Live the sadness hard

dying, illness, trying

I want you to know that I understand the pain of the perfectly abled. Living and making and just being fucking happy sucks. It's fucking hard. Sure I got my ticket book of excuses now. I... Oops. The meds. I'm back. I'm not the greatest at self-medicating. That's in the excuse book. I got all these new notes that read things like, "can't walk." "bg too high." "bg too low" "hour-long seizure" "i'm gonna die anyway." Ha! I wish. That last one is no excuse. We are all gonna die. That's the easy part. I need to re-learn how to live... again. And I wonder if, in five years, my nervous system will have another break-down. Right on schedule. So I got to live in-between these bouts of sickness. I got to.

Dying is easy because it puts you into a state of delirium. And you forget everything. Last year was all a dream. I was blurry-eyed and just buying my food and not seeing beyond my next rent check. Delirium is both beautiful and sad. You know you are just clinging. That the "demon has got hold of you." Or you, more likely, are fucking dying and don't know what for or why or what-the-fuck to do about it. So you buy some liver and hope that the red blood will cure you. You wash the dishes. You make your bed. You lie and wonder. You sleep and eat chocolate and candy and anything you want, because it doesn't matter while you are just getting skinnier. Eat all day.

Hide Everything. Throw out all the pills. Early. Like I did. I threw them out last Christmas. By March, I was digging through the pill box, going, "Where's the depakote? Where's the prednisone? Didn't I have some lithium?" That would make a good cocktail, maybe. But I had nuttin'. I threw out the lithium years ago.

Mania is a sign. Make every use of the mania that you can. Clean your house. Throw out shit. Delete and destroy. Save one razor-blade, so that it's old and crusty and when you need one, you won't feel like a suicidal jerk who, in fear, threw out all her razor-blades. It'll be so rusty and gross by the time....

And isn't there a more clever way to die? I recently learned that there's a walk-way along the Tri-Boro. You walk five miles. Whoda thunk? I guess it would be good if I ME ME ME had a bi-cycle. Anyway the water over the Harlem River is too shallow. My choice would be the old GWB. High over the Palisades, a long dive into the wonderful and beautiful Hudson. Nice.

Enjoy your fantasies. Remember that your suicide fantasy is all ego and no id. Your id is slipping away. Floating. Washing up one a craggly nook on the Jersey side. I always wanted to end up in heaven. (wink)

If you get to the point where you are sleeping all day, you will watch the boring tee vee with the sound off and try to read, then sleep some more. You will be far too tried to schlep to 138th Street on the West Side to off yourself. Besides, you have pretty good idea that you are gonna die soon anyway. Your brain is zero-firing zone. Connections are shutting down. I really enjoyed the bliss.

I felt a profound connection to the source of the life that was fading from me. And the source was my own and had no god-ly face. thank god. Dying is all "of this world" and a really good trip.

Now I need the courage to live, to live with the sickness, to live with the everyday, ordinary sadness and live it hard.

[edited 5.29.09 - Below is a less fanciful account of my descent toward insane blood sugars and my eventual dx as a failed pancreatic diabetic, a juvenile, type 1.5.]


At 29, I got sudden onset Stiff Man Syndrome. I got dx'ed a year later. I tested postive for the anti-Gad Antibody. Same one as diabetes..... But! My blood sugar levels were never tested.

When I was about 33, I remember going to the gyno and she pulled out her speculum and showed me a good 8 oz. of.... Gross! I thought I was eating too much sugar. I had no idea it was hanging around in my blood stream.

The night sweats began. The rapid heart beat. The cravings for fruit. Eating like a "pig".

Again, no one tested me. (She's old and skinny! Someone wrote "medical myopia" somewhere. Think that sums it up.)

At age 36, I was hospitalized with a bg of 1300 or so. They were surprised/shocked that I was not in a coma.

I had dropped to 88lbs. from a norm of 125-135. I didn't know what was happening to me. When the delirium began, I was resigned to peacefully die at home when my brother called and came over.

This is what I had been googling (when I could still read and write):

excessive thirst
constant urination
excessive hunger
weight loss
nausea

And I came up with sites for hiking! (Bring lots of water!)

My honeymoon lasted about 6 months - got a 6 A1C once. I got sick of eggs and made a sculpture out of my egg cartons. I soon learned the wonders of conscious-choice diabulemia. I was angry that they pumped full of 40 lb. of saline water in the hospital. The swelling never fully went down. Needless to say, the "skip the insulin" weight-loss plan did not work. I am still suffering the consequences. Had to double my Novolog. My latest A1C was 9 -- which is better than 12 (last September).

I am turning 40 this year, having celebrated 3 years on insulin, which immediately made me sane (God bless the Pig!) but I suspect insulin and management have given me all the "side effects" that I never suffered for the 5+ (?) years that my BS was jumping up and down. Now I get colds and other common illnesses, injuries don't heal, a fabu heart murmur appeared, my legs are cramping at night, the night sweats continue.... And Stiff Man disease does not take a day off.

I suppose my D is very brittle and I finally agreed to try the pump out - soon.

So, my query for you, my fellow LADA's.... Is it harder to deal, manage, escape the nasty consequences when diagnosed as an adult with other pre-existing conditions; without the bouncy strength and a young body to adjust to it....? That's my feeling. I had been living with it, letting it wreck havoc on my bodily system for years - perhaps as much as 6 years. The last year I went into a rapid decline.