Monthly Archives: October 2012
Dateline: October 22, 2037. 25 years into the future.
Finally. I’m done worrying about my kids’ college bills. The younger one is planning a wedding. The older one just told me I’m going to be a grandfather. The mortgage on my home is nearly paid off. My wife thinks it’s time to re-do the kitchen.
I became a Joslin 50-Year Medalist six years ago.
My skin is starting to show its age. Wrinkles are beginning to appear where they never did before, and my once-healthy flesh is starting to become dry and pasty. Although it’s resigned to submitting to the various insertion needles necessary to put the various parts of my “artificial pancreas” in place, it rebels against the adhesives that keep them there, responding with a bright red and intense burn.
In a few short months, I’ll be celebrating my 64th birthday. Retirement is just around the corner. I’m beginning to think about it, but don’t know if I can afford it.
… that insurance plan benefits were stated clearly before signing up for them
… that beer had carbohydrate counts and other Nutrition Facts on the label
… that manufacturers would license their technologies to others, who could in turn advance them even further
… that I didn’t need to choose between “Contour Next 50ct Blood Glucose Test Strip” or “Contour Next 50ct blood glucose test strip” (note capitalization) to get proper insurance coverage
State officials are calling for an investigation of the training procedures. Not of the incident, but of the existing training procedures. This sounds like more bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo to me. Why investigate the training they currently have? Just adopt a training program that has already been accepted and applauded in a different jurisdiction. They’re out there. The rules of misbehaving pancreaii don’t change when we drive across the state-line.
For as long as I can remember, the parcel of land between the railroad tracks and Interstate 280 was a campus of large abandoned warehouses. Over the last couple of months, I’ve watched these monuments of brick, broken glass, and graffiti get torn down, reducing them to gigantic piles of steel and concrete. Presumably, the rubble is then carted off to a landfill, where they are mixed with other trash to form even more gigantic piles. The parcel of land will ultimately make way for a sparkling new train station.
It almost makes my mountain of diabetes-trash seem inconsequential.
* * *
(If you look closely, you can see a piece of heavy construction machinery on the top of that building. I have no idea how it got there)
There it was. On the front page of the Sunday Star-Ledger. An all-too-familiar headline:
The article continued on Page 4. And on Page 5. Clearly, this was a big story. And it’s a story we’ve heard before. A man is found in his car slumped over steering wheel. When confronted by police, he responds incoherently. Police beat the man into oblivion. Medics arrive and check his blood sugar: 26 mg/dL.
I don’t need to tell the story, you’ve probably heard it before. Perhaps you’ve lived it, though I pray to God that you haven’t and that you never will. This man, ironically, had developed a training program for the Philadelphia Police Department on spotting and handling the symptoms of hypoglycemia a few years earlier, but the New Jersey State Police, who were on the scene at this particular time, had never had such a program.