** You’ll want to read That Fateful Saturday first, otherwise this might not make much sense
And it would oh so easy to do… a few hundred extra units of insulin. I’d use a syringe since my pump simply didn’t hold enough.
But you know, once I got low enough it might become impossible to stop myself from eating my way out of that attempt. Hmmm… you know I have a bunch of Vicodin left over from that 3rd degree sunburn last summer maybe I could wash three or four of those down with a couple of beers. Dose myself when I began to get drowsy… that should keep me under long enough for the insulin to do its work.
That plan came so easy to me, like I was planning a trip to the gas station. I’d had suicidal thoughts before during the decades of depression, but I had never gotten to the point of actually making a plan. And it was so easy to plan, and I took so much comfort in thinking about it working perfectly.
The thought crossed my mind that I should take my son back to his mom’s so he wouldn’t find me, but it was a fleeting thought like I would have about which pump to use at the gas station.
I was past the point about caring for anyone or anything except my misery. It had become all-consuming, it was all I could remember, all I could see at the moment and it filled my future.
But then a question occurred to me. One I couldn’t answer. I’ve always hated questions like that, I want the answer. Out of habit, I focused on it, that question out of nowhere. As I lay there, the answer did occur to me and I hated it. But hating things about myself was nothing new…
The question? How could I prevent my children from asking “Why would dad rather be dead than with me?”
The answer? I couldn’t.
And then another glimmer of a thought came through, maybe my Will Bother attitude spoke up. I realized that I still cared for something more than my pain. Something more than myself. Something that was worth going though any amount of pain or misery for.
My children, I loved them more than life itself.
I got out of bed and went to lunch with my son.
Read Part 3 at And Then It Became So Hard
© 2012 Scott Strange, Strangely Diabetic and http://StrangelyDiabetic.com