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Life by the Numbers

A Blissful Day in the Diner

By Michael G DickPublished 3 years ago 8 min read
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Life by the Numbers
Photo by LinkedIn Sales Solutions on Unsplash

I wonder how many people live and die by numbers? I used to. I would wake up and look at a number. Based on that number I would decide how to begin my day. Am I eating cereal for breakfast, pancakes, eggs, or some shitty protein shake so full of fiber it's gritty?

I don't know, I'll let you know after I check my numbers. I was obsessed with my blood sugar. I was ruled by a little pocket computer. I gave it all my power, allowed it to govern my every decision, all in the name of control.

I'm not sure when I started to believe in this sadistic practice, but it ruled my life for a long time. I couldn't stop, if I stopped I wouldn't know what my numbers were, and if I didn't know what my numbers were, how could I know what to eat?

If my numbers were out of control, was I out of control? I went to my doctor because the pills I was taking that supposedly would help me manage my diabetes had been causing me to feel nauseated.

I would wake up in the middle of the fucking night and felt like I had to hurl and shit at the same time. So I sat there on the shitter, and if I pushed too hard nausea would come on, so I had to ease into it. Two fucking hours of this. When I was done, I did what any rational person would, and looked at my shit trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong.

There they were, about ten of them, the pills I would take for diabetes. Floating like ducks on a pond. Now I only would take two a day, that's damn near a week's worth all coming out at once. That can't be right, so I made an appointment with the doctor.

Do you know what she said to me, the doctor I mean? She asked me if my diet changed. I thought about it for a second, and said, "My diet changes every day. I don't eat the same thing every day lady."

She nodded with an, "uh-huh" like what I said explained everything. She had the look of someone who was about to make a checkmate move in a chess match or something.

I said, "this can't be normal; there were ten pills in one shit, Doc."

That asshole of a Doctor just asked me the same fucking question, like a parent would do who was trying to get a kid to see some basic logic. I could tell she thought I was exaggerating or something.

I said, "If that's going to happen every time I choose to eat something different then I want to be put on a different medication. I mean, who can eat the same thing every day?"

The Doctor said, "This medication is really great for diabetes. It really helps with preventing heart issues and kidney issues, things that develop over time because of diabetes. I really think you should try to maintain a stable diet first, before changing medications."

She was so sure of herself, so much so that even though she was talking to me like I was some seven-year-old, I began to doubt my own observations.

The Doctor looked overworked and out of patience, all the VA docs did. That combined with my own doubts was enough to push me into keeping things as they were.

But as I said, I was obsessed with my numbers. My numbers were ok then, so I guess I was ok then, too. So, maybe the doctor had a point.

I loved the control I seemed to get, by checking my numbers. At first, I hated it though. I was diagnosed when I was twenty-six. All the doctors thought I had type one, but told them matter-a-fact-like that it was type two.

I was right, it turned out. Now to be honest at the time I didn't know shit about shit, but I am pretty sure I willed that outcome into existence. Don't ask me how or why, I stopped trying to answer those impossible questions a long time ago, you just looked fucking stupid when you tried to anyway.

Nick, my long-time friend, and confidant interrupted my diatribe, "Wait, you've been diabetic since your mid-twenties? Damn. You look so healthy; you're not overweight, you're always doing something outdoorsy. Man, I had no idea."

I took a moment and carved a piece of Patty's Chocolate Cake off with my fork and shoveled it into my mouth. This particular cake wasn't super sweet. There was always a tug-of-war with the tastebuds; bitter..sweet...bitter...this time I think sweet won out. The frosting stuck to the roof of my mouth making my whole mouth dance to get it swallowed.

I took a deep breath, attempting to immortalize what just took place before continuing, I looked over my glass of milk to Nick, washing the pallet clean for the next round, and set the glass down before continuing.

I said matter a factly, "You wouldn't. How could you, by the time you knew me, I stopped, washed my hands of those fucking numbers. They were ruining my life."

Nick looked confused, "I thought that's what diabetics had to do, or they could get really sick, besides you just told me you felt like it gave you control?"

It was posed as a question, but there were undertones of what the fuck, Gabe. I couldn't fault him, but I just continued, he would understand after.

"As I said, there was this sense of control. If I had high numbers I would eat healthier and if they were lower I could eat whatever the fuck I wanted. It kind of seesawed like that for years. Until it didn't anymore."

"A couple of years ago my numbers just stayed high. No matter what I did, they just wouldn't go down. The same numbers that once gave me a sense of control, were now driving me mad."

"Most diabetics check their numbers twice, maybe three times a day, if that. When the numbers stopped responding to what I did, and they just kept climbing, I did what anybody should do, I called my doctor and made an appointment to go see him. Checking my numbers five or six times a day in the meantime."

Nick interrupted for clarification, "I thought your doctor was a she."

I nodded in approval, he was listening, "This was years later. I had moved since then and was being seen by a different doctor."

I continued excitedly because I knew he would understand, "Get this! I go see this new doctor, different in every way. He was older, it was a guy, not a girl, I found out later because I was curious that this guy also went to a different medical school. Everything was different."

"Anyway, I tell him that the med's aren't working, that my blood-sugars are out of control, and that we need to do something. Do you know what he told me?"

Nick was on the edge of the booth as he nibbled on his fries, "What?"

I pointed with exclamation, my finger jabbed at the air with every word, "He said the same shit! The very same shit that the first doctor said! Verbatim!"

I changed my voice, mimicking the doctor like the old-know-it-all he was, "This medication is really great for diabetes. It really helps with preventing heart issues and kidney issues...blah. blah. blah. I couldn't believe it!"

I added, "I did a little research, and these doctors don't really know shit. They just parrot whatever these drug companies tell them to say. They don't actually take the time to compare their patients' stats with what is being peddled as fact. This isn't science, it's a fucking cult."

Nick shook his head in disgust, "Daaaamn, you should sue the shit out of them."

I shook my head at that, "They might be a cult, but they are a well-funded, well-connected cult. Besides, It was basically my word against theirs, and they were the doctors, and I was just some crazy vet. I knew how that would play out, so I just walked away from it."

Nick balked at that, squinting his eyes at the question, "what do mean, "walked away"?" Emphasizing the question with his fingers, as air parentheses.

I nodded between bites of that bitter-sweet cake, "Think about how deep this goes: People have some issue, some imbalance, and they go to the "doctor" who really is just a symbol that we give all our power to. This person, this symbol, tells you that if you take these little pills that it will bring you back into health and into balance."

Nick nodded, "Yeah, that's how I pretty much see it."

I looked at Nick, Do you think those pills would work if we didn't trust it, if we didn't have faith in it? When I really look back, I can't tell you what happened first. Did I lose faith in the medical cult, and that's why their magic stopped working, or vice-versa?"

To answer your question, "I stopped checking my numbers, taking pills, going to check-ups, etc. The cult leaders stopped sending me medications, a tactic they used to keep you coming back, a not-so-gentle reminder that you needed them, a tactic every cult I ever heard of used."

Nick looked sceptical, "How's that worked out for you?"

I answered as honestly as I could, "To be fair, I really don't know. I can tell you this though, ever since I stopped praying to that damn glucose monitor, giving it my blood and waiting for blessings or curses to beep into existence. I have been happier and at peace. Ignorance is bliss, man. Besides, how do we know those machines aren't rigged? You just can't trust those assholes."

I appealed to him, "So just a word of advice, when you go in to find out if you got cancer, don't believe a word of it. This death cult needs willing recipients. Don't give them any power, just brush them aside and walk bravely into the next day. Fuck them."

We split the check fifty-fity like we always did. I never found out what happened to Nick. I died happy, later that evening. I guess that chocolate cake was sweeter than I thought. I hope my revelations stuck with him though; maybe these revolutionary ideas will lead to the end of that sick sadistic cult.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Michael G Dick

Michael fell in love with writing while studying at the prestigious Clovis Community College or CCC. For one of his electives, he took a Creative Writing Course. Michael loves storytelling and hopes you love a good story.

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