The Box is the story of a family.  One day, a mysterious box is left on the front step by a creepy man with half a face.  Later that day, he returns to the house and explains what is in the box and what it can do.

Basically, the box contains a button.  If you press the button, you get a million dollars. But somewhere in the world, someone you don’t know will die.  What do you do?

In this scenario, the wife presses the button and is rewarded with a briefcase containing a million dollars.  The man begins packing up the button and box and prepares to leave.  The wife begins to get antsy and asks what happens next.  The man tells her that he will contine to offer the “deal” to other people until someone chooses not to take the money.  His parting words are “the deal will only be made to people you don’t know.”

Well, the family begins to freak out.  They know that one of them will die, and they are powerless to stop it.  This is where the movie goes downhill, but I won’t spoil the ending for anyone who might want to watch it.

This movie was, frankly, not very good, but the premise was intriguing.  It made me think, which is a quality that I LOVE in movies.  I started to think about the “what ifs.”  What if, instead of a million dollars, I was offered a chance to live without diabetes?  What if, instead of the money, I was offered the ability to have a child?  And what if, instead of someone I don’t know, somewhere in the world, dying, someone I don’t know was given my affliction (diabetes, infertility, etc.)?

Sure, I’d be vulnerable to whatever the next person’s (i.e., the next person given the choice) affliction was.  Would it be worth it?  What is worse than diabetes?  What’s worse than infertility?

Obviously, there are lots of things worse than either of these conditions.  I know this is true, but when I think about them, they all seem better than this.  And obviously, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone else, but if it was a real, tangible choice, I can’t say I wouldn’t be tempted.

What would *you* do?

I loathe the dentist.  Everything from the x-rays to the scraping; from the drilling to the icky taste of everything.  I just really, really hate the dentist. 

But, I know that good dental care is a big part of being a good diabetic.  I know that diabetes predisposes me to lots of tooth and gum problems, and I know that preventive dental care can save me from future pain and suffering.  I have good dental habits – I use a Sonicare toothbrush, which really is worth every penny.  I don’t floss, but I do use a Waterpik.  I know that these are positive steps, but they certainly don’t replace a good dental cleaning.

So, I made a dentist appointment.  That’s right.  On Wednesday, by 2:00pm, I’ll be sitting in that awful chair getting poked and prodded.  I’m proud and terrified.  I could use a good dose of SuperShan …

Wish me luck!

I’m feeling so many mixed emotions these days that I hardly know which way is up. 

My sister.  How do you accept that your sister is dying?  How do you reconcile hurt feelings and anger when the knowledge that her time is so limited is always weighing on your mind.  Am I allowed to be hurt when she hurts me?  Or do I have to just forget about it?  Am I allowed to feel taken for granted?  Or do I just accept the knowledge that I will never be as important to her as she is to me?  I don’t know the protocol and it’s killing me.

Babies.  When you’re trying to conceive, babies are everywhere.  They are in every conversation, every commercial.  They are discussed at meetings and social events.  You just have to grin and bear it.  Even when people complain about their lack of sleep/time/social life, you just have to shut up and nod accordingly.  Nevermind that you’d give your right arm to experience that lack of sleep/time/social life.  Nevermind the energy/time/money you’ve expended just to have a chance at a baby. 

Diabetes.  I hate you. 

This is, without a doubt, the hardest time of my life.  With the exception of Brian, I feel very alone.  I’m scared, angry, hurt, and sad.  The cracks in my shell are starting to show.

I guess I had a blog post in me after all.

Then there’s all this freaking snow!  I know that by the time August rolls around, I’ll be begging for snow (I do NOT like the heat), but this is just ridiculous.  There are snow banks so high and so large that you can’t see around them.  Everyday, when I leave my office, I feel like I’m playing Russian Roulette with the oncoming traffic. 

So, what I can’t figure out is this:

1.  Is all of this ickiness is making me feel like shit?

or

2.  Is it because I feel like shit that everything is so icky?

I know I sound like the poster child for Zoloft, and believe me, it has a place of honor next to my insulin.  I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety for as long as I can remember.  I know what this is, but I can’t just “shake it off.”  There are a lot of really shitty things going on in my life right now.

Now, with the infertility stuff weighing so heavily on my mind, I’m finding it very difficult to fake enthusiasm.  Yes, I’m happy for everyone out there who is currently having or has just given birth to a child.  But, please understand how painful it is for me right now.  I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I don’t want to see your new baby right now.  I don’t want to come over and talk about/hold/gush over him or her. I don’t want to see how cute your nursery is or look at your ultrasound pictures.  I’m very happy for you, and I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone, but I just can’t pretend right now.  I just can’t.

And to the asshole, who I overheard say: “infertility is the earth’s way of solving global warming,” I’d like to say that I hope you die a slow and painful death.

When I decided to freelance, my insurance coverage went out the window.  My diabetes, considered a pre-existing condition, excluded me from private insurance.  I considered going without insurance for a while, but although I’d managed to stockpile about three months of pump supplies, I knew that when they ran out, I was on my own.  Brian proposed in January, and with our wedding plans well underway, we decided to legally marry beforehand so that I could get on his work-sponsored insurance plan.

So, we requested our marriage license, and on a sunny Friday in June, I became his legal wife.  There was no wedding gown or bouquet, no exchange of rings, and no champagne toast.  There were no witnesses other than the officiant who performed the ceremony.  It was just Brian and me, and it was perfect.

What I realized that day was that I really couldn’t have cared less about a wedding.  What mattered to me was that I was marrying the man of my dreams. It was an emotional and scary moment when we exchanged vows.  It meant forever.  It still does, and it always will.

The best part of our secret marriage was that our *wedding* day was so much more fun because we’d already done the scary part.  It was exciting having a secret that few people knew about (including some in our wedding party).  I don’t think I’d have changed a thing.

Totally not related, but a really cute shot of Hoosier.

On Saturday, I got my period.  Again.  Deep down, I knew that I wasn’t pregnant, but I still secretly hoped that I was.  It was probably for the best because I wasn’t a good diabetic during those two weeks.  I had far too many highs (thanks to holiday eating), I took Advil, and I drank coffee.  I totally knew I wasn’t pregnant.

But, after reading Kerri’s blog yesterday, I wondered (not for the first time) if I am really meant to carry a child.  Maybe I’m not getting pregnant because I shouldn’t have a baby.  When I look at Kerri and read about her struggles, it scares the crap out of me.  I’m terrified that I would be doing more harm than good by having a baby.  I’m not as disciplined as I need to be.  I seem to want to take the “I’ll buckle down when it actually happens” kind of attitude.  But, will I?  Really?  I like to think that I will, but I have so much self-doubt at this point that I just can’t be sure.

Does everyone have these kinds of feelings?  Is it normal?  Is it just a diabetic thing?  Seriously, if you’re reading this and you can identify with it, please comment.

The good thing is that I couldn’t be more confident about being a parent.  Brian and I are SO on the same page when it comes to parenting styles.  We joke about how our kids are probably going to hate us, but we don’t want to be our kids’ friends.  We want to be their parents.  We want to teach them to be strong, confident, and independent.  They will learn the value of a dollar and do chores to earn it.  We will encourage their hopes and dreams, but also keep them grounded enough to appreciate the little things in life.  

The bottom line is this:  we both WANT children so badly that the absence of a child is physically painful.  With nearly everyone around us pregnant, we can’t escape the longing.  If the adoption process wasn’t such a terrifying prospect, I think we probably would have already started pursuing it.  We both want a child that is biologically ours, but we’d love an adopted child just as much.  

So, as I struggle through another month of uncertainty and doubt (and guilt), I try to remember the good things.  I’m free; and I’ve got a good job (not something everyone has today), a beautiful home, a fantastic new (to me) car, and the most wonderful husband in the world.  I’m truly lucky, and I love the life I’ve built.  I’m just missing that one, final piece to my puzzle.

On the bright side, this means that when I fly to Florida this Friday, I can (and will) take as much Xanax as I need.

I’m drinking tea again and hoping to get back on track.

When I finally found his office (in a large Baltimore hospital), I signed in and waited.  And waited.  It seemed like I was waiting forever, but it was probably just twenty minutes or so.  I am very impatient.  At last, his office door opened, he peeked his head out, found me, and gestured me inside.

At this point, “normal Shannon” disappears.  The thing is, Dr. S. intimidates me.  Not in a “you’re scary/mean/ultra smart” kind of way.  No, my problem is that he’s just so cute.  CUTE!  So, like any immature girl, I get all tongue-tied around him and say really stupid things.  Or nothing at all.  I forget simple words like “ointment;” thank God for the “low blood sugar” excuse – I pull that one out of the deck frequently.  Then, there’s the blushing.  I’m Irish, and I have very fair, freckled skin.  I blush often, but not in a pretty way.  I turn tomato red.

So, here’s what happened on Tuesday.  Dr. S. went over my labs (good!) and took me back into an exam room for the usual once over.  He did the thyroid feel, heartbeat check, lung-deep-breathing thing (why do they make you hyperventilate?).  With each touch, I’m turning redder.  He even wonders if I’m having some sort of allergic reaction (hives).  Ummm, no, I’m just a silly girl.  But, then comes the foot exam.

I like shoes.  I like pretty shoes, with high heels, and don’t even get me started on boots.  I spend a lot of money on shoes (my recent acquisition of the most amazing pair of Manolo boots is epic!).  I forgot the point of this because I’m thinking about shoes.  Damn!

Anyway, I’m lying back on the exam table when Dr. S. lifts up my foot (clad in the aforementioned Manolo boots).  He attempts to pull my boot off himself (OMG!).  I tell him that they zip up so I’ll have to do it.  He made some innocuous comment about my propensity for “nice shoes,” and the blushing starts anew.  So, I finally get the boot off, as well as my trouser sock (sort of fish-netty), and we both look at my other foot.

“Do you need me to take both off?”  I ask.

“Um, yeah.  Don’t I always?”  He responds.

“You’re so high maintenance!”  I respond.  I have no idea where that came from, but (thankfully) he laughed.

So, with my boots off, he checks the pulse on my feet (very good), and does the sensation test (also very good).  He declares my feet to be in excellent condition, but comments on the indentation that the seam of my trouser sock is causing in my toes (obviously caused by my pointy-toed boots).  He’s a little concerned, and tells me that it could be a problem.

“If you tell me that I have to wear ugly shoes, *we’re* gonna have a problem.”

Laughing, he tells me that if I had any sort of neuropathy, he’d have to pull the plug on my shoe obsession.  However, since my feet are fine, I’m spared a sentence of “ugly shoes.”

As if I needed more incentive to stay healthy.  Dr. S. is one smart endo.  Did I mention how cute he is?!?