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  • Writer's pictureErin Spineto

Three at a Time

Three? Three at a time? Really? Three? Didn’t they learned in Kindergarten like the rest of us that’s it is the polite thing to take turns.

I could even have handle two of them at a time, but three? Why couldn’t it be that when the bronchitis wants a turn the diabetes politely says, “Oh, Bronny, you haven’t had a turn in a while, and I’m getting sick of this rain. Why don’t I take a little vacation to the Bahamas and you can have your turn with Erin.”

That way, when I have to take the steroids to return my lungs to the working condition, my blood sugars would remain stable instead of them climbing so high and being so unreasonably determined to remain that way. And when I have to stop exercising because my lungs no longer work it won’t cause my body to be resistant to the very insulin I need to stay alive.

And when my thyroid wants to join in on the party he would say kindly to Bronny and the diabetes in some haughty British accent, “Bronny, Tess, would you two mind considerably if I were to take a go with her. I have learned much from watching the both of you in your differing assaults on her health and would love the opportunity to try my hand.”

They both would acquiesce and be off. And while they are doing such a good job being so polite, possibly they could post a sign on the door that would elegantly deny access to my family from any other sort of illness that was hoping to take up residence.

As if its not hard enough to deal with a “very bad case” (said tongue firmly planted in cheek) of Diabetes, bronchitis so bad that to blow the propeller on my son’s remote control helicopter almost causes me to pass out, and a thyroid that has decided no longer to listen to its regulatory inputs and instead produce copious amounts of hormone whenever it feels the desire, I have a daughter with a stomach ache so bad to keep her out of school for a couple of days and a husband who has come down with a chest shaking cough only days before his biggest triathlon of the year.

So maybe I should bring that exasperated cry up to Five? Five at a time? Really? Five?

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