Fifty six weeks out from surgery, and here are the numbers I care about:
- Weight: 234
- Blood Sugar: 100
So. I lost three pounds. I have no idea how I lost three pounds, but again, I’ve given up on the mysteries of the human body. For all I know, tomorrow I could be 238. Here, have some old-school ASCII emoji:
234 is kinda great though, since my second weight loss goal was 235 (#huzzah). So I just opened up my weight tracker app, and changed the goal down to 225. I’ve had a few people tell me that I’m all done and it’s time to stop. They’re well meaning, but two things:
- That’s not your decision.
- You’d feel different if I was standing in front of you naked.
Of course that second thing changes the context for fucking everything. Actually, let’s pretend I didn’t say that.
(Which really means, “Let’s pretend those previous lines were just off the cuff remarks and not something that survived three rounds of revision before I hit the ‘Publish’ button.” #meta)
Anyway, I hit my second goal, and I look at myself and there’s definitely still more work to do. And the gyms are closed again, so I’m gonna keep plugging away at the diet and walking when I’m able. Speaking of…
I went to the foot doctor last Thursday, and the short version of that story is he’s elated with my health and he told me that my foot was looking great and that I clearly wasn’t having a Charcot flare up again, which was excellent. No peg leg for me (yet). And yes, that’s where my mind goes when I have problems with my feet now. I’m terrified of losing them. Please don’t try to convince me how irrational that is; you’re right, and I don’t care. So while it was good news at the foot doctor, there was also this brief exchange:
“I’m worried the arch on my left foot is collapsing.”
“Yeah, it is. That’ll happen with Charcot.”
“Okay so what happens?”
“And then I do what? Is there a surgery I can have for that?”
“Yeah, I guess they could try to shave the bone a little bit, but there’s no guarantee it’d be a long-term fix.”
“Okay, so is there some Dr. Scholl’s shit I can put in my shoes now?”
“I mean, there are diabetic inserts.”
“Great, where do I get those?”
And then he picked up one of my shoes and pulled out the diabetic insert that was inside. So I’m getting more of those. And I’m getting another pair of shoes. Diabetic shoes (which are shoes that have to check their blood sugar every day), not custom shoes. The custom shoes are gigantor franken-boots, and I can’t get them in the stirrup of a bike pedal at the gym, so hopefully the diabetic shoes will be a bit smaller and be easier to exercise with.
#ShaveTheBone #Ugh #FuckThat
I’m happy. School starts up in a few days and I’m ready for it. Working this summer was fantastic, I never really had a chance to sink into the depression that comes with too much downtime. There’s been a FUCK TON of other things to be depressed about, but having constant work has grounded me.
Here, have a graphic: