That loud thump was me falling off of the control wagon

It started with an espresso brownie from Starbucks. I spend waaaaaaaaay to much time in my car shuttling around the northern part of my state. I’ve given up smoking, wild women, and song. My last vice that I can’t afford is my love affair with Starbucks coffee. I have a little stainless brewer at home, and I buy ground Starbucks beans from my favorite location in Santa Fe….but it never comes out quite the same. I’ve endlessly tinkered with water and coffee ratios. I make a pretty good cup of coffee, but they make a MEAN cup of coffee. And I can’t quite master it.

But I digress.

So whenever I drop in for my Starbucks fix (or later in the day a Venti Iced Latte) I am forced to walk past the glass case that holds an awe-inspiring assortment of pastries. And mocking me every week for months was the espresso brownie. Now I have a well-documented weakness for brownies. Especially if they are smothered in vanilla ice cream and hot fudge sauce. But that’s a story for another day.

I resisted for months. But one evening I was down in Albuquerque. I go down twice per month to spend the day with a hospital endo group. It’s three-hundred miles on the road and a full day of mind-expanding experiences. Wipes me out in a joyful kind of way. I was getting a Latte to keep me awake to make it home alive and the devil on my shoulder suggested: “you know, Wil, that espresso brownie’s sugar would only mess up your BG a little bit and give you lots of energy to keep you awake to get home to your family.”

OK. Let me state for the record that they are every bit as good as they look. Better in fact. I’ve never believed that nonsense that if a kid takes one toke on a joint it will lead straight to heroin and crack within two months. Now I need to reevaluate that…..

The brownie lead to the orange-cranberry scone which lead to the chocolate mint cake which lead to the apple fritter which lead to the triple chocolate bunt cakes at Trader Joe’s which lead to the….well you get the idea. I’ve become a desert junkie. I’ve lost all control.

Now, my system doesn’t take well to sweets. No way to match the insulin curve. Even with the Girl to watch over me, (for those of you new to the blog, that’s my nickname for my CGM unit) things went to hell in a hand-basket.

My latest A1C: 7.2

Much to my professional and personal shame my ICD9 code was changed. I’ve been branded for the entire medical world to see as an UNCONTROLLED TYPE 1. Well, crap. I guess I am out-of-control. You’d think that I, of all people, would know better. My patient base are one big train wreck. Not really their faults, actually. There has been no quality diabetes education in this part of the state before I got here. Ever.

Serious complications are common place. Diabetes is a leading cause of death here. I see horrible stuff every day. Maybe that has put me into some sort of diss-associative state? Am I clinically depressed? Aren’t we all? Our councilor once told me to be sure to refer any “depressed diabetics” to her. I laughed in her face and told her to clear off her schedule. “We’re all depressed.”

I use to eat a modest breakfast. I drank a low-carb diet shake for lunch; or two during a crazy day. And a nice chef’s salad with cottage cheese and grilled chicken for dinner. A couple of sugar-free chocolate almonds and I was good to go. My sugar’s were “flat line.”

I gotta get back to that. My new Doc gave me a stern gaze over the top of her glasses and told me: “you can’t take care of your patients if you don’t take care of yourself.”

So I’m going cold turkey. No more sweets. Until Christmas. Right after I finish that last triple chocolate bunt cake…..