So I went to a new doctor and they took my blood and told me I had a 6.2 or 6.3 A1C. My doctor says that’s too low. I give up.
Grind up my fingers and stuff them in a sausage link. Burn my toes in a furnace. Cheese grade my belly, thighs, bum and arms, I don’t care. Give me nothing, while I try to do everything. Screw it.
Is the hope that they give you periodically all a lie? Or are we all going to die quietly as they tell us that we didn’t do enough?
God is there, though. I know He is. He watches sadly behind the clouds, with teary stars and sad regards for the pain that I must carry today. He is All Knowing. He knows why I need it, and knows it’ll hurt, but He knows I’ll be happier if I go through it with courage. The brute makes us strong, the tears wash anew. I know who I am, and I know where I stand.