Category Archives: Diabetic

My Mouth Has Declared a Revolt

30 Thursday Jul 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio, Cancer, Diabetic, Disability, Family, Fishing, Kayaking, Leukemia, Life

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I believe I’ve mentioned this a couple of times before, but I have a love/hate relationship with doctors. When it comes to dentists, though, it’s a little different—I absolutely despise dentistry. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dentist, but I hate everything about going to see him.

I know how important it is to take care of my teeth. I’ve also been told—although I’m not sure how much truth there is to it—that having CML can affect your dental health. Whether that’s the culprit or not, my teeth seem determined to keep my dentist in business.

About two weeks ago, I noticed what I thought was a missing filling. I already had an appointment scheduled to have my teeth cleaned, so I called the office to see if they could replace the filling during the same visit. When I got there, my dentist took one look and informed me that it wasn’t a missing filling at all—it was a broken tooth. That meant scheduling yet another appointment to get it fixed.

Then, last Friday, while I was out fishing with my daughter, I bit into a peanut butter cracker and heard that dreaded little crunch. Sure enough, I had managed to break another tooth. Because apparently my teeth have a flair for dramatic timing, this one was on the opposite side of my mouth… and my appointment to fix the first tooth was the following Tuesday.

On Monday morning, I called the dentist’s office to let them know I’d added another broken tooth to my collection. I figured if they were already going to be working in my mouth, they might as well fix both while they had me in the chair.

I’ve been going to the same dentist for more than forty years, so we’ve developed a pretty good rapport. Naturally, his first question was whether I’d been eating rocks again.

Before long, he had both sides of my jaw full of the magic juice that makes you feel like your face is sliding off your skull. He drilled both teeth and fitted them with temporary crowns.

About an hour after I got home, the numbness started to wear off. The right side of my mouth seemed perfectly fine, but the left side was a completely different story. I’m not sure why, but even two days later it’s still pretty sore.

Then this morning, while eating a bowl of Cheerios, I felt something strange. Sure enough, the temporary crown on my right side had come loose. It’s currently sitting on the table beside my recliner, patiently waiting for me to throw it in the trash.

I go back to the dentist on August 5th to have the permanent crowns installed, so I think I’m just going to wait. Knowing my luck, they’d put another temporary crown on, and I’d probably find a way to break that one too.

Have I mentioned lately just how much I despise going to the dentist?

At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if my dentist sends me a Christmas card thanking me for helping put one of his kids through college.

A Calendar Full of Red

15 Wednesday Jul 2026

Posted by in Diabetic, Disability, Family, Fishing, Kayaking, Life, Pets, Retirement, Uncategorized

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My cat Sophia must have decided I needed the extra rest because she let me sleep until 6:30 this morning—an hour later than my usual wake-up call. I don’t know what got into her, but I’m not about to question a miracle.

My wife had a physical therapy appointment today, so I didn’t get much accomplished before it was time to chauffeur her to the appointment at 11:00. While she was with her therapist, I stayed in the truck. I used the time to go over my upcoming Bible study lesson. It was a productive way to pass the time.

I had planned to take my new shoes back to the store because the longer I wear them, the more my right foot hurts. I was hoping I could simply exchange them for a 7E width, but after doing some research online, I discovered that width isn’t available in the current style. Since my wife also had another appointment later in the day, I couldn’t make it to the shoe store. That means I’ll have to make a special trip tomorrow and hope I can find a pair that actually fits.

I have physical therapy in the morning, and afterward I’ll head across town to the shoe store. Once that’s done, I’ll come back home, pick up my wife, and take her grocery shopping.

After we get back, I’ll start loading what I can for Friday’s fishing trip. Unfortunately, I have a late meeting across town, so I won’t be able to load my kayak or fishing rods until I get home around 11:00 that night. Thankfully, it only takes a few minutes to load everything, so I should still be able to get to bed early enough for my 4:00 a.m. alarm.

I looked over my calendar for the next month, and it’s covered in red. I mark all of my appointments—and all of my wife’s appointments—in red so they stand out. Right now, there’s something scheduled at least three days every week, and several days have two appointments. Retirement sure wasn’t supposed to involve this many waiting rooms.

I’ll be glad when my wife gets her car back. Sharing one vehicle has made scheduling everything a lot more complicated. I know it’s only temporary and it couldn’t really be helped, but it has definitely added a layer of inconvenience to our daily routine. Hopefully, things will get back to normal soon.

If the Shoe Doesn’t Fit… Send It Back!

14 Tuesday Jul 2026

Posted by in Diabetic, Disability

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Going to the shoe store has become one of my worst nightmares. Not everyone sells the shoes in the width that I need. In fact, there are only two stores in the Birmingham metro area that sell shoes in my size.

For those who are new here, I have Charcot. Charcot is a condition that makes my bones brittle. Two years ago, I unknowingly broke my right foot. It couldn’t be a normal break; it had to be broken in several places. What makes it worse, I didn’t know that it was broken for a couple of weeks. I have neuropathy in both feet, so I have no feeling. I only noticed when my foot was swollen so bad that my foot no longer fit in the shoe.

To make a long story short, I was in a splint for 3 weeks, a cast for eight weeks, and a boot for another ten weeks. My right foot is a 10.5 6E, and my left foot is a 9.5 3E. No, I don’t purchase two separate shoe sizes. I just purchase the larger size, and the orthotics take care of the fitting in my left foot.

So far, I’ve only found one store that sells the shoe that really fits me. It’s a New Balance style 907. They only make that shoe in one color: white. After about a month, the shoes are no longer white but a dingy gray.

Last year we tried to purchase a different-style shoe, same size and width, only to find that it caused massive blisters. I had to send the shoes back.

I went to the shoe store yesterday to purchase some new shoes because the others were falling apart. I purchased another style of shoe because I wanted a color other than white. I finally got around to putting them on a couple of hours ago, and I already know that these will be going back because they hurt my feet.

After spending nearly $200 on these shoes, I expect them to fit a little better and not hurt my feet. They act like they are simply not wide enough. I’m not sure if they make a 7E or not.

I guess I’ll be finding out tomorrow when I take these shoes back.

B

An Expensive Day on the Water (and the Ones That Got Away)

25 Saturday Apr 2026

Posted by in Diabetic, Fishing, Kayaking, Life, Uncategorized

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{Eidited:) This post was supposed to go out last night (Friday), but I had fallen asleep in my recliner while editing. I woke up at 3:30 this morning and decided it was time for me to go to bed.

I’ve been “offline” for several days now, and honestly, I think life has finally caught up with me.

Between attending both of my Bible study groups, keeping up with my Tuesday night training sessions, trying to stay on top of my craft work, and dealing with ongoing back pain, it’s been a lot. Probably more than I should’ve been trying to juggle all at once.

To make matters worse, I’ve been trying all week to get in touch with my doctor’s office. I’ve left several messages with his nurse and haven’t heard anything back. I know they’re in a tough spot—my doctor passed away, and his daughter is doing her best to keep the practice going—but at some point, I’d just like to know what my MRI results are and what the next steps look like.

This back pain? It’s not subtle.

If I sit with a heating pad or lie down, I’m fine. But standing, walking very far, or trying to get up out of a chair without armrests feels like I’m auditioning for a role in a slow-motion action movie… except there’s no action. Just pain.

Now, what I’m about to say might make you question my judgment. That’s okay—I’ve been questioning it myself.

Most of you know I have an early Bible study on Tuesday mornings. After that, I usually meet up with my fishing buddy for breakfast, and like clockwork, the conversation turns to one thing: When are we going fishing?

We both love it. Probably more than we should.

We’re also not exactly the healthiest guys around. He’s got heart trouble, and I’ve got my own collection of “maybe don’t do that alone” conditions. So, logically speaking, kayaking on a river by yourself probably shouldn’t make the list of good decisions.

But here’s the thing…

Before he ever got a kayak, I used to go fishing alone all the time and never thought twice about it. No worries. No hesitation. Just me, the water, and whatever fish were willing to cooperate—which, let’s be honest, wasn’t many.

After we started fishing together, though, I began to realize maybe going alone wasn’t the smartest idea. These days, I do carry a satellite tracking device that keeps up with me and lets me send messages, which sounds impressive until you realize it doesn’t paddle the kayak for you if something goes wrong.

There’s also something I hate to admit: I actually enjoy fishing alone.

There’s a peace to it. No talking. No coordinating. No “what spot do you want to try next?” It’s just quiet… and the occasional sound of me getting frustrated.

But I know if I go without him, it bothers him. Which makes it feel like I shouldn’t.

Well, this week gave me an opportunity.

He had a doctor’s appointment on Thursday, and I didn’t have anything planned. Wednesday and Friday were already booked, so Thursday became the perfect window.

And I took it.

I went fishing alone.

Now let me tell you… It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was relaxing.

It was also expensive.

Not “grabbed breakfast on the way” is expensive. I’m talking, watch your money sink into the river while you sit there helplessly, expensive.

First to go was my measuring board—about a $40 piece of equipment that decided it no longer wanted to live on this earth. One small slip, and it vanished into about 10 feet of murky water like it had been training for this moment its entire life.

I barely had time to process that loss before my brand-new fishing reel—yes, the one I had just received the day before and proudly put on my rod—decided to malfunction.

So there I am, sitting in a kayak, performing what I can only describe as back-alley surgery on a fishing reel, when suddenly the drag knob pops off.

Time slowed down.

It slipped out of my hands…
bounced once on the side of the kayak…
and with perfect aim… dropped straight into the water.

Gone.

Just like that.

I sat there for a second, staring into the water, thinking, “Did that really just happen?” Followed immediately by, “That was expensive.”

At that point, I hadn’t caught a single fish. Not even a bite.

To say I was discouraged would be an understatement. I seriously considered paddling back to the launch and calling it quits. In my mind, catching a fish had become less about enjoyment and more about trying to justify the expense of being out there.

So I stayed.

And eventually, I started catching fish.

I officially brought four bass to the boat. It took from about 6:30 in the morning until 3:45 in the afternoon—but who’s counting? (Me. I was definitely counting.)

Now, unofficially… that number should be higher.

I had several fish on the line that apparently took one look at the kayak and decided, “Yeah, I’m not doing this today.”

One by one, they shook loose like they had somewhere better to be. No goodbye. No apology. Just gone.

Honestly, my total would be a whole lot higher if I could count the ones that “got away.” But as every fisherman knows, those are always the biggest ones anyway. If you ask me tomorrow, I’m pretty sure at least two of them will have been record-breakers.

By the end of the day, I was worn out, a little sore, and slightly poorer than when I started.

Was it worth it?

Financially? Not even close.

Physically? My back has been filing complaints ever since.

But somehow… I still had a good time.

I’ve already ordered a new measuring board, and it should be here before my next trip. The reel? Well, we’ll just say I learned some valuable lessons about fixing things over open water.

I’m not entirely sure there’s a clear moral to this story.

Maybe it’s that sometimes things don’t go your way. Sometimes they go really wrong. And sometimes they cost you more than you planned.

But even then, you can still find a way to enjoy the day.

Or maybe the lesson is this:

If you’re going to lose expensive equipment… at least catch a few fish to make yourself feel better about it.

And maybe—just maybe—next time I’ll tie everything down.

…or bring my buddy so he can watch it happen.

Caught in the Act… and Given a Chance

17 Friday Apr 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Diabetic, diet, Life, Uncategorized

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Earlier today, I stopped at a convenience store I don’t usually visit. I could feel my blood sugar dropping, and I needed to grab something quick to bring it back up.

Funny how priorities can shift in an instant.

As I was scanning the shelves—trying to find something that would help but still be somewhat healthy—I noticed a young kid. He couldn’t have been more than 12 or 13. Something about the way he was moving caught my attention.

Then I saw it.

One item… then another… quietly slipping into his pockets.

Just like that, my low blood sugar wasn’t the most important thing anymore.

I glanced over at the cashier, but she was tied up with another customer. So I grabbed a pack of crackers and headed to the counter, waiting for my moment. When she finished, I motioned like I needed help with something and quietly told her what I’d seen.

We both stood there, watching.

And as we watched that young man, I couldn’t help but think back to something that happened years ago during a Boy Scout Winter Blast trip.

Every year, right after Christmas, we’d load up and head out for five days of camping. One year, the boys were working on the Railroad merit badge and took a trip to a train museum. On the way back, they stopped to get gas, and while the leader was pumping gas, one of the boys decided it would be a good idea to steal a can of snuff.

Not only that—he went back in multiple times. And somehow, others encouraged it.

We didn’t find out until later that night when one honest scout came forward, wanting to come clean.

When we got back to the scout hut, we handled it.

We searched bags, found everything, and then made a decision that stuck with me to this day.

Instead of calling the police, we made other plans. A couple of weeks later, with the parents’ approval, we drove those boys over an hour back to that store. They had to face the manager. Look him in the eye. Own what they did.

Then they spent the afternoon cleaning bathrooms, picking up trash, and sweeping the parking lot. Let me tell you—nothing builds character faster than a public restroom and a push broom

It wasn’t fun.
It wasn’t easy.
But it mattered.

Those boys learned something that day. And years later, I still see some of them—and they turned out to be good men.

Back in the store today, the manager approached the young kid and asked him to empty his pockets. He hesitated, but eventually did.

Then something interesting happened.

The cashier asked him what he thought he should do.

He didn’t have much to say. Turns out pocket-stuffing confidence doesn’t translate well into public speaking.

Then she turned to me and asked for my opinion.

I told her what I had seen work before—that maybe giving him a chance to make it right, to work it off, might stick with him more than anything else.

I don’t know what they decided. Maybe he spent the afternoon sweeping. Maybe he just got a warning. Maybe he swore off convenience stores forever.

Maybe I’ll never know.

But I do know this—sometimes the best lessons don’t come from punishment… they come from accountability.

From being given the chance to face what you did and make it right.

I just hope that young man takes this moment and carries it with him the way those scouts did.

Because one decision doesn’t define you…

But what you learn from it just might.

When the Calendar Attacks

02 Monday Mar 2026

Posted by in Diabetic, Disability, Fishing, Kayaking, Leukemia, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels.com

Today has been one of those days. You know the kind. The kind where your calendar looks like it’s been attacked with a highlighter and your patience is hanging by a thread that was probably manufactured in the late 1800s.

The morning started with what should have been a routine lab appointment. Twelve hours of fasting. No coffee. No toast. No nothing. Just me and my growling stomach driving to the doctor’s office, already dreaming about bacon.

Only to be told the lab technician had a death in the family and I needed to drive to another location across town.

Forty-five minutes later, I finally gave blood. At that point I was pretty sure they could have just followed me around with a butterfly net and collected it from pure frustration.

I got home with just enough time to inhale what should have been breakfast but was technically lunch by then. If eating at warp speed becomes an Olympic sport, I’ll medal. I’m convinced my digestive system now files weekly complaints.

Meanwhile, I’d already been informed that I would be taking my wife to her doctor’s appointment later in the day—which meant I’d likely be late for my 5 p.m. meeting.

Now let me clarify something.

I volunteered to take her.

But my wife doesn’t drive. Well… she technically can. She just won’t drive on the interstate anymore. She avoids it like it’s under federal investigation. She will happily add thirty minutes to a trip just to stay on back roads. Riding with her feels like being chauffeured by a very nervous 16-year-old taking her first driver’s test.

I love her dearly. I also consider Uber a spiritual gift.

We arrived early for her 2 p.m. appointment, secretly hoping they might see her ahead of schedule. That optimism faded around 3 p.m. when she was finally called back. My meeting requires me to leave the house by 4 p.m.

At 3:45 she came out—with a nurse. I stood up, hopeful.

“Nope,” she said. “One more procedure.”

Of course.

She finally emerged again, apologizing because she knew I’d be late. It’s hard to be frustrated at someone who genuinely feels bad, especially when you know she can’t help it.

I dropped her off, drove to my meeting, and arrived thirty minutes late… only to discover the group had been deep in an off-topic rabbit trail discussion. For once in my life, being late worked in my favor.

The rest of the week doesn’t look much better. Meetings. Doctor appointments. Obligations stacked like cordwood. Meanwhile, I have a craft fair this Saturday and hardly any time to finish the projects I planned to sell. It’s looking more and more like I’ll be burning the midnight oil just to have something on the table besides a smile and a price tag.

And then there’s my fishing buddy.

I enjoy his friendship. I truly do. But I think I may be his primary source of entertainment. His wife works. He doesn’t drive outside of town. So most days he’s in his recliner watching television. Tuesday breakfasts are the highlight of his week unless we fish or wander around the tackle shop.

Now that the weather is warming up, the question has already started:

“So… when are we going fishing?”

I love fishing. I really do. But I’m not wired to sit in a recliner all day waiting for someone to rescue me from boredom. I’ve got crafts to make. Bible studies to attend. Appointments to keep. Responsibilities that don’t pause just because the fish are biting.

Having a medical condition that requires lab work or weekly-to-monthly doctor visits can be increasingly challenging. The physical part is one thing. The mental part is another. Sitting in waiting rooms gives your mind far too much freedom to wander into the land of “What will the doctor find this week?”

If I could offer one small suggestion to anyone walking that road, it would be this: bring a book. Or in my case, a Kindle. Reading helps me escape the mental spiral. It shifts my focus away from lab numbers and test results and places it somewhere far more peaceful. If you let it, the stress will take over. And some weeks—like this one—it tries really hard.

Truthfully, this post is simply me letting off a little steam. Sometimes writing it out is the healthiest thing I can do. It helps me process the frustration, the schedule overload, the internal pressure to be everywhere at once for everyone.

Some weeks feel balanced. Others feel like the walls are inching closer.

This is one of those weeks.

But I also know this: weeks like this pass. Meetings end. Appointments get checked off. Craft fairs come and go. Even fishing trips can wait.

For now, I’ll take a deep breath, set the alarm a little earlier, probably stay up a little later, and remind myself that hectic seasons don’t last forever.

And maybe next week… I’ll go fishing.

Before the Coal Took the Mountain

28 Saturday Feb 2026

Posted by in Diabetic, Family, Fishing, Life, Uncategorized

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The older my dad gets, the more stories seem to come out. It’s like he’s been carrying around a lifetime of memories, and every now and then he decides it’s time to unload another box. My visit this past Thursday was one of those visits where he started talking, and I realized I was hearing things I had never heard before.

Dad and his brothers and sisters grew up in a house my granddad built himself in the late 1800s. He cut the trees, milled the lumber, and built the place with his own hands. From what I remember, it had a long front porch, a kitchen with a wood stove, a den with a fireplace, and a couple of bedrooms. The outhouse sat about a hundred yards away, and the only water came from a hand pump mounted on the kitchen sink.

The house sat on top of a mountain — not exactly Everest, but high enough that you could look down over the little town below. My grandfather spent years clearing land out of the woods to make a small farm with chickens, pigs, and a few cows. Most of what they ate came from the garden or from the animals they raised. It was a hard life by today’s standards, but they made it work.

Electricity didn’t arrive until World War II, and even then, it came for an unusual reason. The government wanted to build a signal tower to help guide airplanes toward the Gulf. Dad said he used to lie awake at night listening to the aircraft passing overhead. Every time I visited the old homeplace growing up, I thought that tower was a fire tower. Turns out it had a much different purpose.

My grandparents were the only people for miles who had electricity, and even then, it was mostly used for lights. Fancy appliances were out of reach, so the wood stove and fireplace still did most of the work.

An example of what my dad’s house looked like. Sadly, there were no pictures of the original homeplace taken before a coal company came in and stripped the land for coal.

Winter was especially tough. With no insulation and only the stove and fireplace for heat, the bedrooms stayed bitterly cold. At night, the family would gather in the kitchen or den and sleep close to the warmth. It wasn’t a matter of comfort — it was a matter of getting through the night.

Dad and his siblings all attended a small schoolhouse that taught every grade. The school was a couple of miles away, and they walked there every day in all kinds of weather. Chores had to be finished before school, breakfast eaten, and everyone out the door on time — knowing there would be more chores waiting when they got home.

Dad’s Old School House after it was renovated and moved to Tannehill Historical State Park. Cane CreekSchool

The school building has since been moved to a state park. I remember seeing it years ago, sitting empty and slowly falling apart before someone finally decided it was worth saving as a piece of history.

My grandfather owned more than a hundred acres of land. Some of it was cleared for farming, but plenty remained woods for hunting and fishing. He even built a small pond where he raised catfish, bream, and a few bass. I can still remember being taken there as a kid to catch catfish.

There were always plenty of deer around, and Dad and his cousins would hunt whenever they could. Meat wasn’t something you saw every day on the dinner table, so venison was considered a special occasion.

Years later, the government came in and took over much of the property and stripped the land for coal. The mountain that my grandfather spent years clearing and farming was changed forever. The old homeplace doesn’t look anything like it once did. What was once woods, fields, and family history now bears the marks of heavy equipment and mining. It’s hard to imagine that the quiet little farm Dad grew up on once stood there.

Before he was drafted into the Army, Dad joined the Navy and served aboard an aircraft carrier. He spent most of his time between the Sea of Japan and San Diego. He doesn’t talk much about those years, but he learned electronics while serving and often worked on jet aircraft that needed repair or servicing.

The one Navy story he never gets tired of telling is how he hitchhiked all the way from San Diego to Birmingham just to see my mom before they were married. That’s a long trip even today — and I doubt many parents would approve of their daughter dating a man willing to cross the country with his thumb out.

My grandmother died when I was only four years old. Back then, they didn’t understand diabetes the way they do now. A foot injury led to an amputation, then another surgery when infection set in, and eventually, they couldn’t stop what they called “the poison” from spreading. I only have faint memories of her.

My grandfather lived into the late 1980s and died at the age of 82. Dad is now 86 and the last of his family still living — the baby of three sisters and two brothers.

Dad’s health is still fairly good. Mom lives with constant arthritis pain and severe scoliosis. She used to be nearly six feet tall; now she’s lucky to reach five feet. Time has a way of changing all of us, whether we want it to or not.

Dad has diabetes, like most of his brothers and sisters. That’s where I likely got it from, and it makes me worry a little about my kids. Some things travel through families whether we want them to or not.

I consider myself fortunate to still have both of my parents. At 62, many of the people I went to school with have already lost theirs. I’m one of the few who can still go sit in the living room and listen to stories from a man who grew up in a world that hardly exists anymore.

And the older he gets, the more those stories seem to matter.

Because one day, they won’t be told anymore.

Insurance Knows Best… Supposedly

25 Wednesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Cancer, Diabetic, Disability, Family, Leukemia, Life, Photography, Retirement, Uncategorized

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Doctor Says Yes… Insurance Says “We’ll Think About It”

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

Doctors, diagnoses, prescriptions, Medicare, insurance, and denial — those are words that seem to follow me around these days. Sometimes I think dealing with the medical system is almost a full-time job. If they paid by the appointment, I’d be drawing a salary by now.

One thing I’ve never quite understood is how a doctor can go to school for years, train for years more, examine you personally, and decide what medication you need — only for the insurance company to step in and say, “Nope, we don’t think so.”

Apparently, somewhere a person is sitting behind a desk who knows more about my condition than the doctor who actually saw me.

I worked for a health insurance company for 32 years before I retired. I was in the maintenance department, which meant I fixed things like doors and lights — not insurance claims. Still, people who knew where I worked would often ask me why their medication was denied even though their doctor prescribed it.

I always had to explain that just because I worked there didn’t mean I knew anything about insurance decisions.

Truth be told, I still don’t.

A good example is what happened recently with my son. He was prescribed medication for severe sleep deprivation. His previous insurance covered it, and he was happy because they had finally found something that actually worked.

Then he changed jobs.

His new insurance company now says the medication is “not medically necessary.” I guess sleeping is optional now.

The doctors now think he might have sleep apnea and ordered a sleep study. Before he even got scheduled, he got a phone call saying the test would cost over $2,000 because his insurance wouldn’t cover it.

He’s a young man with a mortgage, a car payment, and utility bills. In other words, he’s living in the real world — the one where people don’t just have $2,000 laying around for a test that might help them sleep at night.

Meanwhile, I realize I’m one of the fortunate ones. Because of my disabilities, I qualify for Medicare, and because I worked for an insurance company, I retired with a good supplemental plan. That combination gives me coverage that many people would love to have.

I don’t pay co-pays for doctor visits. I don’t pay for emergency room visits. Every time I leave the hospital, the bill says I owe exactly zero dollars, which is my favorite number.

I do pay for some medications, but not a lot.

One medication I take costs about $20,000 for a 30-day supply.

Yes, twenty thousand dollars.

For that price, I feel like it ought to come with a steak dinner and a weekend vacation.

Fortunately, the drug company offers a $0 co-pay card because they know insurance only pays part of the cost. Thanks to that program, I don’t pay a penny for a medication that costs more than some cars.

I consider myself blessed, because there are people who need this same drug and simply can’t get it because they don’t have the right insurance. That part isn’t funny at all.

When I ask why the drug costs so much, I’m told it’s because of all the research that went into developing it. I understand that research costs money, but sometimes I wonder if the scientists also built a few vacation homes along the way.

After being on this medication for a while, I feel like I’ve personally contributed a pretty fair share toward paying for that research — and I know some folks have been on it a lot longer than I have.

I don’t know what the answer is. Doctors are trying to help people. Insurance companies are trying to control costs. Drug companies are trying to recover research money.

And patients are just trying to stay alive without going broke in the process.

Maybe one day there will be a system where if your doctor says you need something, you can actually get it without filling out forms, making phone calls, and saying a small prayer first.

Until then, I guess we’ll just keep taking our prescriptions — and a healthy dose of patience right along with them.

“Sir… Not in the Lobby.”

19 Thursday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Diabetic, Life, Uncategorized

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A funny thing happened at the doctor’s office today.

And no, this isn’t the beginning of a stand-up routine — although it probably should be.

I had my annual appointment with the urologist this morning. Nothing says “good morning” quite like discussing internal plumbing before 9 a.m.

When I walked in, there was a long line to check in. Apparently, everybody else decided today was “Let’s Make Sure Everything Still Works Day.”

Last year, they had six kiosks where you checked yourself in. I loved those things. Type your name. Enter your birth year. Scan your driver’s license. Scan your insurance card. Boom. Done. No awkward eye contact. No unnecessary explanations.

But apparently, some of the older crowd didn’t appreciate technology asking them personal questions. And if they asked for help, the folks behind the glass either didn’t know how the kiosks worked… or were honoring a sacred vow to never leave their swivel chairs.

So the kiosks are gone.

Now we’re back to two humans behind glass asking the exact same questions the kiosks asked — just at dial-up speed.

I finally made it to the front, handed over my cards, and was told to sit down.

I barely had time to pull out my Kindle before my name was called. That should’ve been my first warning sign.

The nurse met me with that little plastic specimen cup in her hand.

Men everywhere know that cup.

She said, “We’re going to need a urine sample. There are long lines to the restrooms in the back, so you can fill the cup in the lobby.”

I’m sorry… what?

Fill it in the lobby.

Now, I’m not overly modest. I’ve camped with teenage boys. I’ve survived scout trips. I’ve seen things. But I didn’t think the packed waiting room — complete with elderly ladies, a coughing man, and someone flipping through a 2017 copy of Field & Stream — needed a live demonstration.

Before wisdom could tap me on the shoulder, sarcasm grabbed the microphone.

I said — and I’m not proud of the volume level —
“You want me to give you a pee sample right here in the lobby?!”

The room froze.

Then came the laughter.

You would’ve thought I’d just announced a flash mob.

The nurse’s eyes got big enough to qualify for an exam of their own. That look said, “This man is one sentence away from being escorted out by security.”

She quickly snatched the cup back, took hold of my hand like I was a toddler about to wander into traffic, and escorted me to the men’s room — which, by the way, was in the lobby the entire time.

Apparently, “fill it in the lobby” meant “there’s a bathroom in the lobby,” not “sir, make it a public event.”

Details matter.

She stood outside the restroom waiting for me like I was taking the SAT. When I came out and handed her the cup, I apologized and told her I knew she didn’t mean what she said.

She laughed. The tension broke. My medical record probably now includes the phrase: Patient displays elevated sarcasm levels.

The rest of the appointment was uneventful. Lab work looked good. Everything’s functioning as designed. I’m cleared for another year.

So today’s takeaway:

  1. Listen carefully.
  2. Don’t project your sarcasm at full stadium volume.
  3. And if someone hands you a specimen cup, clarify the location before making an announcement.

Although judging by the laughter in that waiting room, I may have provided the best entertainment they’ve had since the kiosks were removed.

And for the record — everything’s flowing just fine.

Under the Microscope… Again (Apparently I’m Now 5.9% Banana)

06 Friday Feb 2026

Posted by in bariatric-surgery, Diabetic, diet, Life, Uncategorized, Weight Loss

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Lab results are in, and just like that… I’m under scrutiny again.

When I got the email with the results, the first thing that jumped out at me was my potassium. High. Again.

This isn’t new. It was high before, then magically went back to normal on the retest. Go figure. But here we are again. My doctor called yesterday and told me my potassium was elevated to an “extremely high” level. Naturally, I went digging through my past labs, and I noticed a pattern — since my weight-loss surgery last April, my potassium has been slowly climbing.

And I have absolutely no explanation why.

For those who don’t live their lives waiting on lab portals to refresh, high potassium — or hyperkalemia — means there’s too much potassium in your blood. Normal is between 3.5 and 5.0 mEq/L. Mine? 5.9 mEq/L.
Apparently, that extra .9 is where doctors start using their serious voice.

Now here’s where it gets interesting.

The only real lifestyle change I’ve made since surgery is that I’ve apparently developed a full-blown relationship with coffee. Before surgery, I had never enjoyed a single cup in my life. Not one drop. Loved the smell. Hated the taste. But after surgery? My body apparently said, “You know what we need? Coffee. All of it.”

Those pre-surgery classes warned me this might happen. Foods you hate, you’ll crave. Foods you love, you might hate. They never warned me I’d wake up one day emotionally attached to a coffee mug.

I’ve asked other doctors if coffee could be the culprit. Most said, “Probably not,” though they also gently hinted that maybe I shouldn’t be drinking coffee like it’s my full-time job. This latest doctor, however, seems less convinced.

The nurse asked how much coffee I drink in a day.

I was honest.

  • 22 oz before breakfast
  • 22 oz with breakfast
  • 22 oz sometime after supper

Apparently, this is not the answer they were hoping for.

And it doesn’t stop there.

If I go somewhere, I have a freshly made 22 oz riding with me in the truck. I also have what can only be described as a coffee emergency kit — a toolbox with all the fixings — just in case I get stranded somewhere that doesn’t have a coffee shop with my brand of coffee.

Yes. I know. It’s really sick.

Some people say caffeine keeps them awake. Not me. I can drink coffee at 9 PM and be asleep by 11 like a toddler after a long day at daycare. I’m not wired all day. I’m not bouncing off walls. I’m just… caffeinated and functional.

Her suggestion?
Limit myself to one cup per day.

Not one 22 oz cup.
One. Cup.

Friends… that is simply not going to happen.

Today I tried. I drank only one 22-oz cup. And I spent the rest of the day thinking about coffee like it was an ex who still had my hoodie.

I go back to the doctor next Tuesday for more labs. Hopefully, I can make it until then. And maybe — just maybe — they’ll tell me it’s not the coffee doing this.

So now I wait. More labs. More monitoring. More trying to figure out what exactly my body is doing and why it suddenly decided potassium is its favorite hobby.

In the meantime, if you see me walking around slightly jittery but emotionally stable, just know I’m doing my best… and possibly negotiating with myself about a second cup.