Death Ain't All It's Cracked Up To Be
by Joseph C. Hinson
10 p.m. +/- Sunday June 24, 2001

I went to the emergency room on Saturday the 16th. I could not ignore what was bothering me anymore. I won't bore you with the symptoms. OK. I will bore you with them. Blurred vision, excessive urination, a tingling sensation in my fingers and toes. I was not putting two and two together at the time and thought it to be a bladder infection.

Wrong.

I was diagnosed as diabetic.

I am 31 years old, 6 foot 3 on good days and 227 pounds. I'm not going to be on a box of Wheaties anytime soon. But I'm a far cry from these sweat-suit-wearing, Twinkie-eating blobs that crowd -- and I do mean crowd -- the Lancaster Super Wal Mart all the time either.

They say diabetes is hereditary. Only we can't remember anyone in my family ever having it. We would ask them. But they're all dead of various forms of cancer.

This is the second rant I've started with the announcement that I had recently been to the emergency room. The first one was posted on December 26, 1998. I was with my sister when she had to go to the ER. We thought it was not that serious. Six months later she passed away from complications present at the time of her hospital visit.

All of this was playing in my mind when I was sitting in the Chester ER waiting on the test results. (At this time, I wasn't sure what was wrong other than the attendees were whispering a lot, indicating it was more serious than a bladder infection.) Was my time at hand? Would I die young too? Maybe it was my sister (my surviving sister, Amy) who was the one having everyone die around her.

I thought of my two young children, Michael and Jenna. Michael is barely 17 months old; Jenna is just six months old. Would I see them on their first day of school? Would I see them graduate high school? Would I see them play professional basketball and biuy their parents a nice house with a private inground pool?

I thought of those that went before me -- my mother, my sister, my father. Would they be waiting on me should I cash in my chips? I thought of my wife. How would she cope without me? Would she find someone new?

I don't want to die. Ever. Which is unlike me circa the summer of 94. Or as I call it, My Summer of Darkness. Three suicide attempts. Two trips to the hospital. A lot of alcohol. I worked through that slowly but surely to get where I am today, happier than I've ever been, happier than I even thought I could be.

But we all die. We all face our own mortality at some point. For Beth, it was when she was 34. Some people don't get that long.

So what should I take from this? I can't keep having these Moments of Clarity and not use them wisely. Life is meant to be lived. And to live we must learn. And what we learn we must use. Why is it that only in times like these do we think of such things? Why can we not learn to live at all times? Why must we let things get to a turning point before we can bare our souls to the ones we care for most deeply? How many people must die before I can tell them how I feel? Or will I die before that day comes?

My blood sugar is way down from what it was even a week ago. Chances are, I have a long life ahead of me. No need to waste it on matters such as this. Hey, did the Braves win today? Wonder when the next BNSF engine will come through Chester? Can't wait for the new season of "Law & Order."

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