A poor role model

At a recent group meeting of Type-1s at the clinic I was accused of being a good role model. I beg to differ. I think I’m a crappy role model and I told the assembled mini-throng exactly that. They all protested that I was solely responsible for lowering their collective blood sugars.

They don’t give themselves enough credit.

There’s a lot of things that could go on my tomb stone, but role model is not one of them. My last A1C was 7.85, I eat Fudge-fudge Walnut Brownies at the Elephant Bar, my SG plots look like earth quakes. I sometimes eat French fries. And Oreo cookie blizzards. I supersize my pasta. I smoke. Sometimes I drink. We all know I swear.

Do what I say, not what I do.

I’m a very poor role model. A good cheerleader, yes. A walking encyclopedia of diabetes facts and fictions, maybe. A compassionate empathic shoulder to cry on, absolutely. A religiously passionate diabetes advocate, hell yeah.

So what should go on my tomb stone? Well, it’s gonna need to be a big stone!

Loving husband and devoted father. Photographer, writer, thinker. Pilot. Master darkroom printer. OK. Well, maybe not that big a stone after all. But go ahead and add one more thing:

Type-1 Diabetic.

Yeah. Go ahead and put it on my tomb stone. I don’t mind. I’d love it if my great-great grand children could stand at my grave and say, “Wow, poor Great-great grand Dad. He actually had to live with diabetes. How primitive it was back in the dark medical ages! They had no cure. They actually had to pay for their health care! Can you imagine? Do you think it’s really true that they actually had to plug their computers into the wall to charge them and their cars ran on some kind of black mud pumped up from underground?”

Yep. I’m proud to be diabetic; but I pray that I’m the last generation.