Stage 2

When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear.~ Mark Twain

There are supposedly five stages of grief. I personally believe that each part of our lives, each event, has its own five stages. Today, I’m in stage 2. I’m opting for humor because otherwise I’ll cry.

I’m a diabetic. I’ve known this since 2002. I know it’s a progressive disease. I’ve studied treatments and outcomes. I studied complications. I went in for my check-ups like clockwork. I followed a decent diet, although I’m sure it could have been better. But, hey, we’re all human and chocolate is a match made in heaven.

I’m angry today because I’m realizing how much has been stolen from me by this disease. I spent four days last week dealing with complications, two in the hospital. Don’t get me going on healthcare again…let’s just say it was a less than optimal experience. I haven’t been able to return to my volunteer job that I love very much. My life is like PMS on steroids right now. People are afraid to speak with me out of fear that they will set me off.

That’s probably a fair assessment. My inner sailor has emerged with enough force to make even a veteran sailor blush. I feel sorry for the person who cut me off on the freeway a while ago. If everything I yelled comes true, they’ll look like a hobbit by nightfall. Because that’s all I can do. Yell at the Universe. Not as satisfying as one would hope, but it’s all I’ve got.

Please don’t throw a pity party in my honor. I want to be angry. I want to let it all hang out. I want people to know how messy life can be and for them to be grateful for everything they have. Be grateful that you can still go camping or horseback riding. Be grateful that you can read a magazine without a magnifying lens (thank you Jeff Bezos for installing large print options on my Kindle!). Be grateful for every little thing in your life because you never know when you may be robbed of the things that bring you pleasure.

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