My magical elixir against reality.
Every two weeks or so, I have to pack my COPD and NAFLD and diabetes medications and supplements. I pack them in a grab and go plastic baggie for each day so that I, a) Don’t have to think about or deal with assembling the magical stones meant to offset mortality, and, b) Do my best to comply with my medication orders while also supplementing my Rx’s with dietary magic to make up for the fact that I don’t eat fruits and veggies, and with the hope that these vitamin fortifications will help me beat the reality of my physical frailty.
I have a daily diary I keep, as if that will offset the Endocrinologist’s belief that I am gorging myself daily on sugars and carbs, sodas up the yin yang, and working to actively sabotage my various doctor’s efforts to keep this old carcass upright and moving.
I also try and cook most of my own meals to ensure I know exactly what I’m putting into my body, and that any forbidden sugars and carbs were in my diet with purpose and pre-planning.
Tonight, I’m going out to see Gabriel Iglesias, Stand Up Comic, and enjoy the crowd, the laughter, and share a moment with my buddy, R, who also loves stand up.
So, knowing that I have to be able to stay awake for an extended period of time, and knowing that I don’t want to miss any part of tonight’s performance by mis-using my limited number of “spoons” for the day, or eating the wrong thing, etc., etc., etc… I’m sitting on my couch and being oh so good.
I’m up. I’m showered and groomed and resting.
I’m perfectly aware that one wrong decision could leave me exhausted and unable to hide my chronic condition, so I’m behaving.
I hate behaving, but I understand that’s it’s for the greater good. I understand that self-sabotage by fighting against my reality hurts no one but me. And, I’m ego centric enough that I want to pass for normal for as long as possible, whenever possible, so I do what I actively dislike and live a regimented life.
As Springsteen says in his recent Broadway show, it’s like my own litany of “Church, school, homework. Church, school, homework. Greenbeans. Greenbeans. Fucking greenbeans.”
In my case it’s: Get up. Take my meds with whatever food won’t derail my plans for the most energy in any given day. And repeat those fucking steps ad nauseam until the weather improves so that I can leave this tin can of a home, or until my next trip comes around.
I know I have it better than so many other folks who can no longer leave their rooms or their homes. Who are confined to a hospice bed in a hospital waiting for the end. Or worse, who are out on the streets, truly destitute and without a place to call home.
But, as I sit here contemplating my medicated breakfast of champions, I just hear Springsteen in my head making me laugh. “Greenbeans. Greenbeans. Fucking greenbeans.” Yep. It could be worse.
I might be at home in my childhood, dealing with my daily medication routine under the watchful eye of my mother, and facing a dinner of creamed peas and tuna.
Find your laughs where you can every day, and find a way to accept reasonable compromises so that you can do whatever you still desire to do despite the odds stacked against you.
Whatever you do, though. Stay away from that fucking creamed peas and tuna.