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It’s Not Over ’til Somebody Sings
November 3, 2009
I had a bit of a disappointment over the weekend involving a social event but, on the plus side, was so wiped out afterwards that I collapsed into my recliner for hours of feet-up rest. With my foot up for a long period of time, the pain was much abated. If only that were realistic with work and such to be done.
The social event involved an Israeli music group that was in town. My husband, who is president of our congregation, asked if they would like us to have a service for them, followed by whatever meal was appropriate. They nixed the idea of a service, but the food sounded good and they said they would like to play for us.
We set a time and date. We bought mountains of bagels, rivers of cream cheese, and enough lox to feed the city. I got up at 5 AM to bake kugels — two sweet (one of which was gluten-free) and one savory. My husband and grandson set up tables and chairs and took the food to the serving tables as I made up trays.
Members of the congregation came, some with guests. Parents and grandparents brought children. Everybody was excited about hearing the ensemble play a number or two and having a chance to schmooze with them over brunch.
They didn’t show up.
Well, the singer did. They couldn’t find the place, she told us. (Let’s see: They were staying in a hotel that is something like six blocks north and one block east from the synagogue. Plus, they had directions and phone numbers.) A couple of days before, they had managed to find a house that’s impossible for natives to locate, but not a huge building downtown with a street address. Which one of the congregants repeated repeatedly.
But we had a good meal, great fellowship, and the one who showed up did do a couple of songs a cappella. Oh, and I have plenty of leftover bagels and kugel. (Leftover lox? You’ve got to be kidding!)
In a way, the whole deal reminds me of diabetes. You make your plans, you work hard, you do everything “right” — with an occasional glitch because pobody’s nerfect — but diabetes doesn’t always cooperate. You can reduce your chances of having diabetes bite you in the tush, but there are no guarantees.
Still, many of us try our best to maintain good control in hopes we’ll dodge the complications bullet. Not doing so would be akin to saying, “Well, those people might not show up anyway, so I just won’t do anything. We’ll call out for pizza if necessary.”
I may have complications. I honestly don’t know. I do have some lower-limb circulation problems and I’ve had two impinged shoulders — more common in people with diabetes. I have a partially numb foot, but that’s from surgeries; none having to do with diabetes. As lousy as my control has been at times — whether from lack of knowledge or occasional diabetes burnout — I put my good fortune down to genetics. In other words, I picked my ancestors well. My family tends to be long-lived, with few medical problems. Except, of course, for Type 2 diabetes.
Diabetes can be very frustrating. I was schmoozing with my endocrinologist yesterday and he asked how my numbers were. “Well,” I said, “I’ve had surgery again, for a bone infection. I had to increase my basals and finally got them right. Then I had the surgery and, by that evening, was scrambling to lower my basals to keep from crashing all over the place. I mean, they were perfect!”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get it worked out again.”
I’m not worried. I’m just frustrated. And I suspect that, just when I get everything set again; something is going to come along and I’ll have to start all over again. Many times, I wish my body would “automagically” take care of its metabolism without me having to intervene the best I can.
It’s helpful to know other people with diabetes. We understand each other. Whether it’s face-to-face or online, it’s all good.
And it’s kind of like that function last weekend. So the guest of honor didn’t show up. But those of us who were there all shared the same frustration. We bitched a little bit, then enjoyed what we did have: Good food and good fellowship.
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