Finger pricks and candy sticks

(I just realized that the dirtiest of minds might misinterpret the above title as something less than pure...shame on you.)

The world of the littlest Musar was rocked earlier this week when I was diagnosed with diabetes. After spending a few weeks peeing more often than not, wanting to drink from every water fountain, firehose, and dirty puddle I passed, and having a nagging feeling that something wasn't right, my doctor's office confirmed that things were awry. My blood sugar was 468, apparently high enough to elicit a distressing sympathy from the lab tech and an equally distressing gasp from the doctor.

I didn't react much better. This was a really hard diagnosis for me to hear. I know a lot about the disease. I know I didn't want it, that's for sure. And being rather young, rather active, and not overweight, I didn't think I had to worry about it. I don't look like a grandmother, and I don't eat like a trucker, and I'm a healthy kid, so what's up with this?

Well, I guess it's not for me to know.

In the wake of this diagnosis, I've been moving between two emotional extremes. One, the "at least" syndrome. "At least this was figured out early." "At least I know something to begin with." "At least my face isn't covered in hairy moles." (Totally unrelated to diabetes, just something I wouldn't enjoy.)

The other - total and unrelenting anger, at everyone and everything. Overweight people on the street, you better believe I'm thinking bad stuff about you. Ditto for the super fat people on TV. My as yet totally unresponsive insurance company, there isn't a lot of love for you over here.

I hope that as I get used to this new lifestyle and start to feel a little more in control, I'll go back to being a good person.

Damnit, Justin Timberlake

I was gonna bring Sexy Back!

(I'm sorry, but that runs through my head everytime I hear that song.)