Fat Tony the "official poop collector"

This whole trip I could have been writing my thoughts; collecting them for the book I'll undoubtably write. But I couldn't. My brain hasn't worked at all today, and that all culminates here on the Pink Line to the Loop.

I'm sitting here, reflecting on the day and realizing that I was running purely on adrenaline and faith. Adrenaline from the, cold that kept my nose running and head aching, excitement that there might be a treatment for the diabetes I've been afflicted with for
-- Transfer at State to the Purple Line Express to Linden --
the last five years, and faith that the time had come. There's a movement to what's happened. A fluid motion in the continuity of it all.

A little more then a year ago I became part of an inhaled insulin study downtown. I would inhale and drop by or call with my blood-sugar readings, regularly give blood tests to ensure my levels were constant, and the occasional chest x-rays to make sure the inhaling process wasn't destroying my lungs. They were always impressed looking over my A1C, "its like you don't have diabetes at all." That's the same thing doctors, endocrinologists, and nurses have been saying for as long as I've had this. I actually remember the first time someone said it. I was at a visit to my first endocrinologist, Dr. Chang. His nurse looked down at my chart at the results of the A1C they'd drawn on my last visit. With a smile she said those same words I would become so accustomed to today. I've always just smiled, proud that I had been taking care of myself so well, been able to keep my levels stable, but there was also that other feeling. Something inside me clung to the words "don't even have diabetes," like there was a reason those specific words were used so consistently.

Then, last April, I had a conversation with a family friend, Dr. Moyyaid, at the Baha'i National Convention about what lead to my diagnosis.
-- Transfer at Fullerton to the Red Line to Howard --
He expressed interest in the knowledge that I had been to Jamaica and fell sick with dysentery three years before my diagnosis. He never smiled but pulled on his lip every time he heard something interesting. Dysentery. 21-years old. No family history. Healthy. He waited until he noticed I was looking around at the doors I was supposed to be ushering and stopped me, asking for me to come by his office on my vacation to Dallas at the end of May. He told me it could be a parasitic infestation in my gut. That it was common for people who did service or were missionaries to the Caribbean. I shrugged but agreed. He smiled, shaking my hand with determination and vigor. Like a man with an undeniable hunch. He told me he'd speak with my mom and dad some more, and grasped my shoulder before I ran back to the doors.

The next day, on the last day of convention, my mom told me that she and Dr. Moyyaid had been talking over lunch. That he felt confident in his earlier comments, and insisted that I come to his office in May. I agreed, and set it up.

-- Exited the Red Line at Sheridan, walked home --

On the first full day of my vacation, my grandfather, in a terrifying drive, brought me to Dr. Moyyaid's office. I won't get into the details about how he and his assistant arrived at their diagnosis or the odd layout and mumbo-jumbo craziness that spouted from them, but there it was. He confirmed it. There were, in fact, parasites in my lower intestines that he believed cased my diabetes. "And, if you take these supplements," he handed me two boxes housing two bottles each and another independent bottle, "we can clear out your gut, and get you healthy again." I was pretty excited. Not as excited as my mother, who wanted to reward this possible solution with mountains of gold purchased with the tears of both her and my grandmother.

So, I did it. I took the pills. They made me crap like a thunderbolt and fart like an elderly person after a prune health shake. My roommate complained about the smell. I complained about the smell! Still, Dr. Moyyaid told me that was normal and to, if I could handle it, stop eating meat to accelerate the process. So, I did. I stopped eating meat. And it my insulin requirements slowly began to drop. After two months of hypoglycemic miscalculations, my insulin requirements were cut in half. I told my family and they freaked out. I told the head of the inhaled insulin study and she, after seeing my readings, was baffled. Same with the doctor heading up the study.

When I called Dr. Moyyaid to reorder those supplements, however, I didn't return my calls. Weeks went by. Then a month, until he finally called me back. By then my numbers had gone back to where they were. Worse, actually, and I quietly cursed him for not getting back to me. For letting my numbers creep back up, even though it might not have been his fault at all. Here's where that faith part comes in. I just prayed. I prayed that if this was the time, if that was the moment I was supposed to be rid of my diabetes, so be it. If not...well, all right.

There were other situations where Dr. Moyyaid didn't get back to me. Two weeks here, two months there all piled up, and I noticed no change to my levels. Everything was back to where I had been before speaking with him. I shrugged the feelings that God was messing with me. Remembering all those comments from my parents and in Baha'i School about how tests are God's way of showing us He's paying attention. I thanked Him for the attention, and, where I would usually falter and my spiritual base crumble around me, kept going. Sure, there were a few moments where I cursed Him for messing with me like that, but very quickly I came back to remembering that feeling I had whenever a doctor came in with my chart.

This long entry all culminates to Friday, March 27th, the day after returning from a project-rich vacation to L.A. Out of no where I receive this friend invite on Myspace with a bizarre message about how this girl, Erin, had been stalking me online for three years now and decided to just introduce herself now. I hesitated. I checked her page and noticed my ex-girlfriend in her "Top-8". Also, she was attractive, which helped things, so I accepted the invite and started a conversation with her. Within a day I realized she wasn't crazy and we made a date to get tea Sunday night.

The "date" happened - was it a date or wasn't it still escapes me, but I don't know that it really matters for the story. We sat there at Uncommon Ground - a fitting choice for my desire to not be around alcohol as there was a bar, blurg - and talked for two hours about ourselves. She seemed interesting with her story of how she decided to quit medical school and, years later, was working toward her nursing degree at Loyola and obviously high intelligence level. Several times I looked at her, knowing full well that she was a nurse and would probably eat up the fact that I was a diabetic and perhaps even having this whole thing turn into a pity situation or diagnosis, and wondered how and when my illness would break through into the conversation. It took a while until the comment "I don't do sugar" that it came up. I was then telling her a short, much shorter then this mind you, version of how I got to where I was. She sat there confused, like something was knocking on a door somewhere in her brain, listening to me. After deciding we should get together again we went home. I went home and I shot myself in the butt with 15-units of Latus, and I went to bed.

Next day, Monday, there was a message in my inbox from Erin. She had done research after hearing about the parasite hypothesis Dr. Moyyaid had given me and pinpointed an article about a bug with the same symptoms and situation I found myself in right now. The key to this message was at the bottom: "These abnormalities are reversible after specific treatment for TS. / Translation: Get rid of your amoebas!!!" Treatment? Reversible? "Is there a specific person I should go to? A specialty doctor of some kind?" I fired back. It had begun.

So, here I am. I'm coming back from Rush Hospital downtown after scrapping two pieces of tightly packed, red poop into a vial with a disgusting smelling green fluid in the bathroom of a lab in the Professional Building to have them check for parasites and amoebas and being directed to five different offices in three different buildings. It didn't take long, actually. Like everything was set out in front of me. A path with arrows of gold tape pointing to that end destination. Whatever that may be is fine. If its all illuminated, great. If not, oh well. I've lived through it all. Continued to draw breath and my prayer book to thank God for all the attention...even though I do hope this is the last of this specific test.