"At Least I'm Not Gray"

"Seriously, I don't have one single strand of gray hair," she tells me.

"And you've got all those curls now too," I say.

We both laugh.

"It's weird how it all came back curly-- and I've got a ton of it," she says, "more than before."

"Indeed. After everything you've gone through-- ya end up with this fabulous head of hair."

Again, we're laughing-- the big, belly kind that brings tears.

Her doc thinks it might have been the chemo.

Christ.

How ironic is that?

So we talk about it.

About that terrible week when Joseph was diagnosed-- the very same week she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

The chemo, the mastectomy-- the long road back.

The open wound that

JUST. WOULDN'T. HEAL.

And all those other infections.

But mostly, we talk of this new diagnosis.

"While I was in the hospital last week [with cellulitis]," she begins, "the nurse came in to give me insulin, and when I asked her why, she said it was for my 'diabetes' -- like I already knew."

God.

When her doc finally informed her of the diagnosis, he also said that -- according to her medical records -- she's had high blood sugars going back 17 years.

All those years-- and no one has ever diagnosed this.

For a while, it's hard to stay focused.

To not go insane over this fact.

Her A1c is 7.4

Definitely diabetes.

Type 2, most likely.

It runs in the family and she has many of the risk factors.

Yet her doctor said not to assume this is Type 2-- "it could be Type 1.5."

Still, he's put her on Metformin, given her a glucose meter with a script for a hundred test strips, instructed her to limit her carbs...

And that's about it.

Until they re-evaluate in June.

"When they sent me home, I didn't even know how to use a lancet," she says.

Damn.

She's my older sister -- by less than two years-- and she lives over a thousand miles away.

"Every time I stick my finger, I think of you and Joseph. How do you stand it? I get nervous at every meal. What does Joseph eat? And where do you get glucose tabs? My doctor said I'm at risk for lows, but didn't tell me where to get glucose."

Man.

"Find an endocrinologist," I tell her-- wishing I could fly there and find one for her.

"You've got to see someone who really knows this stuff-- who can give you the right diagnosis, treatment, and education."

And then we go over the differences between Type 1 and 2, highs and lows, good and not-so-good carbs...

We talk about her four kids, and her fears about how this will affect them-- especially her young one, the nine-year-old.

All the while, I'm trying not to lose it.

But then, we also talk about other things-- ridiculous, funny things.

And we laugh.