8 May 2022

If a woman’s right to choose is rescinded, as it looks like it will be, then being a girl will mean something else entirely. We might as well tell girls when they are young that they don’t matter as much as boys do. They aren’t equal. They have no say in what happens to their bodies. The government has more authority over their body than a doctor or themselves. Roe v. Wade legally established that women had the sole authority over their body. They had the right to privacy. It proclaimed women can and should be able to make their own decisions about their own body. Their body and how they chose to use it was nobody else’s business. 

If you’re pro-life, good for you. You can choose to not obtain an abortion. Ever. Under any circumstances. Even if your life is at risk, or you were raped and had zero say if you wanted to have sex, let alone get pregnant. No one is allowed to tell you that you should abort a pregnancy if you want to carry it to term. Why should your beliefs ever affect anyone else’s body or choice? They shouldn’t. Your body, your choice. My body, my choice. It’s pretty simple. It’s funny that you never see protestors outside of the maternity ward, yelling and shaming women for having babies. Why, then, should women, who for whatever reason, decide to terminate a pregnancy be publicly vilified and shamed for a personal choice that they made? 

Does anyone else find it strange that a uterus is the most controversial organ? Half the population was born with one, but the entire population has an opinion about it. Is it because of jealously that these conservative, mostly white, mostly male dinosaurs in Washington want to get their over-bearing hands on my uterus and all of the uteruses? Something tells me that if humans reproduced like sea horses, in which the male carries the baby to term and gives birth, abortion wouldn’t be up for debate. It would never have been an issue. The decision would remain between a man and his doctor. Why? Because it was a private matter and not just anybody’s decision to make. Men would never have to question whether another man was trustworthy to know what’s best for their body. They would never have to spend centuries fighting for equal rights, the right to privacy and the right to choice. 

What must that be like? It sounds kind of nice. Never having to fight to have a voice, or guaranteed rights under the law? It seems that women are more pre-disposed to resilience than men. They have to fight to get a seat at the table and then fight to be taken seriously. We can’t take a break from our menstrual cycle. So we carry on despite being in pain, and while a blood waterfall gushes out between our legs. If a man had a period I’m convinced the world would have to shut down once a month. No chance of multi-tasking. God forbid they have to go about their life while they are in pain or in any level of discomfort. 

Birth control would be covered without question. Kind of like how Viagra is covered today. The amount of support and funding for research on how to make a form of birth control with the least amount of side effects would be obscene. Fuck, it would probably be available over the counter. And affordable. Imagine a world like this. As a person with an active imagination I can’t fathom it. Instead of women being seen as vulnerable, out of control, and unreliable when their period strikes, men wouldn’t be treated any differently and certainly not made to feel crazy when their time of the month hit. Unlike a woman, they’d be seen as a badass for getting shit done while their body goes awol on them.

It’s bad enough conservatives proclaim they are pro-life when they won’t have anything to do with a child once it’s legally forced out of a vagina. They won’t support maternity health, parental leave, childcare, school lunches, WIC, really any governmental support of any kind. They care about babies when they’re just a concept. Even when it’s a fetus they don’t want to offer affordable healthcare or ensure that the mother has a place to live and food to eat. Odd that being pro-life doesn’t extend to actually supporting and caring for a fetus from the start, and certainly not giving a shit about how it grows up. 

After the annexation of every American uterus, what’s next? If the government can proclaim ownership over territory in a woman’s body, doesn’t that open the door of pandora’s box? We’re talking about forced pregnancy. Some are arguing that we ought to backtrack when it comes to LGBTQ rights. Republicans are already gerrymandering the shit out of every voting district in every county nationwide. Voting suppression is unforgivably blatant. People joked that the Handmaid’s Tale could become our new reality. This is how it starts. One right is taken away after the next, until women are forced to become vessels for growing babies and then discarded like trash once their services are no longer needed. 

It’s a bleak picture. The show, more than the book put me into a severe depression. Seeing it happen before my eyes on t.v. and reading the news, especially when Trump was elected, left no doubt in my mind that fantasy could easily become reality. Both the conservatives in the show and reality use the word of God to support their beliefs. They take religion and warp it to their liking and needs, so that their utterly misguided belief system is valid. Do you think if God created Eve before Adam, we’d be in the same boat now? Maybe. Maybe not. But my gut tells me that those who use God and religion to threaten, demean and shame someone because they have a uterus or love someone of the same sex, would probably continue to shove their beliefs in the rest of our faces no matter who was created first. 

Motherhood is a life commitment. It changes a woman’s life completely. Being pregnant, or having the ability to grow a human, should be treated as a superhero feat. It’s wild that a uterus can house another human and that same body can bring that human into the world. It should give those of us with a uterus a leg up. So why doesn’t it? Instead of seeing a person with a uterus as powerful and strong, some people use it as a reason to deem women inferior and incapable of deciding what’s best for their bodies. 

I love when a man has any opinion about a woman’s body and what she should do with it. First, men exist because a woman, likely their mother, chose to give birth to them. They would not be here if their mother hadn’t carried them around for nine months and then pushed them out of a tiny tunnel. Instead of thanking women and supporting women with whatever they choose to do with their bodies, men think they need to assert themselves and decide what’s the best use of a body part that they will never have and therefore can never completely understand. It’s so obvious that men belong nowhere near a uterus, but they can’t help but keep poking and prodding at it, until they can assume full control over something that was never in their wheelhouse to begin with. 

I know it shouldn’t, but it always surprises me when a woman is not pro-choice. I can’t view it as anything other than self betrayal. If a person is born with a uterus they should understand what having full autonomy with their body means. Are pro-life women unable to trust themselves to make the right decisions for their bodies? I seriously doubt that. But why should a woman ever want anyone to tell them and others what to do with their bodies? Being a pro-life woman is like handing over the keys of their uterus to someone else. They’ve chosen to give their permission to allow others the control over their bodies.   

Of course, I haven’t even factored other situations to take into account. Maybe a woman has sex and accidentally gets pregnant. She can decide how to proceed. Maybe a woman has sex with the goal to get pregnant. Either way both scenarios produced a result that the woman had a say in making. If a woman is raped and never given the choice to accept the invitation of sex in the first place, should she then also have no say in whether she wants to be pregnant and give birth? That doesn’t seem fair. 

So let’s say a woman becomes pregnant after being raped, scientifically it happens despite what some ignorant people say. Not only did this woman lose control over her body during the act itself, but now she won’t have control over what happens to her body for the next nine months. While her mind and body go into shock, a new person will be growing inside her. Shouldn’t the only time a baby is born be based on the idea that both parties agreed to the sex in the first place? This seems like a no-brainer. We’ve already watched society undermine a woman when she comes forward that she was raped. Is that not horrific enough? Now, a woman might again be forced to carry the burden of her rape in her uterus, as well as her brain. The usual shame and denial a woman typically feels after rape won’t be confined inward, but on full display without her consent. Once again. 

It’s not like making abortion illegal will end abortion. The privileged and well-connected will always be able to have an abortion. Because of this fact, abortion can be used as a means to keep women in poverty, marginalized, in abusive relationships and without any sense of control over their own bodies and futures. Women will obtain abortions whether it’s legal or not. History proves that. Can someone still call themselves pro-life when their decision made it impossible to seek a safe abortion, and therefore a woman dies because of that decision?

I’m not a mother and honestly still don’t know if I want to be one. I know for certain that if a baby comes out of my vagina, it sure as hell will be my decision. That’s the thing. My body, my choice. How could there possibly be any other say in the matter? I would never dare to suggest what another person should do with their body. Plus, if I do decide to become a mom I don’t want to have to tell my daughter that her body isn’t her own.

I called my mom this morning to wish her a happy mother’s day. She told me she had spent the last couple hours reading the New York Times’ opinion section, mainly pertaining to Roe v. Wade. She started to get fired up, then paused and defeatedly said, “I can’t believe this is still an issue.” My mom chose to have three children, all naturally. Why? She says because she always wanted to have kids. I couldn’t tell you why she chose to have all of us without any drugs, even after repeat inquiries, but she did. It was her choice. I’m pretty glad she decided to give birth to my siblings and myself. None of us would be here if she hadn’t. Maybe part of why my mom is the kind of mom she is, is because having kids was something she wanted to do and she had the choice to do so. Thank you, Mom. And all the moms out there.

21 March 2022

I’m awake. Or am I? It’s 2 a.m. I’m pretty sure I was having a panic attack in my dream, but now I realize I’m no longer dreaming and the panic attack is very much happening in real time. In my dream I was trying to do the simplest things and I couldn’t do anything. I felt like I was immobile and then frozen in the position I was laying in. My Dexcom (continuous glucose monitor) felt like it was inflamed. I could feel my blood sugar dropping. I needed to get out of bed and eat some candy. Once I realized the state I was in, I knew that I needed to take something for this anxiety attack.

I don’t know exactly how long I spent willing myself to actually get up. It’s not like I had far to go, my bedroom is also the hallway. The bathroom, where the medication was located, was literally two steps away. And the candy, which is usually bedside, was in the kitchen, maybe four steps away. But it wasn’t about how easy and close in proximity everything was. I couldn’t move, which was most likely due to the panic attack that was underway, but then my anxiety quickened with the realization that maybe I couldn’t take care of myself in that moment. Even for a split second that thought is terrifying.

The annoyance I felt with my CGM was worsening by the second. I had been regretting the placement of the device, on the underside of my arm, for almost a week now. Somehow it was a constant irritant. It itched like crazy, usually it doesn’t, at least not so profusely. I wanted to rip it out of my skin, luckily I was awake enough to realize I couldn’t afford to do that. It had been almost impossible to get the prescription for the damn thing in the first place. God forbid I didn’t make it to the refill date because there was no wiggle room.  I knew there was absolutely no way my insurance company would go easy on me and grant a refill before that time. They’ve made it abundantly clear that I will only receive a specified amount of a prescription, no matter what transpires. How could something so essential be so elusive? Oh well, this wasn’t the battle to fight. I only had three more days to go until I was allowed to change the location. Was this a factor for a mid sleep panic attack? Im sure it was a contributor. 

I got promoted at work, which has lessoned some of the stress regarding finances. I no longer have to work overtime regularly to afford myself. Turns out, I am one costly human. I guess a bum organ will do that. A new role can be stressful. I haven’t noticed an extra load of stress from work in real life, but my dreams tell a different story. I have endless chaotic work dreams. But I’m not at my current job, I’m at other jobs, some I’ve worked, some I haven’t. I found myself back in a restaurant working the front of the house with mobs of people demanding food, and no one else on shift with me. People came around the counter, flooded the kitchen and treated it like a buffet. I was appalled, but helpless to stop it. I tried locking the doors, but I was outnumbered. 

I’ll wake from dreams, relieved that it was just a dream, but covered in sweat and exhausted by the whole ordeal. So much for restful sleep. If my mind was working out any new stresses subconsciously, great, but it would be nice if I couldn’t remember the details. I can hardly remember anything anymore, unless I write it down. Couldn’t remembering my stress dreams be the same? I promise to not write them down in exchange for a blank memory. 

I feel like a number of things could have contributed to my sleep-panic attack. It could have been the job, the recent battle with my insurance company to cover the devices I need to make my life easier and possible. Or, it could simply be a number of low lying issues that were getting worked out while I slept because I no longer had a therapist to listen to me as I rambled on about my anxiety. Maybe sleep was the only way to release the anxiety. I suppose now might be the right time to find a therapist again. The idea of looking for a therapist who is taking new clients and also covered by my insurance company seemed daunting. I felt squirmy just thinking about all the cold calls I’d soon be making to receptionists. That sounds tiring, I’d rather take a hard pass. 

Besides work dreams, my sister was playing a recurring role in family drama dreams. Sometimes I felt like I was living in a soap opera. The conflict was absurd, the dialogue unimpressive, and the acting could use a little work. The dreams were exhausting though. Maybe that was due to my own laborious role in these not so sweet dreams. Nothing ever got resolved and the storyline remained the same. I was bored with the material. 

My sister and I have a strained relationship. For years now we’ve communicated through a handful of texts and emails. It’s not great, but limited contact was something I needed and still do. She texted me the other night. It was a nice text. She thanked me for a book recommendation that I had given my mom who had passed it along to her. She also mentioned a trip I had taken to Mexico recently. Funny, I hadn’t told her about the trip. Her text didn’t upset me. After a lot of work I’ve gotten to a place where her interactions no longer trigger me. 

This isn’t to say that her contact with me sits right. At least not completely. Why is it that she can send a thoughtful text, but at the same time show no signs of curiosity in regards to amending our relationship? If she wants to know what book I’d recommend or hear about a trip I took, shouldn’t she put in the effort to fix our relationship so that this could be a conversation we have together? Hearing about me through the grapevine feels like cheating. I can’t help but feel like it’s just another form of enabling her behavior.

Besides a couple of emails asking why we don’t speak, she’s never shown much interest in resolution. I’ve replied to her queries honestly, detailing the circumstances. On my end, I feel like I’ve given her all of the information she needs. Her words and actions in the past left me second guessing my own worth and completely devastated me. I’ve explained again and again how I felt and what she can do if she wants to begin to mend the relationship. She has all the tools I can dispense. Even if her memories are blurry, she could still want to mend the hurt she’s caused. If someone close to me told me that we couldn’t have contact because I had hurt them, I would like to think I’d do everything in my power to figure out what I had done and apologize for it. I don’t know whether she is incapable or unwilling, but it’s not my responsibility to do it for her.

My brain was a swirl of chaos. I made a mental checklist of everything I had changed in my life in order to avoid these anxious moments. I quit coffee. I only drank it occasionally for a year. Now, I’m back on caffeine at full speed. Kicking coffee forever would be difficult to achieve, especially when I worked at 6 a.m. every day. Plus, I missed the smell and taste of it and life is too short. For years I made exercise a routine and it was one. I can’t pinpoint when I became unmotivated. I still exercise, but lately only a handful of times per week. I know that’s not enough to keep the crazy at bay for me, and yet I haven’t been able to fall back into a routine.

The night I woke up mid panic attack I had rearranged furniture, a task that always seems to renew my contentment. I had just washed my sheets and lit an aroma therapy candle designated for reflection and peace. Maybe I bought a dud because I found myself to be the opposite of, “at peace.” Or, maybe the candle was too strong and my backlogged reflections and dark thoughts were relinquished in the form of an anxiety attack. An anxiety attack that was so great, it started when I was in a state of unconsciousness. Plus, earlier that day I had sprayed ant killer in the crevices and corners of my small house after I discovered several mass grave sites. I had opened the windows and lit the candle, but maybe the ant killer was too toxic and caused me to combust and explode first in my sleep and then in real life.

As I gripped my pillow for dear life and wished I could get off this ride I grew more incredulous. Why did I have to have a panic attack in my sleep? What is wrong with me that a panic attack during the day isn’t enough anymore? Shouldn’t sleep be off limits? It’s like after finally falling asleep, instead of getting to enjoy it, you’re hit with a typhoon of emotion and inability to save yourself in the moment. It also doesn’t help that the moment, or moments, feel like a lifetime.

I’m no expert, clearly, but I know enough about myself that a mid-sleep panic attack probably isn’t a good sign. When I finally emerged from bed, grabbed some candy and two Hydroxyzine pills and turned on some music, it was only then that I started to feel less frantic. It bothered me that I couldn’t come down on my own. After all these years I still needed a pill or two to offset the panic attack. Is it ideal? No, but in a jam it works. And if something works I don’t need to waste time feeling discouraged that I need training wheels to deal with a panic attack. If the pills are my security blanket for the time being, then so be it. 

10 January 2022

It’s no secret that healthcare in the U.S. is a joke. Actually, healthcare isn’t really the best word choice. We ought to call it broke-care. You can get healthcare, but it will cost you. You can be treated or fill prescriptions, but chances are you’ll go bankrupt in the process. How does this system make any sense? The answer is that it doesn’t. 

Technology is reinventing how we treat disease and prevent further disease. It’s fantastic. I’m a proponent of research, but I have to ask, what’s the point if only a handful of people will be able to benefit from it, because only they can afford it?

What I mean is this. I’m using new devices to manage my type 1 diabetes. Back in the old days, I pricked my finger for a blood sample throughout the day. I gave myself an average of five shots per day. Now, I have a small device attached to my arm that tracks my blood sugar for ten days at a time. It sends the readings to my phone every five minutes. I also insert an insulin pump into my stomach every three days. The pump sends a consistent flow of insulin through my body, which I direct through a device that looks like a cellphone. 

I never thought living like this would ever be an option for me. My quality of life has exceeded my wildest fantasies. Sure, I’m still diabetic and deal with the same issues day in and out, but it’s so much easier and efficient. I no longer have to carry insulin vials around with me, or keep them on ice, or worry about breaking them. A costly mistake I’ve done more than once. My purse is no longer filled with used syringes. And I was even able to go down in purse sizes because I no longer had to lug a bunch of equipment and ice around with me. 

Currently, I’m on the precipice of having to return to the old way of doing diabetes. I’m in the midst of a small gap in insurance. I have  prescriptions waiting to be picked up, but the cost of my supplies are so great without insurance, that they will remain on the shelves of Walgreen’s Pharmacy. The medications won’t get to be used or appreciated, at least not by me. 

The argument can be made that the old way gets the job done, which it does. Time and research lead to medical advances that change the way people with chronic conditions live and manage their illnesses. It should be priceless. To put it in more basic terms, would you ever go to the trouble of sending a telegram, or a messenger, if with a few taps you could send a text message? I’m going to guess that you’d send the text without even considering the alternative options. Because, why would you? Why should advances in medicine be any different? 

In December I bought some health insurance. I was on the open enrollment website for New Mexico. I found a plan that sounded good, but I wanted to be certain the prescriptions I needed would be covered. So I called a 1-800 number. Jeff answered my call, evidently he worked for the national enrollment network. He told me the plan I was considering was no longer available. I had been eligible for a subsidy, but Jeff was smooth. He found a plan with lots of attachments, which he assured me would cover unlimited specialist visits and prescriptions, even my outrageously priced ones. He quoted me numbers. Jeff must have been pulling these prices out of his ass. The prescription quotes sounded too good to be true, and they were. 

Yes, I had been hoodwinked. I realized it later, luckily still in time to cancel and get a refund for this magical, nonexistent plan. I tried ringing my pal Jeff at his extension. No answer. I began to wonder if Jeff had been a figment of my imagination. A receptionist, who hadn’t yet admitted to herself that she works in customer service, was so rude when I reached her on the phone instead of Jeff. There was no shame in her rude game. The only logical explanation for her rudeness must have been because I had done something terrible to her in a previous life. A slew of “customer service” representatives with whom I had the pleasure of talking to in lieu of Jeff, proved to be incompetent, unprofessional and lacking in people skills. 

Jeff talked a good game for our roughly two hour conversation. The premium was more than I was comfortable paying, but it sounded like I would be completely covered, so maybe it would be worth it in the long run. Jeff confirmed he found me medical, dental and vision coverage. I found out there was no dental or vision, but my monthly premium would remain the same. Again, I’m not sure how this works, but decided not to wait it out and see what else wouldn’t be covered. I canceled the plan.

I took Jeff’s scam hard. How could I not? Health insurance is a vulnerable area in my existence. What hurt the most is that I’m no novice at health insurance coverage. Through the years I had made some headway in navigating the swampy waters of premiums, deductibles and out of pocket maximums. I knew what I needed and learned how to understand a good portion of the system. Granted, I wasn’t thrilled about all the time I had spent on the phone with insurance brokers and insurance companies about why something I needed and had been prescribed wouldn’t be covered. I’m sure the amount of time I wasted will take years off my life.

Furthermore, what kind sick person takes advantage of a woman with a limited income and a chronic disease? That’s pretty pathetic, even for someone like Jeff. Perhaps he took a little pride in how he took advantage of a person desperate for decent coverage and even patted himself on the back for the commission he earned. Well, fuck you Jeff. I sincerely hope that a bird takes a flyby shit all over you.

I was still fuming about Jeff as I as drove home from work the other day. I drove through an intersection where a man and a woman were holding up signs. They were asking for donations because their four year old daughter had been diagnosed with brain cancer. If I was going to ask what’s wrong with this picture? My answer would be everything. It didn’t surprise me to see parents on the street corner asking for help paying for medical bills. I mean, this is America. Go Fund Me accounts are created all the time just for this purpose. 

What does this say about us as a society? To me it says, if you have a medical condition you’re basically fucked unless you can afford insurance or have a job which offers it. Too many of us lack a high paying job with health insurance coverage, or coverage that isn’t labeled catastrophic because it covers nothing.

If ever there was a time for socialized medicine, it would be this moment. For starters, we’re in a pandemic, possibly an endemic. One of the two political parties of the nation has gone completely insane, and should probably seek psychological help. Now is not the time for jacked up rates and piss poor coverage. Rather, it’s time for access and affordable care. What a crazy concept.

In all honesty I was excited for the Covid vaccine, but really I was pumped that it was freaking free. It easily could have been wildly expensive in this country. But the government picked up the bill. Finally, I didn’t have a copay or an out of pocket maximum to hit, or was told the vaccine wouldn’t be covered by my insurance. This was like the greatest thing ever. I don’t understand why more people didn’t see this as progress, rather than something being enforced on them by the government. The elderly and people with pre-existing conditions were being treated like VIPs. We were finally showed a little respect, even getting pushed to the front of the vaccine lines.   

A few years ago I bonded with an older woman in the locker room at the gym when we both realized we were wearing Dexcom sensors. She had been a type 1 diabetic for over sixty years. She told me she never thought there’d be something like this little device after all the years of poking fingers, and in her early days, peeing on a stick and performing a chemical experiment in order to obtain a blood glucose reading. 

She had her device in a place I had never thought to insert, because I couldn’t self administer it. She told me her husband helped her with her sensors, in order to keep their locations from becoming stagnant. She said he was so helpful with her diabetic devices. I remember thinking that was the single most romantic thing I had ever heard. I also thought, now, there’s a reason to get a husband. She told me the good news that our brand was finally being accepted by medicare. 

Ahh medicare. It’s like the holy grail after living for sixty-five years, trying to pay for medications and medical costs. I can’t wait to turn 65 and become eligible. Is that sad? Maybe. But I mean come on. Finally, you’re the most taken cared of you’ll ever be in this country. It’s goddamn beautiful. 

Having a husband to help rotate those pumps and devices didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Then, I realized that if I could simply find a man with a killer health insurance plan I would be set. What if my requirement for said husband was solely based on his health insurance plan? I guess having one requirement for a husband might be a little hasty. I mean while I’m at it, let’s hope he’s a halfway decent human, doesn’t snore, and was born with a witty sense of humor. But a really phenomenal plan would compensate for a complete dud. 

Maybe I should marry for health insurance. That seems logical. I mean people marry for green cards. My woman seeking man post would read something like, “Thirty something woman with lame pancreas and stubborn independent streak seeks man with the greatest health insurance package on the planet. Low copays, small deductible and health savings account are a plus.” I’m not sure what I would bring to the table, but I’m positive I could figure out something if all my needs in a plan could be met. 

“You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need.” I bet Mick and Keith had no idea how inaccurate this lyric would be in regards for Americans and health insurance coverage. Because, obviously, that’s what they were thinking about as they wrote the song “Satisfaction.” Clearly,  I don’t want to buy insulin or a “pancreas” that attaches to my body, but I have no choice. That is if I want to remain amongst the living. Why is it so hard for all of us with health problems to get what we need?  I understand we’ll never get any satisfaction, but is it too much to ask to get what we need at affordable prices? I suppose it is. 

Health insurance is a necessity in this country, but isn’t it also absolutely absurd? There’s really no need to pay $1,000 for something that costs $10 to make. Insurance companies have very few guidelines to follow and pharmaceutical companies do whatever the fuck they want. How can we let profit and greed dictate how we care for the citizens of this country? It makes me want to throw up in my mouth that some asshole will profit off the fact that my body can’t produce its own insulin. I don’t want to go through this insurance roller coaster with any other organs, but it’s bound to happen. Eventually something else will shut down or blow up and head in the direction my pancreas went. Our collective compromised organs will make a small group of people a fortune. I really don’t want my decrepit body to be the reason someone buys a vacation home. Would you? I know nothing in life is fair, but it feels immensely unfair that while I scour the internet for medical supplies on the black market, someone is sitting in an Adirondack chair looking at the view I helped pay for.

24 November 2021

I started writing this in July. Now, it’s November. Actually, there’s only a few days left of November. I couldn’t seem to write the rest of this from the giant hole I found myself in. I felt stuck, or wedged in, perhaps. It was as if I was living smashed inside a life-sized wedgie, barely able to breathe. I watched my life pass me by. All the cards were crashing down. I’ve learned that when your life turns to pure chaos, that’s when the real fun begins. Besides the life crisis, I also found myself with an extra 20 pounds anchored around my stomach. When you feel stuck in life, at work, in your own mind, and in your body, there’s no escaping that shit. Feeling stuck isn’t a cozy feeling and I was so over it. So, I decided to try meditating every morning for a week.

Meditating is one of those things I’ve always known I should do, but never really made an effort to do, let alone part of a daily routine. I’d do it a handful of times per year and call it good. I had no idea if I was “meditating” correctly or not. Sometimes I felt relaxed, but most of the time I couldn’t get my brain to shut the fuck up long enough to be able to think about nothing. Listening to music helped, especially music in another language. I like the song “La Belle de Jour,” by Alceu Valenca. The live version on YouTube is seven minutes long. I decided seven minutes was a great amount of time. It was more than five, but not as big a commitment as ten. 

I woke up the next morning, dragged myself from bed, peed, put on headphones and sat for the duration of my meditation jam. It was nice. Like really nice. I didn’t feel rushed, mostly because I had vacated my bed on the first alarm, rather than the fourth. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was in a positive mood, but not an angry one, like every other morning of my life. I drove to work. The timing of the stoplights and the idiocy of others drivers irked me, per usual, but I didn’t feel irate. I walked into work without the usual anger cloud hanging over my head. Of course, I was at work for less than an hour before I found myself pissed. Meditating didn’t lessen the anger and frustration I felt daily at work, but it took longer to hit, and for me, that was progress. 

I forgot to meditate the second day. I was going to bed, paused and thought, “Fuck. I forgot to meditate today.” Did I think about meditating then? Yes, for a split second, but the excitement of going to bed was too great to change my plans. Out of seven days, I meditated five times. It was helpful, but meditating couldn’t fix the giant wedgie I found myself engulfed in. Only I could pick my own wedgie. But at the moment my arms couldn’t reach. I had trouble moving, maybe it was the extra weight, or maybe I had actually gone crazy. I couldn’t seem to form a clear, coherent thought to save my life. I couldn’t blame the weight gain on this, but, boy, did I try. 

An insulin pump changed my life. Besides the actual cost, it also cost me 20 pounds. One minute my stomach looked normal, well as normal as it has ever looked, and the next it looked like it could save me from drowning. It’s like my body freaked out, built a thick cushion around my stomach and refused to budge. A lot of diabetics who switch from needles to pumps experience weight gain. I didn’t know this at the time and could not figure out why my body decided to revolt. I’d like to tell you that the extra 20 pounds have dissipated but, alas, they haven’t. I continued to eat healthy and exercise. Even after medication, including injections, to jump start my metabolism and help my body adjust to a new method of receiving insulin, nothing worked. The meds made me dizzy and vomit. I dropped them. No thank you. I’d rather be extra pudgy than throw up. 

I started to think my job would somehow kill me. It had already killed my spirit. I felt as though I had lost years of my life. Three years where I questioned my value and experience on the regular. I spent too long watching my boss tear down my coworkers and myself. I’ll never have those years back. They’re gone. Completely wasted. Of course, it wasn’t all bad. I felt like I had made connections with some of the patients and my coworkers. But I had lost faith in myself. And is anything really worth that?

I suppose the only reason I stayed so long was for the benefits. I had good health insurance. And that, I’ve learned is priceless. Shit was still expensive, obviously, but I’d bulldoze through my out of pocket maximum by April or May. Then the rest of the year was cake. Free cake because everything I needed to keep living was covered at no cost to me. It’s a crap system, but I learned how to time it, so that I could get the most out of it. Because the benefits were what they were, it was hard for me to want to abandon them in pursuit of a job I actually might like and wouldn’t make me go crazy as fast. I don’t like that having affordable health insurance is a deciding factor for where I work and live. But for now, it’s the only option.

I needed to move out of the place I rented in the next few months. So, I got on Craigslist and Apartments.com to see what was available. There was plenty available. But nothing in my budget, unless I wanted to live with roommates who would be strangers. That’s hit or miss. I’ve lived with great people and then, one time, I lived with a troll. I can’t do that again. Plus, I’m a 36 year old woman who desires to live alone. Is that too much to ask? If you live in Denver, or most places these days, then yes, that is too much to ask. I felt a bit insulted that my full time, “decent” waged job didn’t allow me to live in, or near, the city in which I worked. That speaks volumes to the wealth distribution in this country. Plus, I am a white woman with a college education. What did this mean for others who didn’t have the same opportunities because they didn’t look like me? Ironically, my job may have been that of an essential worker, but my pay certainly didn’t reflect that.

My mind got stuck in therapy, which meant it also got stuck in day to day living. I grew tired of circling the same issues. I felt like a vulture circling their prey. But the prey was me. So I was a vulture circling my own bullshit. I was going mad. When would I be able to dump the bullshit I’ve been clinging to and dragging around with me all these years? “Never,” I heard an inner voice shout. My head might explode and the only thing that will remain in tact is my old tired ass bullshit. I could feel myself sinking deeper inside the walls of the wedgie.

Countless therapy minutes have been spent talking about my sister. It’s one of my favorite topics to circle back to as many times as possible. Truly, I’m surprised my therapist never dumped me. I’m stuck between not wanting to be a person who doesn’t talk to their sister and a person who refuses to give into someone who will likely cause them and others pain again. Four years have passed since I cut ties with her. At the time she retreated from our family, or at least that’s what it seemed like. Her words banned her from going inside my parents’ house for some time. She didn’t make an effort to communicate much then, and I’m sure the fact that I refused to answer her volatile calls or return her texts didn’t help. I am certain I made the right decision when I decided to disengage. It took years to overcome the guilt that came with that decision. 

Lately, we’ve exchanged a few random texts and emails. Just to feel things out. I’m hesitant, and therefore keep our communications limited. My sister and her partner will be attending Thanksgiving at my parents’ house with my brother. I will not be there. While I’d like to be with my family, a part of me is relieved I won’t be there. If I’m not there, I won’t feel the inner pressure and guilt for being the only person who doesn’t think this is a good idea, at least not until there is some understanding from all parties involved. Distance makes a good buffer. It’s not easy being the odd man out. In the past I’ve given in, in order to keep the tranquility, but I’m not willing to do that now and destroy the inner peace that has taken me so long to cultivate and accept.

Experience has taught me that I can’t escape my mind, even with lots of therapy. Pot can help, but it’s only fleeting. My mind will always be at my side, so I decided to make some changes. I put my notice in at work. Just telling people I was leaving made me feel better than I had in a long while. I got lucky when a friend both suggested and helped me get a new job in a new city. So, I moved to the desert and now I have a job that doesn’t require a pep talk in the morning. I don’t have health insurance anymore. But for some reason that scares me less than staying in a place where I may have been comfortable, but so stuck that I didn’t know if I’d ever emerge. Sometimes, a change of scenery can make all the difference. 

24 July 2021

I sat on the exam table in the “shorts” for the second time. The billowy shorts were made from the same type of material as those lovely blue hospital gowns. When I took off my pants, put on the shorts and looked down, I expected to see three other sets of legs popping out. Never in my life have a pair of shorts made my legs look slim. I nearly asked if I could take the shorts home, but then thought better of it. The volume in these shorts screamed, “large and in charge.” The nurse said the shorts were designed to be universal, for all sexes and all sizes. They literally defined the phrase “one size fits all.” I haven’t always found this claim to be true in the past, but this piece of clothing actually fulfilled its promise. 

In the same moment I realized I looked like a clown from the waist down, the doctor walked in. I had never been to a vein specialist before. I suppose I can check it off my bucket list now.  I felt ridiculous, sitting on that exam table in my special shorts, staring at a man who had gone to school for many years to be an expert on veins. For as long as I can remember, I have detested talking about veins. And don’t even get me started about looking at them. Now, I had seen all the veins on the outside of my legs and on the inside, thanks to a very detailed scene the ultrasound depicted on the monitor. That was a little too up close and personal for comfort. Today was the big reveal. What would my veins have to say for themselves in that ultrasound? 

At my age, 36, the odds of needing an ultrasound usually involved a new tenant taking up residence in one’s uterus. There’s no bun in this oven. My body simply had decided to act like an asshole. The pictures on the walls contained the human body and its entire vein system. I took note that there weren’t any cute babies on the wall, or in the waiting room. And I only had to take one look around the waiting room to understand that menopause was a distant memory for all of the female patients. Clearly, this wasn’t an office for that kind of ultrasound.

My PTSD came flooding back when I realized I had been in a situation eerily similar to this one.  Back then, I wasn’t there for problematic veins, instead, I was there for an unresponsive digestive system. Things in those days weren’t moving smoothly, if they were moving at all. Several doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong, so they told me to get a colonoscopy to rule out anything serious. I was maybe 24, sitting in a waiting room filled with three sweet elderly women who, combined, had at least 150 years on me. They smiled at me, regularly, and each of them looked worried that I had gotten lost and was in the wrong waiting room. Luckily, they were too polite to ask.

Back in my current exam room we didn’t discuss bowel movements, or a lack of bowel movements, we were knee deep in all things related to veins. At least it was a change of subject. Still fairly gross, but not as bad as talking about your stool with a stranger, or worse meeting the stranger who will be inserting a camera up your bum. So far, this time was automatically better because I hadn’t chugged gallons of sandy liquid that is required to consume 24 hours before a colonoscopy. I also didn’t have to station myself on a toilet for hours in order to pee all the contents of my colon through my butt. But the best part, at least for me, was not fasting for an entire 24 hours. I couldn’t help but think that things were looking up, even if I didn’t know why my veins had turned on me by growing new, painful clusters on my legs. 

The vein Doc asked me about my symptoms that led to the referral my doctor sent on my behalf. I told him I started noticing vein growth on my thighs. They no longer lurked under the surface like they were born to do. Now they were multiplying and spreading like wildfire. Then the new veiny areas began to look swollen. Once they started hurting, consistently,  I threw in the towel. Enough was enough. I wasn’t pleased with the presence of these trespassers changing the landscape of my legs. Plus, the pulsating pain was utterly too dramatic. They hurt when I was on my feet during my forty hour work week. Compression socks didn’t make a difference. They ached more if I didn’t immediately go home and sit. I resolved I didn’t have it in me to live by my veins’ schedule. No way was I prepared to obey the demands of  these newfound “diva veins.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you. The problem isn’t your veins,” the doctor said. That was the good news he had promised. Finally, a doctor was telling me something in my body was working. I made a mental note to pick up a scratch ticket on my way home. He went on to say that this conclusion simply ruled out one cause for the vein growth and pain. He said it could be a pinched nerve or some issue with the discs in my back. Funny he should mention that because I had just been to the chiropractor that morning to work out the kinks in my lower back and left leg. For the last couple of weeks I had the pleasure of sciatica pain. Christ, this kind of pain is a real overachiever. I had it standing, sitting, when I first woke up in the morning. Any hour of the day was fair game. He said the veins and the pain could have stemmed from the sciatica, which probably stemmed from something else. He wasn’t sure because he was a vein specialist and could only speak to that. He told me I’d have to go back to my doctor and start over to rule out other causes in order to figure out where the problem started. It sounded expensive. 

I asked if it could have something to do with diabetes. All roads commonly lead back to that. He hesitated. “I wouldn’t rule it out, but usually neuropathy damage starts in the feet, not in the upper half of the lower body.” Great, I thought. If it was diabetic neuropathy, my body couldn’t even get its shit together to fuck up properly. This was no time for my body to take a stand and mystify this doctor and whoever followed. I don’t know if it’s more annoying when your body doesn’t behave, or when your misbehaved body can’t even fail right. 

Often I try to imagine a lull period, when nothing else besides a deadbeat organ is going wrong with my body. Sadly, that doesn’t seem likely anytime soon. But at least because of that deadbeat organ, I met my out of pocket maximum for my insurance in May. I suppose having an expensive disease is the one good thing in a sucky situation like insurance. Well, that’s a stretch. Finding something positive about dealing with health insurance companies has been impossible in my experience. I’ll blow my wad, and then some, in the first few months of the year and then my insurance company will finally have to pay for something. And then, if all goes well, they should be covering the bill for all medical costs. Although, who knows, since I’m still receiving claims from Cigna, saying they won’t cover certain items from months ago. They send a bullshit letter explaining why something isn’t covered and a bill.

I guess when you’re a diabetic you’re always in the thick of it, especially when it comes to other problems in your body. That is, other problems besides your pancreas calling in sick every single day for three decades. Nothing was found on my colonoscopy, so the doctor told me I probably had incredibly slow digestion because I was diabetic. Fucking great. I wanted to say thanks for putting me through hell and then telling me it was just because of my pancreas that I was having issues.  This vein problem could be this godforsaken disease acting up, or it could be something else. At this point, I don’t know which route would be more stressful. 

More tests and visits with specialists are in my near future. It would be nice to know what in the hell is causing this vein growth and sciatica pain. Plus, it would be really great not to be in pain so frequently. I suppose I should rule out everything, especially since Cigna will be footing my medical expenses until December 31st. If ever there was a time to do it, it’s now. In the meantime, I’ll keep popping Aleve and changing out ice packs until I can get scheduled to see other specialists. I just hope there will be more enormous blue shorts in my future. One can only hope.

21 June 2021

I found myself hiding behind a parked car in the parking lot at work.  I crouched there, hiding from my boss who was walking from one building to another. While squatting behind a random sedan, I started thinking. What was I doing here? It can’t be good if you literally hide from your boss. Why do I work for a man whose mere presence makes me want to throw up in my mouth? Better yet, what was I doing with my life? And then a thought occurred to me. I should have hidden behind a SUV instead of this sedan. Better coverage. Then it dawned on me that instead of focusing on finding a new job with a halfway decent boss, I was focused on the size of car I chose to hide behind. Well, I suppose that explains a lot.

Once the coast was clear, I left the safety of my hiding spot. My work day ritual had been spoiled by the man that caused me to need the ritual in the first place. What an even larger asshole. Now, I was putting myself at risk of dealing with my boss without having the chance to prepare. I usually have a pep talk in my car every morning before going in. Then I have another one on my walk into the building. I remind myself that this job isn’t forever and that the benefits are the reason I’ve stayed, even when I’ve dreamt of walking out. Another big part of the routine is a mental run down of all the insanely stupid and offensive shit I’ve seen him do and say to myself and others. 

There’s a plethora of precious moments to choose from. Like the time he yelled at a line cook when he had lowered his mask to take a sip of water. Naturally, our boss caught him in the 7 seconds his mask hung below his nose.  He told him to keep his mask up. A fact that was widely understood. My coworker said he told our boss that he felt dehydrated from working the hot tine in a mask for eight hours straight, so he needed to hydrate more frequently. Our “know it all” boss told the cook not to worry, because the mask was actually keeping him hydrated because it retained moisture. So not true. The guy said he almost walked out the door on the spot. 

Watching my boss do manual labor is another highlight for me. When he is responsible for putting a bunch of palettes filled with supplies away, I know it is going to be a good day. There’s sweat permanently dripping down his temples. Often he has to retreat to his office just to catch his breath. He oftentimes cannot move a loaded palette through a decently sized doorway, so he cuts through the wrapping and unloads boxes individually. Thereby making the task harder than it needs to be and blocking key parts of the kitchen. When he’s covering a shift, he always needs help and schedules people to come in before their shift begins to help. I find this ironic, because the guy has no respect for how hard and efficient his staff works daily, and guffaws at the idea of having more help for any of his staff. 

My boss isn’t the kind of guy that has ever, nor will ever win a popularity contest. Before I come off sounding biased, this is the general belief held by just about, if not, everyone who works in this department. Every cook that works for him does everything they can to avoid asking this guy anything. If you’re desperate and you find yourself stuck in this man’s presence you are shit out of luck.  He will answer your question in 20 minutes or longer, no matter how simple the question is. He will change his answer within those 20 minutes and completely contradict himself. I gave up asking or listening to how he wanted something done. No matter what he told me or what I did, he would want the opposite. It was infuriating. I’d have better luck flipping a coin. It’s unnerving to never do anything correct.  He’ll say, “hmmm. I wouldn’t have done it that way.” Even if it’s the way he told you he wanted it done. You’re damned if you do, and you’re damned if you don’t. 

Inept is probably the best word to describe my boss in action. When he’s in the kitchen, not even on the line, it looks like it’s his first day on the job. Maybe, the first time he’s ever set foot in a kitchen. I’ll look over at him and swear I’m watching Helen Keller work in his place. Except my bet’s on Helen. I’m certain she would have smoked his ass in the kitchen. Oddly enough, it’s not his first day on the job. He’s been the executive chef where I work for a decade. A decade. I’ve watched him lose over a dozen cooks solely because he acts like himself. Funny, that so many people don’t want to work for a guy that is condescending, unjustly arrogant, rude, hypocritical, humorless, and so unbelievingly annoying and boring that you would rather bang your head against a wall than deal with him. Call me crazy, but if you haven’t figured out how to do your job by now and your entire staff avoids you, then maybe this isn’t the job for you.

There’s an etiquette to working in a kitchen. There’s a way of doing things and saying things so that when the kitchen is slammed, things run smoothly. My boss appears to have never learned or retained these skills. When passing by another cook, especially if he’s carrying something, he will jerkily move out of the way in the most uncomfortable looking manner. He’s tall, but walks with a significant slump, as if he’s always walking in a crawl space. By the look of it, he’s past the early stages of the formation of a humpback. In a few more years his back will be a fully transitioned humpback. He never uses kitchen commands, nor understands their meaning and why they’re necessary. When I walk behind him and say “behind,” he spastically tries to move out of the way. The point of saying “behind” is to let another cook know where you are located. It’s key to know where everyone is in the kitchen, in order to avoid accidents and catastrophes.

The only kitchen etiquette my boss follows is how to carry a knife.  And that’s only sometimes. He carries a knife around with both hands, as if wielding something larger than a kitchen knife. It looks as if he’s lugging around a sword. I keep wondering whether he has any forearm strength. You can see the strain on his forearms from the weight of the “big” blade. He walks around like a speedy mute, never mentioning the terms ”knife” or “knife behind.” But we all know when he’s slugging one around. You can see him coming from a mile away. When he’s in a hurry, he’s pointing that fucker outwards, rather than toward himself, as is custom.

This man doesn’t lead by example. Either he can’t or he’s never heard the phrase before. A lot of chefs over the years have made an effort to mentor their staff. They’ll take dishwashers and turn them into prep cooks, line cooks, and sous chefs. That’s common protocol in the industry. This chef doesn’t believe in that. He wants a cook who could pass the graduation exam at cooking school. There’s a big difference in rhythm and flow in a kitchen when all your experience is from class and not from working in a restaurant. I’ve personally witnessed him deny a dishwasher the chance to be trained how to cook. It seems odd that he wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to train someone the way he wants them to work in his kitchen, especially when the person is willing and eager. It’s no wonder he has staffing problems. His standards are whack. And even if he finds a “good” candidate, the odds of that cook staying and putting up with his bullshit are minimal. 

It’s super fun to work for someone who is so consumed with themself that they cannot see that they are the source of all the problems. Either he can’t or won’t admit this, but there is one common cause for why people walk out or don’t last. It’s him! He’s like a festering turd, but a turd who thinks he’s the most important asset in the kitchen. Rather than having a littler perspective, he blames the cook that walks out, by saying they had an anger problem. He’s a “chef,” not a psychologist. His insecurity prompts him to abuse his power and to never take responsibility for anything that goes wrong. It drives me insane to work for a chef that has so little respect for anyone who works for him. And lucky me, I’m one of a few women who still work for him. He seems to dump on the female staff at higher rates than the males. I love being talked to like I’m an idiot. And don’t even get me started on the mansplaining. It’s nice to know he has little faith in me or my abilities, and questions my instincts and points out all my flaws. He nitpicks every single thing until there’s nothing left to pick. 

This man has no sense of timing when it comes to cooking or conversing. Timing is key in cooking. So is multitasking. Cooking is a struggle if you can’t do more than one thing at once. Communicating is key in management. If you can’t talk to an employee without making them feel like their concerns and opinions don’t matter, that’s a problem. It’s an even bigger problem when you can’t muster the smallest shred of respect when communicating with an employee. Being aware of the amount of time you’re taking from a person when you have a one way conversation with them is also important. It’s no shock to me that my coworkers and I literally avoid being caught in his vortex. If I do get caught I usually just stand there, nod every now and again and completely drown out the sound of his arrogant, stiff monotone voice that bores the living hell out of me. 

A person like this cannot be genuine, no matter how hard they try. The only time he acts “nice” is during the week before an employee survey is handed out, allowing us the opportunity to grade his performance for the year. For a week, he’ll kiss everyone’s ass and attempt to make up for a year of treating people like shit. The problem is I don’t want this buffoon kissing my ass. All I want is a little respect for the entire time I work for someone, not just the week before we review his job performance. For years, he’s received terrible scores and he still remains. That comes at no surprise to me. The people whose job it is to stand up to this inept bully and hold him accountable don’t have the balls to do so. 

I had a sit down with him awhile back and he had what I thought was a real moment of clarity. He said he couldn’t help but ask if he was part of the problem when it came to issues in the kitchen. Before I opened my mouth and yelled, “good god, yes!” I paused. I fought the urge to inform him that he was a prick who no one liked or respected. Instead, I told him he needed to work on his communication style. He came across condescending, I said. I sat across from him, wondering if I had gone too far. He became quiet and appeared to be shocked. I stared at his confused face and refused to believe that this was the first time this man had been told he was condescending. 

My female supervisor who also loathes this pathetic excuse of a man found me after our little meeting. She said he sat in silence for ten minutes and then looked at her and asked, “do you think it’s because I’m taller than everyone and so I’m physically looking down at people when I talk to them? Do you think that’s why people think I’m condescending?” I debated punching my hand through the wall. What the actual fuck? Even when I bother to tell this man straight to his face why no one likes him, it’s not clear enough for him. 

A couple of months ago, I begged another supervisor in the department to take me.  As soon as I learned I got the position, even after my old boss tried to interfere, I felt a level of relief I hadn’t felt before. I felt like I had won the lottery.  My new position is no dream job, but it’s nice to work for someone you can trust and who doesn’t make you want to cut your ears off. I still see my old boss in the kitchen and watch as he berates cooks, who would probably be better at his job than he is. Life is full of assholes. I don’t need to work for one. Especially one that walks around like a giant man baby with a hunchback. He may be the tallest person in the kitchen, despite the developing hunchback, but his stature can’t hide the fact that he’s the smallest man on the inside. 

20 May 2021

I started this blog post several weeks ago. I’m not sure why it has taken me so long to finish. I’m going to go out on a limb and purpose it has something to do with depression and a lack of will power on my part. Maybe some procrastination too. It also could be due to the fact that I took a vacation for the first time in a long time, and I couldn’t remember how to get back to real life. Truthfully, it could be any of these reasons.

The week before I went on vacation, the verdict on Derek Chavin for the murder of George Floyd was still out. Every morning it seemed there was another mass shooting, or another killing of a person of color by the police, or both. This was the early days of April. A lot happened then. Too much. Every morning I wanted to crawl back into bed before I even got out of bed just from looking at the news on my phone. We were living in a world of pure insanity. Let’s not forget about the pandemic either. It’s like we were so close to getting back to normal, but normal didn’t feel acceptable anymore. Not after being shut away from one another, trying not to catch a deadly virus and watching as this country unfolded into a racial reckoning in real time.  

I found myself on a plane. I hadn’t stepped foot onto a plane since well before the pandemic hit. I felt nervous about being in such a confined space with lots of people again, even if I was vaccinated. So, I did the one thing that always seems to work, especially these days. I got stoned. I was dropped off at the airport with half an edible in my system. After getting through security I was hailed over to a kiosk by a young man who probably weighed 100 pounds when wet. 

He sat me down in the chair at his booth and asked if I used eye cream. Yes, I told him. He told me he wanted to try his product on me. It was potent and would battle the fine lines and the cavernous under eye circles I possessed. He gently dabbed cream under one eye and put a mirror to my face. My skin felt tight and I swear my lines looked blurred and my dark circles looked luminous. Maybe it was the lightning or maybe it was the pot. He was good. His pitch was adorable. I played along so he would do the other side.

Then came the catch. The eye cream was $400. I gasped. My friend said the airport is the place to buy it, because when you buy the product online it is $900. I stifled a laugh under my mask. Who did this kid think I was? Had he not seen what I was wearing and my travel bag? Those two things should have told him all there was to know. I told the kid I didn’t have $400 to spend on eye cream.  I may have been stoned, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was wise to pay that kind of money for one product, no matter how young, or bright eyed I looked.

I excused myself from the disappointed sales clerk, thinking a better use of my pennies was to grab a glass of wine before I got on the plane. Oddly enough, I lost track of time at the bar. Weird, I know. Luckily I was able to get my wine to go. Fantastic, I thought. So I grabbed my to go beverage and booked it to my gate. When I was allowed to board I walked right up to the ticket checker with my wine in tow. Turns out airlines still frown upon passengers bringing their own alcohol on board. The stewardess assured me there would be complimentary wine on the plane. I thanked her for the information, brushing aside the suggestion that I was some kind of lush. But then I realized I had just spent more money on this glass of wine in a plastic cup than what I would spend on an entire bottle of wine normally. She suggested I step to the side and finish the glass. So I did. I stood to the side of the massive line of passengers, guzzling my to go wine like a one woman freak show. 

Once I got onboard, I turned into the row directly behind the row I was assigned to sit in. It’s as if I had never been on a plane before. I stood in the row like a dope while passengers filed onto the plane. How was this happening to me? There was no way I was going to be able to cut in front of these people who were coming down the aisle lurching for their seats in their correct rows. Finally, someone in line must have took pity on me. They motioned to me and allowed me to cut in front of them and swing safely into my row. There is a god, I thought.

My big trip was to see my parents and my brother, who I hadn’t seen in a long time. My mom and I went on a mother/daughter outing to get our nails done. We popped one of her homemade pot cookies and started walking to the nail salon for our appointment. We arrived late, naturally. I felt like I was walking with a pint-sized ninja. My mom was dressed all in black, her gray-blonde hair poking through her baseball cap. She was utterly adorable. She giggled down alley after alley, so that we could avoid other pedestrians and traffic. Probably a smart choice.

I’d like to go record and say that getting a pedicure while stoned is perhaps the best use of one’s time. The water for the foot bath is the perfect temperature and your feet are soaking in a tub that you didn’t have to personally clean. Plus, since the bath is just for your feet, you don’t have the burden of submerging your entire body in a bathtub. Sure a full body bath feels good, but christ, that’s a commitment. Plus there’s a foot massage involved. Not only did a lovely woman release all the tension in my feet and lower legs, but she literally moved each foot in and out of the water for me. 

When it came time for the cheese grater portion of the pedicure to remove the dry skin, I braced myself. I hadn’t had another person touch my feet in over a year and a half and, frankly, I was worried what this unlucky person would discover. As I watched the dead skin fall from my feet, I couldn’t help but think it looked like snow flakes. When it lasted for over a minute, it looked more like a baby avalanche. This poor woman, I thought.  

I looked over at my mom, who was in the chair next to me. I asked her a question. She had no idea anyone was talking to her, or probably where she was for that matter. After 20 seconds she responded. She was in the middle of a word game on her phone, she told me. She’s never been so good at this game before she said. I asked her if she turned the massager on in her chair. She told me she was too scared to turn the massager on because she already felt like she was on a rocket and if she turned the massager on she might just lift off into space. I didn’t have a response for this

A minute later she turned to me and asked what the calmest setting is for the massager. I told her to give me a minute so I could try all the settings and get back to her. The kneading setting was the winner. I told my mom where to find the kneading button on her remote. She can’t locate the button. She claimed she had a different remote. I slid over and examined her remote. It was the exact same. We got her started on the kneading setting and she turned to me and said, “oh, this is nice.” I looked at the very patient women giving us pedicures and wondered if they knew just how stoned we were.

It only got better and stranger from there. When the lady moved to my hands and started massaging my fingers, I caught myself clutching her hand with my free fingers. Was I imagining this? Nope. She politely kept pulling her hand out of my grasp. Great, I had become a creepy hand clinger because of the pandemic. I know it’s been awhile since another human has spent so much time touching me, but still. I was out of control. When she started massaging my shoulders I thought I had actually died and this was heaven. I wanted this woman to become my new best friend. I swear when she finished the neck massage she winked at me. Clearly she had felt our connection too.

On the walk back to my parent’s house we cut through the park in their neighborhood. It was sunny and warm, a real rarity in Seattle this time of year. Once we attempted to cross the street, we stopped dead in our tracks. A black man in handcuffs was leaning against a cop car while three white cops surrounded him. All of a sudden reality set in. I reached for my cell phone in my pocket and turned to my mom. We both looked at each other and agreed that we needed to wait this out and stay across the street to act as witnesses in case things went south. Soon we weren’t the only passerby who had stopped. All down the block groups of mostly white people had stopped to watch. I don’t know if the cops noticed the clusters of people watching the scene, but we all stayed until the scene ended nonviolently. 

It’s funny how quickly I was thrust back into reality. But it’s not really funny that this is reality. As a white person I felt responsible to stay and make sure the police didn’t terrorize or murder this black man. After the interaction ended we continued walking. I felt sick to my stomach. Sure, this cop encounter ended okay, but there was no guarantee that it would. What if this encounter hadn’t taken place in such a public space, like many encounters don’t? Here was my mom and I high as kites, walking all over the neighborhood without a care in the world. We were unafraid of what it would mean if a cop stopped us. Our white skin was our free pass. It’s a universal pass for white people. It’s so fucked up. I know it’s nothing new, but it’s still completely fucked up. 

Going home again is weird. Being in a restaurant is weird. Interacting with people is weird. Picking up where life fell off before the pandemic is weird. None of us can be the same and our world can’t be the same after something so catastrophic. We’ve got to change and evolve. Wear a mask. Get vaccinated. If there’s one thing to take away from life after a pandemic, it’s that life is truly fragile. It can change from day to day, hour to hour, or through an interaction from person to person. It was a big reminder not to take advantage of anything. Not your health. Not your friends. Not your family. Not your privilege. Not your life. And not the stranger’s life next to you. 

7 April 2021

Now that I’m part robot I’ve never felt more like, what I can only assume, a regular person feels like. Odd, I know. But I don’t care that it took a tiny device to make me feel functional. After over 30,000 injections, including five a day most recently, I took the plunge. I tried an insulin pump. Good fucking god. The grass is greener on the other side. Not only is the grass greener, but it’s filled with flowers, butterflies, sunshine, a cool breeze coming off the waves, and anything else that sounds splendid. It’s kick you in the ass fantastic.

I’m an old school diabetic. In the early days I used a now outdated insulin system. Two shots a day. I had to eat at the same time and only eat the allotted amount of carbohydrates decided hours before. It was a rigid system, but an improvement to what people had to do before this “breakthrough.” Luckily, I wasn’t born yet for the earlier version. I had to poke my fingers to determine the sugar level in my blood. My callused fingers looked as if I was a child guitar prodigy. Just to be clear, I wasn’t one, never would be one, but my fingers looked the part. 

In high school insulin improved again. I had a quick acting insulin that could be taken before meals and a long term insulin that was taken once a day. It was a game changer. Now I was injecting myself in the bathroom stall at school before lunch. It was lengthening the leash inch by inch closer to food freedom. It also meant that if I wanted to eat pizza at ten at night, while at a sleepover, I didn’t just have to sit there and watch my friends eat. I could shoot up some insulin and eat too. Crazy cool.

A vial of insulin and fresh needles were my constant companions. I didn’t leave the house without them. It would be like leaving the house without wearing pants. Good news came a few months ago that Cigna, my insurance company, was finally covering the cost of the OmniPod Dash, an insulin pump that is waterproof, small, and gets replaced every three days. Dash changed my entire damn life. Now, I had a pancreas clinging to my skin with adhesive that delivered insulin whenever I told it to do so. 

About a year ago my doctor told me about Dexcom. Dex, as I affectionately refer to her, is a continuous glucose monitor. This means that instead of poking my finger before every shot, I simply insert a little device into my arm or stomach once every ten days and it sends my phone a blood sugar reading every five minutes through bluetooth. At the time this was the coolest thing to ever happen to me. Yes, it might sound a little sad, but it was the first time I knew what was happening inside my own body in real time. 

Dex gives me a heads up when my blood sugar is plummeting at the speed of light. It’s nice to have a little warning before I start to feel a low blood sugar. Sure, I’m still a sweaty, shaky mess of a human when it hits full on. I can’t hold a single thought, I breath like I’m in the midst of a panic attack, my vision goes blurry and I can’t walk in a strait line. All that hasn’t changed, but it is refreshing that this device acts like a shadow of my blood sugar, always watching and notifying me what’s going on.

Dex and Dash have made my life easier than I ever knew it could be. Together, they do all the work, even the math. In our first days together, I worried that I’d awaken and all of this would have been a dream. I’d realize the technology hadn’t been invented yet, and I’d be a hands on diabetic once again. My purse would be littered with insulin vials and syringes. The old ball and chain were back. These are actual thoughts I had in those early days. Sometimes I’d notice I’d be smiling and I didn’t know why. This happened often. I was insanely happy with my new robot bits.

Well the honeymoon officially ended. Dash has shown me his true colors. I’d be lying if I said wasn’t disappointed and frustrated by his behavior the last couple of weeks. I guess the good times can’t last forever, no matter how much I willed them. I get that I am still diabetic, and always will be. Dash can’t fix that. I know that’s not possible. After thirty one blissful years of being diabetic I am fully aware that this little device inserted into my stomach isn’t a miracle worker. And even though he’s been messing up more than ever, my life with him is still one thousand times better than it was before he was around. 

My hands shook and fumbled with the small, yet very expensive devices every time I inserted a new one. I was so worried I would break each new device I inserted for at least the first month. Somehow I was convinced that I would mess it up and have to discard the new pump before its expiration three days later. If that were to happen I would literally be throwing a shit ton of money into the trash. In terms of finances, I’m more of a peasant than a wealthy person, so that would be a tragedy. Turns out this high tech equipment doesn’t need my help to peter out. It can do that all on its own.

Did I mention how much my robotic pancreas costs? Before my deductible was met, it cost close to $900 for a one month supply. After my deductible was met it cost $350 for a one month supply. Once my out of pocket maximum is met, I’ll have no copay. I’m in the home stretch now. Soon it will be so long copays! Insurance is such a rigged system. I’ve decided not to let myself explode every time I make a trip to the pharmacy. I’ve figured out how to play their game, maybe not as good as the greedy CEOs of insurance companies, but well enough to know how to work their sick system any way I can.

So anyway, things went south last week. It all started with an alarm going off around 11PM. I was mostly asleep and couldn’t figure out where this ear piercing alarm was coming from. Finally, I realized it was coming from me. I was like a bomb going off. My device told me the insulin delivery was suspended and I needed to change the pod immediately. That’s funny, I thought. I had just put a new Dash in that morning. I fumbled around and managed to remove the device. As soon as I lifted it out of my stomach blood squirted out of the insertion hole. Im not exaggerating here. It looked like a scene in a slasher movie. 

A couple of days later my blood sugar skyrocketed. I had a Dash in place and it claimed it was working, but I couldn’t get those numbers to go down to normal. This lasted two days. After having a headache and feeling like shit with my blood sugar off the charts, I decided I needed to change the pod early. I put a new Dash in and the same thing kept happening. For five days my blood sugars were all over the place and I was about to lose my wits. Not to mention these defective devices were burning a real big hole in my pocket.

I don’t know if it was because my game changing devices were giving me a hard time, or I had to refrain from kicking my boss in the balls multiple times that week for being a passive aggressive asshole, or because my stress and anxiety levels were competing for first place, but I started to have an anxiety attack in a Barnes & Noble. I decided maybe it would help to find a book about how to be better at diabetes and perhaps something with an instruction manual on insulin pumps wouldn’t hurt either. In the medical section, I found the extensive collection of books on diabetes. After perusing the shelves, I literally found one book for type 1 diabetics. I was incensed. I was already jealous that type 2 diabetics had pancreases that hadn’t fully kicked the bucket. Now they had hundreds of book options for their ailment and I had one. Hmm. I guess life really isn’t fair sometimes. 

Before I got my shit together, bought my book and left the store, I got a text from my roommate that a loud sound was coming from my room. When I opened the door of my house I walked into a piercing incessant sound. I ran downstairs and searched around for the sound. It was coming from the garbage. One of my old expired Dashes was the source. I called the customer service number on the box and explained to Destiny, a very patient lady, my situation. She could hear the little shit through the phone. She spent 15 minutes telling me to insert a paperclip through a near invisible hole on the back of the device to shut the sound off. I couldn’t find a paper clip and I couldn’t find the hole. It was at this moment my blood sugar decided to drop rapidly. I asked Destiny if there were any other options before we both lost our minds. She told me to take a hammer to it. I did. It was the best I’d felt all week.

After my own version of the Office Space scene where they take hammers to the copier and printer machine, I got back to business with Destiny. Just as we were going through product numbers to see if I could be reimbursed for any of the problematic devices, we lost connection and I couldn’t reach her again. Fuck. I wanted to cry. I’m guessing she was relieved the connection cut our call short.

Could anything else go wrong this week? Something else did go wrong, because something else can always go wrong. A pod that had been working a few days later, detached from my arm where it was inserted. It dangled from my arm like an ornament. When I removed the adhesive my arm looked like it got in a fight with a wire fence and lost. Later, the detached Dash woke me in the middle of the night. At 3 AM I found myself, again, wielding a hammer and beating the daylights out of another insulin pump.

A string of bad luck is annoying. But when part of that bad luck involves how your body functions and feels it sucks even more. It’s strange going from feeling elated about your insulin pumps to literally beating the shit out of them. When Dash came into my life, it really was the greatest thing. It still is. My quality of life went through the roof. I never knew life could be like this. So much simpler with two technological advances. Sure, I feel a little robotic, but it’s the closest  I’ll ever get to not have the burden of constantly picking up the slack of a down and out organ. These little devices mimic what my body should be doing if it was normal. It’s as close as I’m gonna get. I’ll take it. Even if it breaks the bank, my skin goes through hell and I have to keep a hammer around for all the naughty Dashes in the trash can. It’s totally worth it.