Even though I had figured out HOW to eat, I still hadn't figured out why I slept so involuntarily and deeply.  A possible answer came to me the other day, as I was researching diabetes in preparation for my endo appointment this month.

Apparently, the remaining beta cells in my pancreas are few.  I used to (practically) live on sugar alone.  I put three teaspoons of sugar in my tea.  I snacked on chocolate covered almonds and chocolate covered fruit all day long.  I was famous for a recipe called "oatmeal bars" that called for a cup of white sugar, a cup of brown sugar, and a cup of chocolate chips (not to mention the carbs in the flour, even though it was lower-glycemic spelt), which I baked every few days.  When I was a kid, I would spend my allowance on a bag of Smarties *pure sugar*, which would be half gone by the time I walked home.  One by one, my beta cells gave up the ghost as I forced the fountain of insulin to erupt instead of trickle.

So there they are, Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, the last of my beta cells, bravely defending the Alamo of my pancreas.  Their only chance to succeed rests on their alliance with my brain.  If they can cause a shut-down of the whole works and get all the other shooting to stop, they've got a fighting chance to get that insulin out there.  Right now, they've got a good thing going with The Big Guy (my brain), who clamps down on the ammunition supply to the other systems in favor of the beta cells, but we all know how the Alamo ended.  Eventually, I'll only be able to remember the Alamo as I hit my insulin pump and manually do the work formerly done by Jim and Davy.

But as long as I can avoid the need to produce insulin in the first place, I can give my heroes a breather, and keep Santa Anna out of the Alamo.  For now.