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It started normally enough. I was in bed, listening to NPR through my earplugs, working up the energy to get up when the radio went into that unmistakable "BWAAAAAAAAA BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for Franklin County..." That's southwest of St. Louis, and - you guessed it - the storm was moving northeast at a healthy clip.

Regardless, I woke up Clara Jane and we started our usual pre-Thursday daycare routine until the tornado sirens started blaring before either of us had eaten breakfast or gotten dressed. But not before I threw up. I have no idea why. I feel fine. Perhaps my stomach felt the need to honor the food that came before last year. Clara Jane's terrified of vomit and does everything in her power to stop it. In this case, her tactic was to scream and cry, "Excuse you! Excuse you!" while I hurled.

Shortly after the vomitting bruhaha, the tornado sirens sounded. I grabbed our clothes, a bag of smoked almonds, a sippy of milk and a can of Diet Coke with Lime for breakfast, and some dog-chewies to lure the dogs to the basement. Chloe the Basset had no problems with that, but Murphy, who we will now call Toto decided that tornadoes are less scary than the basement stairs.

The storm was a weak one, but I take all tornadoes seriously. We went through some doozies when I was growing up in west-central Missouri. Yeah, my idiot neighbors were standing in the street with their little kids and we were going for cover. That's how I operate. Besides, the storm's path was the exact path we take to daycare, predicted to hit at the same time we'd be on said path.

We go to the basement with the dog, who eats both chewies, gagging on the last one and hacking it all over the office floor. That's Puking Incident #2 for the day, if you're keeping score at home. Not that it matters, because B.'s office is by far the most cluttered nightmare room in the house. When we entered I had to jump over Chloe to pick up the spilled box of chalk from the floor, knowing full well that if given the chance Chloe would rather eat and throw up the chalk, which isn't quite as tidy as the chewies.

The storm passed, and while I haven't checked I don't think we lost anymore trees. I'll be satisfied if the piles of former trees in our backyard have remained somewhat piles. We proceeded to daycare at warp speed, because I'd scheduled a doc appointment within minutes of the normal daycare drop-off time. Amazingly, storm be damned, we arrived at all locales somewhat on time.

My doctor's appointment was supposed to be a brief follow-up regarding the changes to my brain drugs over recent months. No biggie. Except there's something odd afoot. I've been losing weight. I mean, a lot of weight considering I haven't done anything different. Enough weight to make all my jeans and bras too big. Then there's the issue with my dire need for a nap at promptly 4:30 every other afternoon. In all my life, there have been two constants: I don't lose weight unless I starve myself, and I don't sleep until it's absolutely necessary. Now, I'm melting and sleeping.

According to my doctor, there are several possibilities.

The good possibility: Perhaps the brain drugs have done such a good job that the rest of my body chemistry has evened out and I'm finally processing sugar and calories the way I'm supposed to. I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, which is rooted in blood sugar/insulin issues.

The bad possibility: I'm exhausted and losing weight because the PCOS bloog sugar/insulin problems have gotten worse and I've become diabetic.

Wow.

You know, I hate it when people heap praise on those who have lost weight. To my fat ears, it always sounds like, "Wow! You look so great since you lost the weight! You really looked like shit before." I'll admit, there's a sick little part of me that hopes someone notices my weight loss and gushes, so I can say, "Thanks! It's because my liver and pancreas don't work and I get to stab myself in the hand three times a day!"

Speaking of which, I get to start doing that. Stabbing myself in the fingers three times a day to track my blood sugar. Boy, I'm excited about that! This should make knitting extra-fun.

So I did what any rational person facing a possible life-changing illness would do. I went on a bender.

It seemed like a better idea than $30-worth of Oreos.

Honestly, I'm not too concerned. Concerned enough that I'll do the testing, for sure. I've got a follow-up in six weeks, along with a bunch of bloodwork. Generally, I can tell when something's wrong with my blood sugar, and it doesn't really feel "wrong". When my doc tested it today, it was excellent, especially considering the stressful morning I had. I'm feeling pretty positive about it all, and even if I do turn out to be diabetic, I'll deal. I've had my moment of screaming, "This is so unfair! I almost never eat white sugar! I don't drink soda. I almost never eat white flour. The only time I eat white rice is when I go to the Indian buffet. I put Splenda in my coffee. I snack on nuts, yogurt, cheese, non-fat cottage cheese and shit like that. What the hell am I going to do if I'm diabetic? Eat nothing but raw meat?" I'm over it.

But seriously - I threw out a box of cookies last night because they'd gone stale. And they weren't even real cookies; they were those whole-grain Kashi cookiesque things! How can I possibly be diabetic?

I guess we'll find out in six weeks.