Mr. Trouble: Daily Dilemma of Diabetic Decay
Another rotten day! I just hate to get up in the morning. I didn’t sleep well last night, and the fact that sensation in my feet is at a premium, makes that long walk to the bathroom fraught with unimaginable peril. An unnoticed pin or needle on the floor can mean long-term trials and tribulations for me if I happen to step on it. As it is, I am constantly slave to those horrendous foot ulcers that I must clean, disinfect, and dress on a regular basis. Not to mention those ugly shoes, three sizes too big, that I must wear to protect my feet.
First things first. Time for a “pit stop.” It seems like I live in the bathroom. I urinate a lot, and thirst is a constant companion, too. I’m always reaching for that “mythical nectar,” which will finally calm the fires raging in my mouth and tame my insatiable hunger. They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I often eat it like there’s no tomorrow. Then the praying begins. I try to relieve myself with the day’s “number two” before I leave for work. My bowel is lazy, however, and the color, smell, and sheer number of Trojans extruded from this horse are enough to make a man sick. My digestive powers are basically defunct.
My eyes aren’t what they used to be either. My doctor says that the hemorrhages inherent in my malady have taken their toll on my retina. I don’t see as well as I used to, and images are a constant blur. The trip to work scares me to death, and my car bears the scars of my visual shortcomings.
No sooner do I arrive on the job than my energy level suddenly falls. Fatigue is my guardian angel who I cannot give the slip to. Irritability is my middle name, and all it takes is a kind word to set me off. My fast and shallow breathing, as well as the strong, fruity nature of my breath, betray vice more than illness. My boss’s eyes don’t lie, and my coworkers politely distance themselves from me. They know that I have been losing weight, and they halfheartedly offer to take me out to lunch. I can’t accept, however. I must find some nook, cranny, or cubbyhole in which I can gain an hour’s respite from mitochondrial drain.
I’m what you call a compliant patient. I try to watch my diet, perform regular, daily testing of my blood sugar level, and take my medications religiously. I know that by following this procedure and my doctor’s advice, I can slow the onslaught of what may be the inevitable. Perhaps it is already too late.
Day is done, and I cross the threshold of my abode, so tired that I can barely lift my head. I live alone, a leper, afraid to subject healthy females of the species to my shame, my guilt, and my nightmare. Even if I could pick up the phone and call one of my old flames, the numbness of my flesh could never translate into a “healthy tingling.”
But what have I done? Why am I being tortured? Why doesn’t God punish charlatans, ambulance chasers, politicians, college administrators, Enron executives, and Martha Stewart instead? Why me? I guess it’s because “Mr. Trouble” is my name, and I must bear the weight of the “scarlet D” on my tunic.
First things first. Time for a “pit stop.” It seems like I live in the bathroom. I urinate a lot, and thirst is a constant companion, too. I’m always reaching for that “mythical nectar,” which will finally calm the fires raging in my mouth and tame my insatiable hunger. They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I often eat it like there’s no tomorrow. Then the praying begins. I try to relieve myself with the day’s “number two” before I leave for work. My bowel is lazy, however, and the color, smell, and sheer number of Trojans extruded from this horse are enough to make a man sick. My digestive powers are basically defunct.
My eyes aren’t what they used to be either. My doctor says that the hemorrhages inherent in my malady have taken their toll on my retina. I don’t see as well as I used to, and images are a constant blur. The trip to work scares me to death, and my car bears the scars of my visual shortcomings.
No sooner do I arrive on the job than my energy level suddenly falls. Fatigue is my guardian angel who I cannot give the slip to. Irritability is my middle name, and all it takes is a kind word to set me off. My fast and shallow breathing, as well as the strong, fruity nature of my breath, betray vice more than illness. My boss’s eyes don’t lie, and my coworkers politely distance themselves from me. They know that I have been losing weight, and they halfheartedly offer to take me out to lunch. I can’t accept, however. I must find some nook, cranny, or cubbyhole in which I can gain an hour’s respite from mitochondrial drain.
I’m what you call a compliant patient. I try to watch my diet, perform regular, daily testing of my blood sugar level, and take my medications religiously. I know that by following this procedure and my doctor’s advice, I can slow the onslaught of what may be the inevitable. Perhaps it is already too late.
Day is done, and I cross the threshold of my abode, so tired that I can barely lift my head. I live alone, a leper, afraid to subject healthy females of the species to my shame, my guilt, and my nightmare. Even if I could pick up the phone and call one of my old flames, the numbness of my flesh could never translate into a “healthy tingling.”
But what have I done? Why am I being tortured? Why doesn’t God punish charlatans, ambulance chasers, politicians, college administrators, Enron executives, and Martha Stewart instead? Why me? I guess it’s because “Mr. Trouble” is my name, and I must bear the weight of the “scarlet D” on my tunic.
Copyright 2003, Albert M. Balesh, M.D. All rights reserved.
posted by Dr. Al at
7/15/2006 09:17:00 AM
2 Comments:
Ah, chin up, never say never, dear. There's one flame you could give your phone number to, and ANSWER it for a change, wouldya? But I can empathize, we all have something, don't we? You just have more than one something. No, seriously, it's a terrible disease and now it's linked to Alzheimer's disease, so says the USA Today article. What's more horrible is now more and more Americans have it. Look at the bright side, you're as sharp as a knife with your writing skills, so keep up that edge at least and you'll be alright.
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Anonymous, at Monday, July 17, 2006 9:32:00 PM
Interesting website with a lot of resources and detailed explanations.
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Anonymous, at Wednesday, July 19, 2006 5:38:00 PM
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