My blood sugar is a bit high, according to my doctor, who emailed me this morning.

“It’s probably because everything tastes so good now that you don’t smoke. Try to limit your sweets. Walking will help.”

I saw him yesterday. I always get my blood work done before I leave the medical building, so that I don’t forget about it completely. I have the worst memory ever, it’s almost sadly comical.

I confessed to him that due to my now rehabilitated taste buds, I had gone a little bit fucking nuts, eating something sugary almost every day. I stopped my sweet shenanigans just in time to lose 10 pounds since my last visit, but my A1C numbers didn’t give a shit.

They’re mean and I don’t like them. Pfft.

“What pills do you need refilled?” he asked me once we discussed my love for chocolate anything.

“The controlled substances,” I replied with a smirk.

He laughed. I laughed.

Paid actor portrayal of my doctor.

I stopped chasing a miracle that didn’t exist when I started seeing my new doctor in February of 2016. I told him that I was done going to specialist after specialist, hoping that one of them would finally “cure” me and that the fibromyalgia would go away so that I could be my old self again.

That’s not going to happen, at least not until they figure this %$*@ damned disease out. And I need to finally accept it.

In the meantime, I keep my medical care as simple as possible and control what I can. I’m able to watch my sugar intake and take my diabetes medications. I take my antidepressants and anxiety meds. Quitting smoking has helped my blood pressure, although I still need to take a low dose of medication to assist.

Those are things that I can do something about and it makes me feel like I have some sort of power when it comes to my health. Having a great doctor also makes a tremendous difference. He doesn’t try to blow smoke up my ass and I appreciate that so much that I may send him an affordable cheese basket with summer sausage.

If I had a dollar for every doctor over the last 20 years who has told me that they’d find out what was really wrong with me, I’d have enough money to eat at McDonald’s for an entire week.

And that would really muck up my blood sugar, because you know that I’d be getting a hot fudge sundae daily for dessert.

I’m only human, plus I have the most ridiculous sweet tooth south of Lake Erie.