same problems. Fortunately a recent podiatric problem was quite minor and with a tweak from the formidable Dr. Ryan Pfannenstein, I’ve avoided any slice/chop/whittle for now.
I’m dealing with my other complications as they emerge. Last night I sat at a bar with my buddy. He’s an internist. He had arrived a bit ahead of me so I found him in a booth with his beer. I took off my jacket and sat down. He looked up and said, “what’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” I replied, “what’s up with you?”
“No,” he said. “You look like shit. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I said as I reached for a menu.
“How’s the diabetes going? Tell me,” he commanded. He’s older than I am so he feels he can boss me around.
“Oh am I paying you?” I said as I looked at a page of the menu. “Oh that’s right. I’m not.” He’s my friend; he’s not my doctor. I volunteered for a couple of years at a hospital. I have buddies in all the departments. I don’t whore my friends. I don’t discuss any medical conditions with anyone I don’t see in a professional capacity. My friends know I’m firm.
“Shut up and talk to me,” he admonished.
“How can I shut up and talk to you?” I chided.
“Mark, I’m serious. Talk to me.” I looked up at him and talked; he listened. “Write this down,” he said. “Here’s what you want to ask Bob.” He knows my doctor. I quietly listened and wrote down his words.
Sometimes you don’t even know what to ask. Sometimes you don’t know you should ask. Yet sometimes God puts you in the right place at the right time with the man who knows the right questions. And then I don’t question my response. I recognize the synchronicity of Divinity. The only thing I have to do is feel grateful.
I smoked 3 packs of Winston cigarettes a day for 25 years. I enjoyed them tremendously. People frequently ask me how I managed to quit. I was hospitalized a couple years ago with complications from diabetes. As I walked into the Regions Hospital Emergency Room I saw people standing outside smoking cigarettes near the parking lot. And I saw the selfishness of their behavior. The people they claimed to love were inside the building in various stages of trauma. Yet they were outside removed from their responsibilities. Were they holding their loved one’s hands? No. Were they closing their hands in supplication on the behalf of their loved ones? No. Were they offering solace to the other visitors? No. They were engaged in an activity that was completely self-centered. And I saw the cowardliness of their be
havior.
