Fuck therapy


And no, it’s NOT what you think.

That’s simply our word of the hour. AS IN, nearly EVERY HOUR since cancer has had its way WITH two of our loved ones, who died exactly two weeks apart, completely obliterating the MONTH of March FOR our family AND CLOSE friends. It was THEN that we started our fuck therapy (the non-copulation kind) AND we haven’t slowed since. I can’t say I’mHAVING ANY fun WITH it, but it’s cathartic (you should try it) and is cheaper than a therapist. So is writing this stupid post.

I’m trying hard to be a lady, but I just don’t give a fuck anymore. Maybe someday I’ll go back to thinking about my company and surroundings and dial the fucks down to my normal good Catholic-girl level. She and She have grown accustomed to our fuck therapy, and remembering my parent’s quirky stretches of life, know we’re building ON moments that they’ll recall WITH SOME sort of humored, yet sad, fondness. “Remember that TIME WHEN ALL Mom AND Steve said was fuck?” IN this phase of maniacal leniency, are allowing them TO let ‘em rip without repercussion. It’s just our luck that we’ve raised some good girls who self-monitor, ’cause God knows, we can’t.

Despite my good Catholic-girl modus operandi, I DO save a special expletive strain FOR one particular person. WHEN the hubs hears me yell “Fuckity, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK”, he knows exactly TO whom I was talking OR reading, AND wonders whether OR NOT TO ask. I imagine FOR him it’s an “oh, shit” moment.

In the DOC, there are a few people who unashamedly let their fuck flag fly. One IN particular has my utmost admiration AND respect FOR letting it ALL out. It IS part of who she IS AND I find it endearing that she’s NOT filtering FOR the rest of us. I think I even love her FOR it. “This stupid fucking post made me want to throw my computer.” Enjoy her FOR yourself: http://sixuntilme.com/

I give ANY one person IN our diabetic community a complete pass WHEN it comes TO engaging IN fuck therapy. It’s NOT uncommon TO see FUD (fuck you diabetes) AS someone’s Facebook status. AND it needs NO further explanation, because we’ve all likely been in the same situation, whatever it may be. FUD covers everything from the alteration of a family’s plans, to a few terrifying hours fighting dastardly lows. Comments flood in, and the person knows they are not alone.

I know we’re not alone, as grief, hardship and loss are all around us. We know you have our backs and not your judgment.

Much fucking gratitude to you all, and enjoy this photo of Frank who hangs out in our backyard keeping our creature friends company, and us just a little bit more at peace.

Meme of 4

Memes of Four are rolling through the DOC. I got inspired. I’m too tired to make a link to tell you who inspired me, but I’ve enjoyed readingEVERY one of them! Here’s mine:

1. 4 names people call me other than my real name

2. 4 jobs I’ve had
Academic copyeditor
bank teller
media broker research assistant
international wire payment coordinator for intermodal tank container inspection company (I cannot make this shit up)

3. 4 movies I’ve watched more THAN once
Dances WITH Wolves
The Big Lebowski
Purple Rain (9 times IN high school)
Breakfast Club

4. 4 books I’d recommend
A Camera, Two Kids, and a Camel
Napkin Notes: On the Art of Living
Kitchen Confidential
Broken Open

5. 4 places I’ve lived
On the FIRST integrated street IN our city
In a civil war era house WITH NO city water OR sewer
In a basement apartment WITH a creepy dude who used TO DO pushups AGAINST my windowsill (shudder)
On a rocky ridge IN a teensy cape code (NOT ON cape cod, mind you…that would be way too adventurous)

6. 4 places I’ve visited
LaJolla, CA
Sedona, AZ
Pikes Peak, CO
Fairhaven, MA

7. 4 foods I prefer not to eat
Canned veggies
Okra (it’s enough TO choke ya)
Pot roast

8. 4 of my favorite foods
Good corn chips
Ribeye steak

9. 4 tv shows I watch
House of Cards

10. 4 things I am looking forward TO
Boating season
CWD Friends FOR Life conference
A TIME WHEN life IS LESS crazy sad
The next movie I see WITH a friend

11. 4 things I am always saying
It’s okay to say ” NO”
Please get your head out of your butt
You really need to learn how to drive this van
Hey, Honey?

WHEN praying FOR a tumor isn’t absurd and the circle closes

I normally share a lot. A lot a lot. But there are times in my life of uncertainty and absurdity when I circle the wagons. This is one of those times.

She has cancer and it’s bad. He has cancer AND it’s bad. If they knew we were sitting around praying for a tumor? Very bad.

My mother-in-law is opinionated and stubborn. The fact that she’s profoundly deaf makes it easier TO deal WITH the personality traits that are LESS THAN great. Even so, I love her. My interactions WITH her have taught me patience AND acceptance. You can’t be with her and not possess patience and acceptance.

I’ve learned a lot of other thingsFROM her AND am grateful FOR the patience she has shown TO me AS I stumble through her language. I met her WHEN I was 14 years OLD, AND ever since THEN I wanted TO learn American SIGN LANGUAGE so I could talk TO her AND the Mr. She used TO come through my CHECK- OUT line AT our IGA because she knew that I would take my TIME AND speak directly TO her so she could READ my lips. IN 2007 I dove IN, spending two years of Wednesdays attending St. Rita School FOR the Deaf TO learn ASL. I enjoy talking TO her, even though remembering the signs IN my current cognitive state IS rough. She’s 79 and has stage 4 pancreatic cancer. We’re going TO lose her.

My husband’s most very remarkable best friend from childhood has cancer. I met him when I was 14 years old. Catch a pattern here? We love him like crazy. A cancer that took up residence on a mangled fingertip is greedily taking over like it owns the place. He’s 51 AND we are going TO lose him.

Last WEEK, AT the same TIME mom was taken TO the ER, my husband AND I were talking about my most recent medical fiasco AND how a tumor OR vascular anomaly diagnosis would be a good thing. The other freak- OUT- MODE inducing alternative? Scary-ass shit Alzheimer’s disease. (Long story short, my mom was diagnosed at my current age and would have been in a nursing home at age 62 had she not died at age 61.)

We reached the absurd, and it’s NOT lost ON us that we have two incredibly wonderful people IN our lives who are praying FOR their tumors TO shrivel up AND disappear so they can live. We’re not horrible people. We’ve just had enough of the years AND years of medical mysteries that are me. Alzheimer’s is at the top of my genetic list titled “Please dear God, don’t let this happen to me.”

Two days AFTER mom’s diagnosis, I had a CT Angiography on my head. I only told a few people it was happening, circling my wagons. And as the whooshing pulsatile tinnitus pounded through my ears, my mouth grew quiet. It takes a whole hell of a lot to move me to quiet – to not be a sharer. At this time, my list of emotional adjectives is long. I am sad, desperate, lost, and so on. When quiet happens, my coping mechanism of choice is to do absurd stuff like replacing the nasty tub drain (girl power) or finding the mates of lonely socks, even if it takes a few hours (things the girls should be doing). I even spent an entire day sitting in the bathtub re-caulking it. It had to be done, and it was what I could control. (You don’t have TO psychoanalyze me, I psychoanalyze myself just fine, TYVM).

Today the results came IN that my head IS a thing of beauty. The deliverer of said news knew it wasn’t what I wanted to hear and offered a sincere apology. I hung up and cried. HARD. I apologized to my sympathetically huggy husband who was apologizing to me. ME! Really? The man who has to handle all my shit and he’s apologizing? WHEN I finally got my act together I did what I DO best. I made a plan. I made an appointment. I will delve. I will dig. I will DO tests. I will pay the money. I will get answers. I will deal. I will live AS LONG AS I can live.

I am absurd.


I sit ON the edge of her twin bed WITH an OPEN juice box IN one hand, the other holds a half eaten peanut butter cheese cracker. She chews, eyes closed, lays ON her back, AND opens her mouth WHEN she’s ready for another bite, eyes still closed. I alternate juice and cracker because that’s the way I’d want to eat it, and I try to end with juice. Her lips feel what’s coming AND she accommodates. I watch her eat. IN the gut-wrenching reality of these moments IS WHEN I’m most apt to give in to tears. On this night, I don’t.

She’s just had a full meal, and exercise from hours ago has caught up to her, screwing around with her BG while her dinner and dessert are out on the roof on a smoke break. Crumbs fall down into her hair, around her shoulder, and onto the bed. One crumb lands near two blood drops that have blemished her happy fuscia sheets. As she chews, my mind wanders to a conversation I had with a friend who only uses navy blue sheets on her son’s bed because of those inevitable blood drops. I know I’ll never get those stains out. I know she’ll never want navy blue sheets. We live WITH it. It’s become no big deal. DNA, we say, trying to make it interesting.

Like most teenagers, she either sucks the blood off her finger after she tests her BG, or wipes it off on the inside of her test kit bag. Her DNA bag, we say, trying to make it interesting.

I brush off what crumbs I can into my now free hand and find the garbage can next to her bed – a little too far under her bed. Earlier tonight, she took off her old infusion set and grinned at me as she casually dropped it over the side of the bed, hoping to hit the can, but knowing she won’t. Surveying the carnage of tissues, cotton swabs, used test strips AND infusion SET ON the FLOOR reminds me of earlier daysWHERE such a scene would either make me mad AND “ranty”, OR incredibly sad that she has NO choice but TO deal WITH ALL this necessary refuse IN her life. NOW, I’m feeling more and more okay with it.

Messes on the floor, bed, and table are visible signs that she’s taking care of herself.

Messes have become okay.




There are certain lengths I’m willingTO go TO WHEN it comes TO my Pip spending TIME WITH her diabesties.

I find myself looking AT the EVENTS ON our absurdly large family calendar AND saying “yes” TO the most ridiculous of requests. Because it’s important. You know? Her mental health is just as important as the attention we give to her day-to-day diabetes care.

Mom, you think after our 12-hour day of marching band competition that I could go to the USS Nightmare with Kurtain? And then have her spend the night? I mentally tick off the weeks its been since they’ve seen EACH other. The answer IS an easy yes. I know I will be exhausted. AND IN that moment I don’t care. Because I know I can get out my invisible SuperMom cape which helps me tap into any available energy reserves I have left and then some. When diabesties get together, I’m wearing a cape FOR two AND am SUPER-charged. Doing this FOR her makes me feel LIKE a better mom. Doing this FOR her bestie makes me feel LIKE a better human being. But please don’t get me wrong here. I don’t have a high AND mighty opinion of myself, because sometimes what I DO borders ON the insane AND I know it, nor DO I judge other moms. How can I? We DO NOT know the sacrifices of others.

My sacrifice IS TIME AND sleep. AND WHEN I am merely aDROP off/pick up service peppered WITH a little conversation, that sacrifice IS rewarded IN TIME alone TO unwind AND be BY myself. Most of my friends might find it hard TO believe that I thoroughly enjoy being BY myself, WITH myself, completely AND utterly happy AND aware ofWHERE I am, what I’m doing, what I’m eating. My food tastes better WHEN I’m in this state.


This is my heaven. And a teensy bit of hell (how dare they give ME bread that I can’t eat?). OR maybe angst IS more LIKE it.

I have my phone ON the TABLE WITHIN easy reach. AND, yes, I DOFROM TIME TO TIME make sure I have battery POWER AND the volume IS ON high. TIME will tell how many times tonight.


After a 12- HOUR DAY of a very cold marching band competition. She should be exhausted AND too cold TO stand IN line FOR the fright of her life. But this ISWHERE her own cape comes OUT AND she taps INTO her own energy reserves INORDER TO fit her diabestie INTO her schedule. So she stands IN line AND IS reminded TO CHECK IN WITH me. Adrenaline does NOT affect her. Instead, fear AND terror are ON her LIST of low-provokers. I get a TEXT through BlueLoop. It says this:






I TEXT her back:







In the meantime, I am wholesomely entertained BY a girl waitress who calls herself “MeMo”. Initially, she doesn’t want to tell me her given name. I am gently coerced to guess and the next time she appears at the table I’m given the hint that it STARTS WITH M-O. MeMo knows I’m having a lovely time alone while my little D-twinnies are out getting the bejesus scared out of them, and hopefully the diabetes too! But, I feel she’s trying TO distract me. I think AND think, AS NAMES are my gig. Monroe. Moe (too easy), Moses. She says NO go…it’s not as normal as Monroe or Moe or Moses. Morgan. She says, Morgan. Well, damn, girl! Morgan is more normal than my own name! (I’m disappointed that it isn’t Mohave or something like that.) Then she tells me about her family and how she was originally given the name. I had her pegged as a hippie and I was right. Her parents? Let’s just NOT talk about them. She’s cool and seems to have a good life. I’m happy FOR her. AND I plan ON a nice tip.

And, it worked. She was a distraction. (Hi MeMo.)

New message (she’s 140):


IMG_3539-756They’re in. I get this NEW message AND draw IN a sharp breath. Because it’s funny, but then again it’s not. Ugh. That word. She uses it so casually, AND that makes me feel good. So I CONTINUE TO wait. I’m Jonesing for some dark chocolate, but I can’t remember IF I have TO buy a ticket FOR a movie INORDER TO get TO the line TO buy the chocolate. ALL this place has IS chocolate cake. AND I’ve all but forgotten what that tastes like, it’s been so long. MeMo keeps asking me IF I want desert. DO you have 72% chocolate bars IN the kitchen?

I sit AND TYPE, resigned TO push the craving away,  AND wear the cape FOR yet a few more hours. I’ve been up since 7:15. I think bedtime will be 3am, with a wake time of 10:00am to prepare for our band fundraising car wash my Sweet’s dad has organized. Her diabestie will be coming WITH us.


This IS the concession I make; my comfy couch, TIME WITH the hubs. AND it isn’t even our night to have the kids! I could have set myself up for a night of pleasure. I’m talking about heated matttress, comfy jammies, eye-mask-wearing pleasure. Sleep.

Sleep can wait. My daughter who needs experiences LIKE this, can’t.


40 and Unaware

She’s sleeping soundly -AT 40. It took a lot TO wake her up.

Hypoglycemia unawareness scares the crap OUT of me, AND it should. There’s no waking up shaky, with sheets and clothing that are soaking wet. This has been her lowest blood glucose I’ve taken since diagnosis.

If she’s awake, she feels her level dropping, gets the shakes and feels incredibly weak and hungry. If the drop is hard and fast, she reports feeling as if she is ” OUT of her body”. At night? Nothing. She doesn’t even remember the episode AND builds whatever happens overnight INTO dreams. Even alarms.

I treated the low, AND AS I walked down the steps felt shear fear. Fear of the future that didn’t include me walking down the steep steps from her room after midnight and 3am checks. The He and He and Me of her life equal safety, ensuring she wakes to live another day. What happens when she is on her own? Will she ever be able to be on her own? Will I be buying a diabetic alert dog for her when she leaves my care? Will she be “that” girl whose dog accompanies her into lecture halls to sit by her side on high alert?

All of this thought happens before I reach the bottom step.

The magnitude of these feelings is so great that I can’t SLEEP FOR hours. I watch tv WITH a fraction of my normal interest, eyes ON her Dexcom. I look AT it AND know that tonight it saved usFROM certain “could haves”.   She could have ________.

Double arrows. Momentary relief. IMG_3371-756






It’s been three days since this low and I feel as if I’m still trying TO catch my breath. I try TO shake off the fear, telling myself that I have four years TO PREPARE her FOR the world.

Four years doesn’t feel long enough.


Seeing The Differences

Both Shes were just loaded onto buses with 100+ other teenagers to head north for a marching band competition. Later they’ll head farther north TO enjoy an overnight stay AT a hotel AND a FULL DAY AT Cedar Point.

The older She IS ON one bus WITH her besties, including a NEW bestie who happens TO be her homecoming date. He has a great grin, AND I can tell he likes my girl. The weekend FOR her IS FULL of potential, AND her GREATEST concern will be checking herself TOLIMIT embarrassment.

The younger She, my sweets, will be doing a different kind of checking: TIME, BG’s, ketones, Dexcom arrow trends. Sure, she’ll care about her appearance AND NOT embarrassing herself around these NEW friends she’s making, and in not screwing up during her first ever OMEA Marching Band Competition. But none of that matters. With illness, diabetes demands attention, quickly taking center stage.

It’s NOW 2:00 p.m. AT 8:00 a.m. she woke up AT Dad’s and was in rough shape: sore throat, head cold, and trace ketones.

And then this text: “Mom, I don’t think I can make it.”

When she’s there and I’m here, I’m at a loss. We just do things, handle these things, differently, He and Me. My only answer is to grab two bottles of caffeine water and pour two EmergenC packets into each bottle and note the carbs. Then put Vitamin B12 in a baggie with instructions. Later, I see her out on the practice field and make her drink it. She hates it. She makes faces. She pushes through. It is our way.

A few hours later, she’s sitting ON the bus. My mental diabetes checklist has me making my way through feet AND knees TO get TO her ROW TO ask IF she’s done a ketone re-check. Nope. We race off the bus to find an open bathroom in school. She pees on the ketone strip. Light burgundy. Small ketones. She’s burning fat she can’t afford to lose for fuel. We’d rather see beige. (The whole rest of the world sees beige AS boring. We diabetic parents love seeing beige ON ketone strips. Beige IS beautiful.) I race WITH her back TO bus, tell her dad TO PREPARE a shot, AND hop off.

As they pull away, my heart swells WITH happiness FOR the one bus which carries the She whose life IS about TO CHANGE, AND squeezes WITH worry FOR the bus which carries my She who isn’t sure she can make it. She will be 5 hours away.

The difference in their lives startle me in this moment and I have a deep knowing that this will never change. I will always see the differences.

I’ve made plans FOR the weekend that include a band moms’ night out, and an easy family reunion gathering in a beautiful park. We moms of Children with Diabetes can plan, smile, play, clean, and shop; going about our lives as if we are normal people. The reality? We are pretenders. We are on call. Our phones are charged and within easy reach. We’ve formulated plan b’s in our minds, ready to ditch anything and anyone without a moment’s hesitation. We are worriers. We are rescuers.

We are moms of CWD.



What a drag. AS IN, we’re all dragging our butts around this world today. A teenager, a he and a me. She fell asleep in her freshman AP Human Geography class today. The teacher called her out. She’s a straight-A student. It mortified her. She fell hard AND had NO clue. 504s don’t exempt you from falling asleep after a torturous night battling the lowly beast.

A night in the life:


10:30pm    BG 66   Bedtime     19 long and fast acting CHOs

11:45pm     BG 67   recheck     10 long and fast acting CHOs

12:17am     BG 81   recheck     15 fast acting CHOs

*_* Mom needed to go to bed at midnight for early volunteering at school. Sigh.

2:13am      BG 83   recheck      holding and mom goes to bed with a warning to the hubs. Looking at only getting 5 hours sleep. Not enough. Not enough.


Hello hormones? You are SLEEPING on the job, meanwhile, my kid is not. And he is not. 

4:06am      BG 65    recheck     14 long and fast acting CHOs

4:37am      BG 94     recheck     now we’re getting somewhere

5:48am      BG 70     wake up     8 CHOs, reduce basal TO 80%

5:53am      BG 79     CGM          8 more CHOs

6:16am      BG 124    brkfast      20 CHOs, 2 units insulin, safe enough BG FOR bus ride TO school. Ketones negative, 2 ibuprofen AND cold medicine FOR symptoms

10:10am     BG 79      5 minutes pre-lunch


Note homeFROM kid: 15 free CHOs feeling awful AND SUPER low. Dragging butt around. Mom IS IN cafeteria selling tickets AND checks ON kid. She doesn’t mind. She doesn’t look good.

2:15pm     BG 197     pre-bus high, but we don’t give a damn.

Note: kid can drop 100 points on bus home from school.

A little normalcy comes next and then this later:

11:00pm     BG 69     Bedtime     Oh, no we don’t.


Tonight we DO NOT mess around. Sweetie, you want the chocolate milk special? Yes. We need a night of SLEEP AND LESS butt dragging AS mom looks forward TO a 14 HOUR DAY volunteering AT school FOR back- TO-back big deal EVENTS that LAST UNTIL midnight, kid manages tough school DAY followed BY FIRST marching band halftime SHOW, AND ALL ON the night BEFORE our JDRF walk! Diabetes has shitty timing. Should we have reduced basal a lot earlier IN the night? Sure. But I was already IN zombie MODE WHEN we started OUT, AND apparently dumb enough TO rely ON those 3am hormones that are forever showing up. Figures. Diabetes 1, She AND He AND Me 0.

Our house IS a post AND beam cottage built IN 1865 WITH plaster lathe AND horse hair walls. Truly. Dexcom doesn’t travel through these walls. Dex alarm doesn’t wake up the teenager. Even WHEN it’s put in a glass cup so it rattles when it wails, so we put it on the steps to her room. Our room has an air purifier that is loud like I like it, to drown out snoring man. So, today I bought this, and it’s about TIME, too, because the lonely Dex ON the steps IS great FOR a walk buy button push, but insufficient WHEN sleeping AND relying ON hearing low alarms.

Really thought I was forever done with these.
Really thought I was forever done WITH these.

Last evening led TO NO SLEEP FOR anyone, AND WHILE I’m in no sleep mode volunteering at the high school, someone says, “But my niece IS a TYPE 1 AND she regulates WITH carbs AND IS so level.”

I took the time to educate. But what I wanted to say was, “Your Diabetes May Vary, Bitch.”


The things we forget

Back in the beginning of August (Angels singing), our Sweets went off to diabetes camp. I was so chill about the whole thing and said to the doctor in her cabin, ” CHANGE what you’ve got to change. You’ll learn soon enough that she’s super sensitive to activity and those basal rates and carb ratios she walked in with will be a thing of the past.”

Fast forward TO pick up AND we take a look AT SOME NOT-so-horrible lows, which are really NOT-so-great lows FOR running ALL over God’s green earth with wild abandon. There were a few late night runs to the med tent too, and much worry over being sent home. A change was made. We were told. We got this nifty paper. We were told that we should hang tight for the next day “just TO be sure.” And, we decide right then and there that a tough week of high school band camp was coming up, so we’re better off keeping those changed basal rates.

Then we forgot. Completely took the train TO forgetfulville AND decided TO stay there. UNTIL today. LAST night I was up doing temp basal increases, AND pushing units LIKE crazy. I think I went TO bed around 3:15. AND IF I hurry WITH this post, I might beat that TIME tonight!

Today,RIGHT BEFORE dad comes FOR our Friday night kiddo transfer, I say, “Hey, let’s review those basals AND make SOME changes FOR that 3am spike. So tell me what midnight is.”


“WHAT!?” Are you sure that wasn’t .9? Aren’t you supposed to be .9 at midnight?”

“OH, GOD MOM. Camp.”

So, there you have it. Crazy, stupid busy schedules lead TO crazy, stupid busy brains that forget. You’d think that any one of the four of us would have caught on to this quicker.

Week 1 post camp: High school band camp from 7:30 a.m – 11:00 p.m. + girly business going on. Highs. Mom spends 10 brain twisting hours a day working in the band hallway and fitting uniforms on 110 incredibly stinky kids.

Week 2 post camp: High school starts. And, I feel like I’m sending enough paperwork IN FOR twins OR triplets. Yeah, triplets IS more LIKE it.

Week 3 post camp: Numbers are better, but let’s not get comfy in the 200s shall we? What the heck is going on? Look at that spike! Push, push, push the insulin.

This is diabetes. A flawed system of diabetic variables, care-giving, and trying to rely on having ” WITH it” brains that just…aren’t. 

Tomorrow IS another day.

This is 800

I’ve already told you myNEW restriction IN life IS sticking TO roughly 800 calories a day. It’s not an easy life, but why should it be? It’s still a life.

People often ask what it IS that I eat ALL DAY trying TO stay AT that calorieLIMIT WITH so many food allergies. My joke answer IS “air.”   AND TO be honest, I’ve had moments that feel as if my stomach is literally eating itself. That’s WHEN I reach FOR organic chicken stock. I make a big deal of it too, drinking itFROM one of many favorite mugsFROM our collection. It has zip calories AND IS a nice, satisfyingly warm hug FOR the tummy. Here’s a sample day, and yes…I do eat veggies 3 x daily.


Pea protein shake (120), eggplant with shallots George Foreman style (30) Total: (150)

Pea protein shake, eggplant

Lunch on the go, (the day we ditched the kids and went to the pool):

2oz carrots (22), 4.7 oz raw zucchini (19), Kind Bar (200) Splurge!, caffeine water – I’d rather have a Diet Coke (0) Total: (241)

Avitae caffeine water, Kind bar, raw zucchini AND carrots


Eggplant AND shallots again (30), turkey burger (200), 1/2T canola-based Vegenaise (45), didn’t finish so make it (40), itsy bitsy amount of ketchup (6), 1/2C coleslaw (40) Why do I do this to myself? Itch, itch, itch all the way down the tube. Soy dumb! Never again. (soy/vinegar no-nos) Total: (361)

Water, turkey burger, eggplant, cole slaw
Water, turkey burger, eggplant, cole slaw


4oz berries (60) Berries are terrific, but the blue variety are normally a no-no for me because of the naturally occuring mold (cousin to yeast). Yes, once again I treated myself badly to something my mouth likes, but the rest of me doesn’t.  AND IN the same DAY NO LESS! Human.  Total: (60)

strawberries AND bad bad blueberries

Daily total: (812)  CLOSE enough!

I shrug a carefree “meh” ON the extra 12. But seriously. I don’t deviate much more than 20 either way. It’s a lot of counting, measuring, AND weighing AND water drinking. Knowing exactly what goes IN the tube IS the closest I will ever get TO understanding what my CWD experiences ALL DAY, EVERY day. Acute awareness here. Actually, I did this counting, weighing, measuring thing FOR decades BEFORE she was diagnosed. WHILE I am typically one of those annoying people who COUNT OUT their corn chips, somehow sitting IN this one certain friend’s dining room (pre 2/4/14) with a bag that is green and holds crunchy deliciousness inside makes me weak enough to reach in and grab with abandon.

Someday I’ll post more of an exciting looking 800 day. This one was a little ugly up UNTIL the end. That’s for why the beautiful pottery!