Goin' Through the Big "D" and Don't Mean Dallas

I don't mean "divorce," either. About a month ago (it's been every bit of a month, and probably more) I was diagnosed with early diabetes. My doctor hem-hawed around enough before she got the words out of her mouth, and, then, I guess I didn't look dejected enough, because she added, "And that's not good." I'm not aware if my countenance changed, but she added rather quickly, "But it's not terrible, either."

She called in a nurse to go over basic diabetic stuff with me. I got my monitor, my lancets, and my test strips, but I must confess that my life hasn't changed at all. Maybe it did a little for the first day and a half, and every night when I go to bed I tell myself that tomorrow is a new day; yet here I sit, as I write this, with a 220-calorie strawberry lollipop in my mouth.

It seems my poor eating habits and my sedintary lifestyle have caught up with me. Yes, I should be walking or exercising or something, but I always talk myself out of it. I do not like when my legs get sore when walking, but I also don't like that it's hard for me to get out of my chair--so I have to choose. It's a vicious cycle. My arhtritic knee makes walking difficult, but it would get better if I would exercise it.

I don't know how long my husband and children will live, and I don't want to be here to lose any of them. I know it's selfish, but I want to go first. I don't want God to prove to me that His grace will get me through the worst things that could possibly happen to me. I would rather not have the pain at all. But we don't get to choose, do we? Of course, the way things are looking, Jesus could come back before any of us have to face the valley of the shadow of death. That would be nice, too. And it would also be nice if I got to live long enough to see any grandchildren if God permits me to have them.