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Sunday, June 25, 2017

Most Type 2 Diabetics Who Are Not on Insulin Do Not Require Constant Blood Glucose Monitoring │ Doctors and Their Suicidally Silent Depressions

With just myself home last evening, I opted to tune in a movie, hoping I wouldn't end up with a loser like the one I sat through the previous Saturday ─ a stinker that had me rooting for the intrepid astronauts battling a squid-like creature that developed from a microbe picked up on Mars.

The astronauts sacrificed themselves to prevent the creature from reaching Earth, but their sacrifices were in vain. It outsmarted them, and was patiently waiting inside the module as some poor Thai or Vietnamese fishermen worked their way over to the floating module and pried open its hatch.

And that was that ─ the asses who produced this atrocity didn't bother offering anything more. Humanity was done.

The movie I selected last evening and watched was titled A Cure for Wellness.

Just towards the end it appeared to me that the main character had failed in his struggle against the diabolical spa in the Alps, and was now destined to become one of the willing victims.

However, he managed to access the final vestiges of normalcy ─ something I was not expecting; and in so doing, was able to intervene when the spa director ─ actually, a baron over 200 years old ─ was about to force his bound virginal daughter into a rape so that he could impregnate her and thereby keep his family line genetically pure.

It looked like the main character and the young lass rode off into the night on a bicycle to start a life together somehow, leaving the spa structure ─ formerly a fortress ─ burning down for the second time in its history; but that of course leaves far too much unexplained to just simply accept that it would be a case of HEA.

However, at least I could hold onto that potential outcome and go to bed far less disturbed than I did a week earlier.

I must say, I had no idea that actress Mia Goth was as ample as she proved to be in the topless scene where her father tries to sexually penetrate her.  

If I was the young man of my 20s, I am sure that I would have fallen in love with the character she played, wishing that I had someone like her to cycle away with from the bleakness of my existence to a life somewhere with her.

I don't remember when it was that I made it to bed ─ I just know that it was after 11:00 p.m. And after my usual night of broken sleep, I made one last bid to gather just a little more slumber after checking the time around 5:44 a.m.

That gave me about another hour in bed.

My youngest stepson Poté had come home at some point last night after my bedtime, and was still in bed when I went downstairs to make my day's first hot beverage.

Anon, though, he would rise, for he apparently had to work today.

I had a vague hope of getting out for some local grocery shopping, but priority was to be given to an exercise session in the backyard tool shed before my younger brother Mark managed to show up from where he had spent the night at his girlfriend Bev's home.

So around 9:00 a.m., I was out in the shed tackling that exercise. It was already becoming humid and warm in there, so it is well that I got at it when I did.

I don't think Mark showed up until shortly after 10:00 a.m. I was busy building the foundation of a new post at my Latin Impressions website, the weakest of my six hosted websites where visitors are concerned.

Mark was to seek a nap late in the morning; and while he was doing so, I fixed myself my first meal of the day.

I don't know how successful Mark's bid at napping was, but when he emerged from his bedroom, it wasn't too long thereafter that I heard him readying to leave for the afternoon ─ with some cans of a brand of coolers.

I verified that he intended to go somewhere where he could enjoy some sunshine and have some peaceful drinks. My guess is that he would either go to Bear Creek Park here in Surrey, or maybe go down by the Fraser River.

Since I was home alone once he was away (my eldest stepson Tho had spent the night elsewhere), I was soon to get in some sunning on the backyard sundeck.

That session commenced at 1:30 p.m., and I wrapped it up at 2:39 p.m. I could barely endure lying out there ─ the day is so hot! In fact, when I came inside, the heat began to feel as if it was approaching an intolerable level.

I leafed through the morning Province downstairs; and then I came upstairs here to the room where I have my computer ─ and a rapidly-rotating ceiling fan. Conditions felt better.

Now for want of anything else, I am going to post this scan I made of an old photo from the collection of my mother Irene Dorosh ─ there is no information on the back of the photo, so I have no idea when nor where the photo was taken:

You may or may not know that Type 2 diabetics do not necessarily have to take insulin, but you likely have the image of diabetics keeping tabs on their blood sugar levels with periodic needle-pricks of a finger so that they can assess just where they stand at any given time.

Well, research has come out with the claim that for most of those diabetics who do NOT need to take insulin, this practice is unnecessary:


Here are a couple of other reports concerning that study:



As a woman in that last report states, she was rather obsessive about this monitoring.

That leads me to wonder how many of these qualifying diabetics are so ingrained with the notion of this testing being essential that they will be unable to fully stop it, even if they learn that it may not be of any benefit?

Another item that caught my interest today relates to suicide rates according to professions.

For example, this October 18, 2011, article titled The 19 Jobs Where You're Most Likely To Kill Yourself at BusinessInsider.com seems to have considerable variance when compared to this May 11, 2017, article titled The Jobs With The Highest And Lowest Suicide Rates at HuffingtonPost.ca.

But accepting that physicians are in an elevated risk of suicide by virtue of their profession, the following report gives an itneresting perspective on it:


Although he did not link to it, he did cite this article as a reference:


The New York Times had a related article that was published back on January 11, 2016: Silence Is the Enemy for Doctors Who Have Depression.

I have to admit always wondering why professionals like physicians would be more likely to suicide than some poor working slob with no hopes of anything better in life, performing the same mindless drudgery all bloody day long ─ each and every day of the workweek ─ for a working lifetime.

It would kill me. 

Well, I had better get this post finished up and published ─ for all I know, my wife Jack may yet show up late this afternoon or early evening from Vancouver, and my brother Mark may even arrive home from the bar early.

So here now is a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. I was renting in a private house on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

At the time, I was about a month into a full-time contract of about three months duration at a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is known today as Fraserside Community Services Society.

I was a swamper on their blue pick-up truck, a role that I had held previously on a very part-time basis ─ off and on ─ back to at least 1974. The driver of that truck was usually a grand gal in her early 40s named Esther St. Jean.

In its earliest years, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building on Carnarvon Street. That building was torn down long ago, but back then it was located where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now opens up onto Carnarvon Street.

There was some manner of S.A.N.E. social function set for that evening that I had only mentioned once before in my journal, so I have no details concerning it to recall.
FRIDAY, June 25, 1976

Up by 6:30 a.m.

The day wasn't too hard on me, though the excessive vegetation (including a whole turnip for breakfast) upset the order of my digestive system.

I got off work today quite before 3:00 p.m., and shall be in shape for the supper at S.A.N.E. tonight.

I stopped at Safeway for $5.81 worth of groceries.

I was soon in bed having a short nap.

The supper went well. In all I had 8 pieces of chicken, a fair amount of Chinese food, 2 pieces of cake and 2 buns, potato salad, a cup of coffee, and 2 glasses of wine. 

We played a number of games for prizes (I won a pair of socks in a card draw).

In attendance among the guys were Mike Fleming and friend Ken, Bill Sevenko, Gordie, Thor, and Peter; Took couldn't get himself out of the Dunsmuir in time.

The evening didn't break up till after 10:00 p.m.

Bed at 11:00 p.m. 
Everyone I mentioned were likely part-time employees of S.A.N.E. Evidently one employee never managed to extricate himself from the Dunsmuir Hotel beer parlour to attend.

But was the function held at S.A.N.E. itself? I have no idea. If so, then the absence of "Took" was unforgivable, for the hotel and the building housing S.A.N.E. were practically neighbours.

I think the guy still owed me $20, too. 

He could afford to drink beer all evening, but not pay me up.
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