Went to see Doctor Caswell today.
She was very nice, as usual. I told her about my frustrations in getting my blood sugar to come down. She gave me a big box of a different insulin formation.
Before, I was using Levemir. Now it’s Basaglar.
So it still sounds like something out of Lord of the Rings. But instead of the elf Levemir, it’s the orc warlord Basaglar.
It hopefully will help. Plus, she ordered some lab tests, and based on those, she might have some other drugs she can bring into play.
Glad to hear that. Now that I have the actual realtime information about just exactly how fucked up my blood sugar is, it’s way harder to ignore.
Kinda makes me want to fix it ASAP.
Plus, I am increasingly aware of how horrifying it is to be around someone who just casually neglects themselves like I do.
And by extension, how horrifying it should be to me. By all logic, I should not be nearly so flippant or casual about how bad my health is.
Like when I went in for my first cataract removal and they tested my blood sugar and it was like 30 and I just shrugged and said I wasn’t surprised.
And poor Greta was like, “That’s… pretty high. ”
I agreed, with the same tone of voice as if she’d said “It’s really coming down out there”.
And that’s not right. And it sure as fuck isn’t normal.
It is, in fact, like, bad. Very very bad.
But I know what the problem is. Apart from the previously mentioned neglecting myself as I myself was neglected as a child, there is a matter of the profound apathy I developed as a response to my anxiety.
It resists getting very excited about anything, even things that by all rights should rouse me to great action.
Hence my flippant attitude to my own decay. Like, whatever. I will do what I can but I am not going to get all excited about it or anything.
After all, that’s what my plummeting health wants. It’s just showing off to get attention.
Ignore it. It will go away eventually. As will I.
Because I’ll be dead.
And the bad part of me is totally okay with that.
Looked up the procedure I am getting at St. Paul’s on Friday at (urk) 7 am.
It’s called a coronary angiogram and it looks like I will technically have to be awake for it, god damn it.
I say “technically” because according to that website, I will be awake but heavily sedated. To the point where I may very well just go to sleep, but will still be awake enough to wake up and do stuff if they need me to do so.
Which sounds pretty irritating, honestly. I hate being awoken. Just let me sleep god damn it. So I hope I don’t say anything too bitingly sarcastic when these medical people keep waking me up.
I am sure they have heard it all before, though. Well…. maybe not at my strength and potency, come to think of it.
But maybe they will just find it funny. God willin’.
I really don’t want to be awake while they are pushing a catheter into my femoral artery then sticking a wire up through it to poke around in my veins like some kind of plumber with a plumber’s snake.
The fact that I will have to get up way too fucking early to do so doesn’t help either.
But unless I lapse into a coma before then, I am going to go. This is something I need.
And who knows, they might just fix some stuff via balloon angioplasty while they are in there. I might wake up feeling a whole lot better.
But for now, I am just going to quietly fret about it.
More after the break.
Glad to be sad
I am truly grateful for the waves of sadness and pain I have been experiencing lately.
No really, I am.
Because they mean I am finally actually feeling something. I have managed to break through the icy numbness that surrounds my soul and found a hot, rich vein of genuine feeling underneath, and I am going to exploit the fuck out of it for all the healing and emotional work and spiritual progress I can get out of it.
I take no comfort in the cold any more. Cold kills.
I want to be alive and I don’t care if I have to crawl through a river of blood and fire and sacrifice everything I have and more in order to get there.
Bring it. Pain is bullshit any way.
So yeah, I can deal with these waves of sadness that I can feel in my heart and my lungs and in the deepest recesses of this convoluted mind of mine. Most of the time, I stop and do my best to let them flow through me, tears and all, because I know that catharsis is the only way to silence the demons they represent.
That’s too many words. Whatever.
And sure, being flooded with a choking sadness that makes me feel like I am weeping from the depths of my soul is not fun, but I just concentrate on the feeling of release that comes from managing to squeeze those tears out, and it’s not that bad.
And that IS what it feels like. Like after a long period of emotional constipation, I am finally able to bear down and squeeze out those tears from time to time.
Yeah, I know, I normally avoid the obvious gross physical metaphor. But fuck it. Sorry folks, sometimes it is simply too apt to ignore.
At times it feel like squeezing blood from a stone, which in the original folk story was accomplished by squeezing a rock so hard it cut the hero’s hand.
Ouch. Kept him from getting eaten by a giant, though, so it was worth it.
My point is, I am going to keep on grinding out the tears as much as I can until there are no more tears left in me and I am finally free.
And that goes for whatever other emotions I have on backlog. Anger, frustration, ambition, rage, even lust.
There is a LOT of lust.
It’s all got to go.
I am ready to push that rock up that hill as many times and necessary.
I mean, it’s not like I have anything better to do.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.