So, what's new?

I'm back. Yeah, I know, whoop-di-goddamned-do.

I forgot to send my gut pix to the office, where I'm currently goofing off instead of working. So you'll have to wait for those.

The surgery didn't go horribly awry, although there were "complications." Enough complications for them to have shot me up with 4 units of blood, kept me in the hospital for two additional days, and to have filled me with bag after bag of saline solution.

When I was discharged on Friday August 15th I spent the first week at home just trying to void myself through whatever outlet was handy of the gallons of salt water they'd inflated me with.

I remember watching Michael Phelps (endlessly) while I was in the hospital. Every time I came out of yet another coma there he was, slithering through the water like a water snake. Swimmers have the oddest bodies.

Then, after I'd had a week to adjust to reality, the conventions started. Initially I was kind of surprised by Barack's choice of Joe Biden (from my home state of Delaware). But upon reflection he seemed the best choice if Senator Obama hoped to deflect Republican criticism of his LACK OF EXPERIENCE IN FOREIGN AFFAIRS, which seemed likely given the fact that the GOP had been doing just that for months.

Then, of course, the Gay Old Party turned right around and picked the most unqualified person, male or female, to have run for the vice presidency since Spiro Agnew (another state governor who eventually wound up in prison -- which, with any luck, started a trend.)

And that brings us up to date on external affairs.

Now, as to the surgery.

I have lost nearly 40 pounds in 4 weeks. I've had to have additional holes punched in some belts, and to have some inches of webbing removed from others. I'm not quite down to the next size in pants (although all my workmakes insist that I am). I can eat (if you call "drinking" "eating") about 4 ounces at a clip. For a real treat I've started having 2.5 ounces of tuna at lunch (1 6 oz. can of tuna packed in water mixed with 2 heaping tablespoons of low-fat mayo) this week.

I can button the collar buttons on my shirts again. The weight loss began, as it always does, with the face and the ass. While not exactly gaunt, my face is decidedly less "jolly" than it had been. My formerly well-padded behind no longer exists. It's actually painful to sit in the same position for any length of time. Our office ops manager is ordering a pillow for me to sit on.

My first day back at work was Monday of this week. By Tuesday morning my feet were killing me. I hadn't worn dress shoes in a month, only deck shoes. The streets of New York didn't help matters.

Despite the initial complications (and week of hourly trips to the can), I have no regrets. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Oh, and finally there's this.

My diabetes is resolved. I've been off all medicines since the day before my surgery. My blood sugar (which I continue to monitor daily) has dropped completely back to the "normal" range of 90-110.

I feel wonderful.

And The Days Dwindle Down....

Here is how my mind works: Let's say that I wake up in the morning and have 300 things to be grateful for and 2 things to be pissed off about. Guess what I'll spend the day dwelling on?

My life these days is basically happy, loving and secure. I'm surrounded by people I love and whom love me. So, naturally, I spent most of this week being pissed off at my cardiologist who have the NERVE to go on vacation when I needed him to be in town to do some paperwork so I can have my surgery a week from Monday.

Am I crazy?

Yes.

Then, of course, his office called yesterday and we got it all straightened out and now I won't have to postpone the surgery after all and it's still on for a week from this coming Monday (August 11th -- send cash.)

This also means that I get to spend this weekend and next loitering in the stacks at BJ's and Sam's Club looking for bargain cases of College Inn Lo-Fat Chicken Broth and tons of sugar-free Jello (ibid) and other stuff to try to ingest since I'll have to live on that stuff for about a month, supplemented only by the prayers of other recovering alkies and gallons of liquid vitamins.

But this is good. I am eager to have my Type II Diabetes "resolved" (doctors don't like the word "cured"). I am eager not to wind up, like so many of my immediate ancestors did, blind and footless, strapped into wheelchairs in hellhole nursing homes.

I am eager to not have that happen to me.

And for that I am truly grateful.

Maybe I'll get some photos of my weekend and post 'em here next week. BUT NO PROMISES.

Gastric Bypass - My Saga Begins

Okay, it's official. Barring any unforeseen circumstances (such as me turning into a big wimp between now and then), I'm going to have gastric bypass surgery, hopefully in August.

I've lined up all the initial consultations I need to have over the next few months.

Insurance companies, rightfully, want to make sure you're serious about the surgery before they waste 100's of thousands of their other client's premiums paying for something you're promptly going to sabotage because you have unresolved addiction issues.

I don't blame 'em.

So over the next month I'll be seeing my internist, a pulmonologist, a nutritionist, my cardiologist and a shrink. Meanwhile I'll have continuing consultations with the surgeon and attend monthly meetings of his bariatric support group (more like a cult - but if he can turn off my diabetes, gout, rheumatoid arthritis, joint pain and artheriosclerosis I'll happily join the other worshippers at his shrine).

Oh, and the reason for the shrink is to make sure I'm not doing this for vanity's sake.

Anybody who knows me will tell you... vanity has never been my long suit. Fear and self-loathing are more my forte.

I just want to stop taking medicines. That would be very, very nice.

Oh, and I don't want to wind up in my old age strapped into a wheelchair in a nursing home, blind and footless, like so many of my relatives on the Irish side of the family did.

That would be even nicer.

You'll be hearing lots more about this over the next couple of months. So brace yourselves.

Viscious Queens & Gastric Bypasses

I had a lovely time in Rehoboth this past weekend. The hotel was full of nearly 400 viscious queens sober, friendly LGBTs from Maine to Virginia and westward to Illinois. They all hardly noticed my bad eye, sloppy jeans, flabby ass and sagging tits inner beauty, which glows brighter with every passing decade year.

Sunday afternoon finally sadly arrived and it was time to bid a fond go fuck yourselves farewell to my loving soulmates in recovery.

60 minutes later I was at my sisters house in Newark, Delaware, sponging a free meal out of her and my brother-in-law.

After mooching some leftovers "for later" I headed home to my own bed. Thank God. I did have a nice time, and my hotel room was faboo (I had an oceanfront room), but I do miss my nice, ultra-firm mattress when I travel.

Monday was a "no-stress" day for me which involved little more than a meeting, shopping and napping.

Tuesday was busy, although I was still off work. I had an appointment with Dr. Diabetes up at Robert Wood Johnson Hopsital in New Brunswick. I was armed with all the articles I'd been saving for the last six weeks about treatments for diabetes. He was over an hour late to see me. it turned out that all of his other patients had ALSO come armed for their visits and they were all demanding changes in their treatments.

"Look," I said to him, "I'm going to be 60 years old this summer. With any luck I'll have another 25 or 30 years... and I do NOT want to spend them, as so many members of my family did, blind and limbless in wheelchairs parked in state run institutional hellholes. If there's a snowballs chance in hell that having gastric bypass will help me avoid that, SIGN ME UP!"

He smiled and said that I was an ideal candidate and that he would have no problem whatsoever going to bat for me with the insurance goons, provided, however (I've been around lawyers too long), that I get my cardiologist to agree (that my heart can stand the strain of surgery). He added that it was likely that I would lose 50-75 pounds, that I would be able to go totally off my diabetes medications, that my cholesterol would drop like a rock, that I'd feel better, that there'd be certain other intangible (and tangible) benefits and that he wholeheartedly advocated me having it done.

I was floored. Needless to say I called my cardio guy's office as soon as I got home (gotta program all these guys into my cellphone!). He's out sick. WHAT? A DOCTOR GETS SICK? THE NERVE. But his nurse assured me that he'd have no problem going along with this because of the added benefits it would give my heart (less stress, lower cholesterol, etc.).

So, this gastric bypass is starting to look like a "win-win" situation for me.

Now I just have to a) find a surgical group that performs this kind of surgery and b) get the insurance company to agree to cough up for it.

Oh? Is that all?

A Cure for Diabetes?

Much to my amazement the NYTimes ran an extensive page one article yesterday regarding a piece in the Journal of the American Medical Association about a study conducted by Australian researchers in which a number of Type II diabetics (like me) had been re-converted to a pre-diabetic state by using gastric bypass or banding surgery.

The figures cited were astonishing. People who are completely unable to shed a pound despite diet, exercise and drugs (like me -- I tried the Byetta injections for six months, to no avail, live on salads and hang out at the gym way too often for my tastes) were able to lose up to 20.7 percent of their total weight, often within weeks of the surgery (that is for the adjustable band method). People who had full blown gastric bypass surgeries had even more astonishing results in achieving complete remission of the disease, often in a matter of days, (according to the Times ) "apparently because the operation causes metabolic changes that lower blood glucose levels beyond what weight loss alone can accomplish."

For the Times to run such an article was amazing. What's even more amazing was the appearance of an editorial in today's edition, urging the medical community to get cracking on looking into and using the surgical "cure" for diabetes ASAP.

I might even learn to forgive the Times for hiring Bill Kristol (neocon asswipe) to replace Bill Safire.

Dr. Pancreas

If you're traveling to D.C. anytime soon you might find this to be of some use.

I took the day off yesterday for my thrice-yearly visit to my endocrinologist, whom I call Dr. Pancreas 'cause it sounds close to Dr. Pangloss, a character in Voltaire's "Candide" who preaches a philosophy of "All's for the best in this best of all possible worlds."

Dr. Pancreas took one look at me and instantly determined that the bellyful of gila monster venom I was shooting twice a day was having absolutely no effect on either my weight or my A1C, so he instantly ordered me to stop taking the stuff. This meant, of course, that I had to deal with MegaDrugCo, a wholly owned subsidiary of MyUselessHealthPlan, LLP, because I had just sent them some scrip to renew my prescription for a 90-day supply of the poison-pen injectors and I needed to stop them from sending it and billing me a bajillion dollars for same.

After wandering in voice-mail wildnerness for 20 minutes and pressing "Zero" 87 times before a human being finally came on the line, (Lydia LovelyVoice, "I didn't understand your last response. Let's try it again!" (ZERO.... ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO).

So I nipped that catastrophe in the bud. No Byetta. Meanwhile I have about 300 disposable "sharps" which attach to the pens that I have no idea what to do with. I don't know any junkies who get their shit from their dealers in disposable pens. Keeping them is no use. If I ever have to go on insulin the needles are too fine to allow the insulin to pass through them.

After seeing the good Doctor I went down to Hamilton (where the post-office that had the anthrax scare is located) to go to the movies. I want to see the new Cate Blanchett/Elizabeth I movie (I'm a sucker for costume period-pieces). The theater was closed. It was too early (don't they open at dawn?) I got an early lunch (soup and a salad) at a nearby Bob Evans' (eschewing the greasy breakfast specials). I went back to the theater. It was going to be another hour before they opened.

I gave up and started for home. I made quick trips to Tarjay, El Banco de Coca Cola, Super Fresh and Blockbuster.

Okay, I admit it, I rented "Transformers." Okay, I admit it, it sucked unless you're an enormous fan of Shia LaBoeuf. I watched it. I napped. I had a light supper consisting mostly of some chicken. I yakked on the phone to a couple of other recovering drunks. I turned in around 9:30.

Not much of a day, really, unless you count the visit to Doctor Pancreas. The good news is, I don't have to see him again until February!

Scare Tactics

I haven't given much thought to being diabetic. I mean, I haven't obsessed over it. I sort of just let it go, aside from doing whatever the doctors and my diabetes coach, Nurse Harriet, told me to do. Mostly that involved diet, exercise and medicines. I watched my A1C steadily drop ever since I was first diagnosed with diabetes, a year and a half ago.

I was vaguely aware that there are "dire consequences" to being diabetic. Heck, it ran on my mother's side of the family and I had a great aunt who wound up having a leg or two hacked off. But that was in the early 70's, I told myself, no need to worry about that sort of thing now. Besides, I thought, I have great medical care, something no one in my family ever had.

So I just did the right things and let the chips fall where they may.

Until I picked up today's New York Times. For reasons I don't understand the NYTimes has decided to do "in-depth studies" of the six major killer diseases in the US these days and they started the series, today, with diabetes.

Oh, lucky me.

I found out about "burnout" whereby a diabetes patient just gets sick and tired of all the crap they have to do in order to stay healthy as the months and years go by. I can see myself burning out on puncturing my fingers in oh, say, five or ten years. I can see getting tired of a diet of leaves and gravel. I can see being (well, I already am) burned out on trying to shed pounds. They took me off the drugs that are supposed to be the worst offenders for putting weight on diabetics and I spend a couple of hours a week on a treadmill. Still, I can't lose an ounce.

Then, to make matters worse, now that I've finished Harry Potter I've started reading "Michael Tolliver Lives" which is Armistead Maupin's new book about the denizens of 28 Barbary Lane, 30 years later. We don't get 40 pages into the book before the protagonist, Michael aka "Mouse", manages to acquire a trophy boytoy husband. So did Armistead.

I was lying in bed reading this last night and getting more and more depressed. So I bookmarked it, tossed it down, turned out the light and went to sleep.

There are times, such as these, when I wonder (even though I know I shouldn't) just what kind of divine plan I'm supposed to be fulfilling.

Or maybe it's just the crappy weather.

Half Truths Availed Us Nothing

As I've previously blathered blogged, I've been doing this glucose monitoring test all week with the last reading being this morning at 2:15 a.m.

And boy, are my fingertips tired! (BA-DAH-BING!)

I mentioned, also, that the readings have all been quite within specs and reason. Yeah, well, I should elaborate on that.

You see, as a recovering alcoholic and, therefore a bald-faced, lying, conniving, dope-fiending, truth-twister, I may have gone out of my way all week to be on my VERY BEST BEHAVIOR, eating-wise, so that the readings would be well within specs when the time came to take them.

What I'm hoping is that the doctor, who knows I'm a recovering drunk, will take that into account when he looks at the numbers after I fax them to his office on Monday.

See, I've come a long way from the bad old days when, during my annual physicals when my doctor would ask if I drank and, cause I always answered yes to that, when he next asked me, "how much?" my stock response was the same stock response that every lying drunk gives...

"Oh.... a couple" (of quarts)

All doctors who treat active alcoholics (or even people whom they suspect are alcoholics) should automatically add in a "drunk factor" of at least 35-50% more than whatever the drunk/druggie as copped to.

Last week I avoided anything even faintly resembling a starch. No potatoes, no rice, no bread, mostly salads, soups, some fruit and some really lousy frozen TV dinners from Healthy Choice (sorry Healthy Choice, it's not your fault you don't make Hungry Man Dinners).

So when my doctor looks at the weeks numbers and sees that they "average" 100mg, he should probably see that as being more like 130-150mg, instead (which still ain't bad for an average that's fasting, pre and post meal, 1 hour prior to eating, bedtime and mid-sleep cycle.

Sigh. It's hard doing the right thing.

After all, I am an alcoholic.

And only human.
p.s. Go see "The Bourne Ultimatum." It's great and I'm in love with Matt Damon again.

A Little Prick

I was visiting Mike Rogers's website yesterday and found out that the New Life Church in Colorado, Ted Haggard's former "boy farm," had appointed itself a new pastor. That's him, Brady Boyd, over there.

Looks straight as an arrow, doesn't he?

If, like me, you thought that all BAC/Fundie churches are run by a bunch of fat, bald, ugly old men, why not drop by the New Life's website and check out their Personnel Roster.

As my buddy Steve Schalchlin might say, "They're the gayest gays in Gayville!" I don't care if they are married with children, I can smell some of their "eau de queer" wafting through the internet. And my gaydar is not the best.

But they're not the little pricks I was thinking about in the title of today's blog.

My Endocrinologist, Dr. Mengele, recently ordered me to do a marathon glucose monitoring test. I have to check my blood sugar 8 times a day (including one reading in the dead of night) for 4 days running.

By the end of the test on Friday I will have burned through a month's supply of lancets and test strips. These are not cheap and most medical plans give you a ration of shit for "overusing" your usual 90-day allotment of them. So I had Dr. Mengele phone in a prescription for a short-term supply (50 of each) to my local Rite-Aid (formerly Eckerds).

This morning started day 3 of the test and based on what little I know about this disease I have, my readings look as though they're well within specs. Of the 18 readings so far, I've had a top-reading of 126 at 2:30 a.m. on Wednesday and a low of 91 at 11:00 a.m. on Tuesday.

My fingers are so friggin' sore I'll probably never play the piano again. Worse, it looks like I'm the stupidest junkie in the world, shooting up in my finger tips where everybody can see the puncture holes.

I'm grateful as hell that I have health insurance and doctors, but sometimes I sure wish they'd get a new hobby.

The little pricks.

Diabetes for Fun and Profit!

I had my first appointment with my endocrinologist this morning. At 8:00 a.m.

I've been to Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital a bajillion times over the last couple of years. I had an angiogram there, quadruple-bypass surgery, bi-lateral endarectomies and gawd only knows what else. I know the place like the back of my hand.

The problem is that they're constantly reinventing the city of New Brunswick, where the hospital (and Rutgers, the State University) is located. Basically they're doing road work that should've been done 30 years ago.

There's a message there... for me. About getting things done to me that should've been done 30 years ago.

Anyway, I like my new doctor, even if I had to wait a year to see him. I told him that I felt like I'd finally gotten into Studio 54. He laughed. He's a nice man. He had two little associates who trailed him the whole time I was there. One was a full-fledged doctor and she did most of the leg work in terms of getting my whole background, current medical status, etc. The other, an even younger lady who reminded me a lot of somebody, but I can't remember who, was all agog the whole time. You could tell that she was very, very new to the medical profession. She looked like she was about 18 years old. The slightly older one looked to be about 25-27.

Teaching hospitals are all the same. Watch "Scrubs" or "Grey's Anatomy" or "House" and you'll get some idea of what I'm talking about. Lots of grizzled old farts and bazillions of fresh-faced probies who will probably wind up killing as many patients as they save before they finally finish their residencies.

But I'm one of the lucky ones. I've had tremendous luck at RWJUH. I've also had tremendous medical care there, too. Don't get me wrong, the place pisses me off now and then. But I'm still HERE to be pissed off... and believe me... that's a friggin' miracle.

My new doctor is immediately taking me off one medicine, Actos, that I've been on for over a year and a half. It turns out that Actos is probably the cause of my enormous weight gain (over 45 pounds in the last year). He's also put me on something called "Byetta" which is, basically, Gila Monster spit that works wonders on my diabetes. It comes in a tube and I have to inject myself in my stomach with it twice a day. It doesn't hurt at all. I've already done it once. Checking my blood sugar actually hurts more. He's also taking me off a cholesterol med I've been taking since Christmas. He says taking that medicine is like carrying coals to Newcastle, i.e., pointless. If my uric acid is okay, he'll put me on nicotinic acid which is, apparently, an old standby for cholesterol reduction.

I have to fax my blood sugar readings over every week now. I have a follow-up appointment in October. I have a hot-line number and a hot-line e-mail address if I have any problems or concerns. I'm being monitored.

I feel like a beta site... or a lab rat.

There are only 100,000 endocrinologists in the US and over 30,000,000 diabetics. That last number is expected to double in the next 10 years and most health plans would rather pay for amputations than for education.

I'm lucky I got educated about my diabetes. That education opened some doors for me that most people won't ever get to see, let alone go through.

I am one of the lucky ones. Thank God.