Near-Death Experience

Okay, so it's been what, about five hours, since I lasted posted? A lot has happened since then.

Well, not really. I spent most of that time playing Solitaire (for an hour and more) or finishing Great Expectations.

That's what I did... but what happened to me scared me stiff.

Backstory: This morning my car's locks were frozen, probably due to carwashing yesterday. My memory said nothing about having locked it, so I thought it was the whole door that was frozen--but unlocked. To make a long story short, I nearly busted my arms and the door handles trying unsuccessfully to break into my own car. I didn't succeed. I gave up for an hour or two to let the car defrost some, and succeeded on the third try later (after having missed, non-problematically, English class) to unlock the door, which then opened like a charm.

That was just me being stupid, but the upshot of it was that not only did I miss English, but I really strained my arms and hands, leaving me with a dull ache all day and, more pertinently to where this is going, a general feeling of weakness in my hands.

Fast forward to this evening, after my last post. I compound the lightness in my hands by playing Solitaire for an hour and more, a procedure that, due to the non-ergonomicness of my desk, cuts off the circulation a wee bit. When I got to Great Expectations, my hands were rather weak-feeling indeed, as if my circulation was not so good.

Not TOO long later, whilst reading... let's say two hours ago, I start to notice this general feeling of poor circulation, and take some pains to encourage my blood to flow to my hands, and my brain (no doubt tired of reading, momentarily) decides to invent a conspiracy theory wherein my diabetes is not so well-managed as I have been led to believe, and that I am exhibiting the first signs of the overall poor circulation typical of diabetics with poor control.

In finding support for this theory, my brain decides that the sleepiness in my legs is another symptom--a very spurious relationship as that is quite simply the result of being elevated by sitting in a crossed-legged position. In addition, however, it adds the fact that I need a new glasses prescription--again ignoring a pertinent fact, here the fact that my left eye, far from getting worse, actually improved.

Murphy's Law holding as true in Edmonton as anywhere else, I felt my bloodsugars dropping about this time. Too much insulin or not enough food at supper, apparently (more likely the latter, thinking back... shrimp and noodles in alfredo sauce is okay, but not a favourite for me). So with this persisting weakness/lighthandedness in my fingers and palms, I head down to the cafeteria (still with nose in my book, I might add) to remedy that fact.

I'm not sure how I found the time to think it over, because I don't recall putting down Great Expectations, beyond the unlit hallway I didn't bother to light, but I certainly had time to ponder what it would really mean if I was loosing control of my diabetes--or, rather, if it was too late to do anything about it.

And I was scared. Scared to the point of ridiculous.

And very, very serious.

My first thought was that if it looked like I wouldn't be able to manage my diabetes with the hectic schedule of a priest or seminarian, then I'd have to leave: either voluntarily or under orders.

That scared me. Badly. I haven't a clue what else I would do with my life. And I'd have a debt, since the free room and board the Diocese pays for is then 50% mine to repay. (Now, in real life if they kicked me for medical reasons, I might be able to expect it to be waived, but this didn't occur to me.)

And then I began to contemplate what else I would do... nothing occurred to me. If I'm not fit to be a seminarian/priest, then I doubt I'd be fit for most jobs. Who would I be dependent on? My family? Who else?

The thought also occurred to me (perhaps absurdly, though I'm inclined to think not) that I might end up married if I didn't make the cut for the priesthood. Not so absurd if I was healthy and left of my own accord, but I'd rather necessarily be a rather poor prospect if I was kicked out on medical grounds. What girl would want to be saddled with a shortened-lifespan, physically-weaker, lost and clueless guy?

(As an aside: I retained either enough whimsy or else was so serious I was, well, serious, that I know who I'd WANT to fall in love with/marry, possibly. Though I'm not sure I'd want to dump that broken, fictional ex-seminarian on her...)

That was about it. I regained my blood-gluclose equilibrium, and finished Great Expectations. I was, and am, sane enough to dismiss this crackpot hypothesis and projection of the future as having no real ground to stand on. I am, after all, studying Logic this semester, and as demonstrated above, none of my premises is really true, and therefore my conclusion is invalid.

All the same, though, the thought scared me--as I've kind of made clear. Death doesn't scare me. I'm sure enough of the afterlife and what it's like that I think I have as good or better a chance than most at ending up all right. (And the best thing is... if there's no afterlife, I'll never know.)

But the process of dying scared me horribly... I don't mind the idea of going quickly, be it at gunpoint or car accident, or whatnot. But if it were to drag on for years, leaving me unable to earn a living... that's what scared me, the idea of being shunted into dependence and uselessness before I'd even had a chance to earn the care of the Church or a wife.

It still gives me the jibblies. I'm going to bed.