It begins...
I found out a year or so ago that I have Type II diabetes. So I immediately went to work ignoring the problem and pretending everything was fine.
I’ve got two kids, and early this Summer I had an EPIPHANY. I really don’t want to die. I’d like to see my girls launched on their own set of adventures and happy before I go. So thinking sensibly, I decided to start changing my life on July 1, three days before one of the happiest eating events of the whole year. Burgers, chips, corn on the cob, picker salad (a diabetic's dream – known to some as Ambrosia…), and ice cream, and whatever else you lay your hands on because DAMN it tastes good. And it’s a holiday. Eating is mandatory!
So I started on the 5th instead.
Some history. I’m vertically challenged at 5’ 2”. I spent my early adult years being around 145 pounds – and just let’s f*** the BMI index because I am a strong as a bull, with big powerful muscles, and I’m big boned. It’s a thing. Really. My best friend for life is a ballerina whose wrists were always about half the width of mine, even when we were kids. Okay, so I was never thin. At my best I was quite curvy and...Reubenesque. But there was a time, long, long ago, when I wasn’t fat. And that’s where my story begins…
So when I was twelve, I weighed about 100 lbs. I had really bad asthma, back when they didn’t have inhalers and you had to take a pill and gasp for an hour before you got any relief. I could ride a bike for hours, and play volley ball, but I couldn’t jog, or play field hockey, that sort of thing, without having an immediate and fairly severe attack. I was raised by parents who believed that when the weather was fair you should be outside doing something, so I would say except for the breathing, I was an active kid, walking, bike riding, exploring, and swimming. So I was by no means sedentary as a child. There was limited TV programming back in the dark ages, and even more limited TV viewing in our home, as well as strict rules in the house forbidding helping one’s self to food. Our family joke was coming home from school and asking “What’s for snack?” and my mother’s inevitable response was “There are apples in the back hall.” She’d buy them by the bushel. And she wasn’t kidding. No Twinkies or Rings Dings for us. I was deeply resentful, watching all my friends open their lunch boxes and pull out chips, Devil Dogs, and candy bars. Not to mention the ‘rich’ kids who got to eat THE HOT LUNCH at school. I would get a cream cheese and jelly sandwich and an orange. Sorry, Mom but f*** that. I borrowed, begged and stole to get something I actually wanted to eat. Which was a deep source of shame. But I did it anyway.
I loved food. And I just couldn’t ever get enough. We were sometimes allowed to have seconds at dinner, but if I wanted it, it came garnished with disapproval. Sometimes it was still worth it. Salad with every meal, and no one left the table until it had all been eaten. And dessert on weekends, but not a regular thing. And seconds on dessert was garnished with a whole lot more disapproval. My brothers always got these huge (to my twelve-year-old mind) servings of dessert, and my sisters and I would get a lot less. I don’t know how, but one day I got the stones to ask my parents why, if dessert was flavor and not for nutrition, the boys should get larger portions than the girls. I don’t remember what they said (probably because I realized what I had just done...) but I do remember it was an unwelcome question and I’m sure some suitable punishment was meted out. My parents trucked no sassiness or back-talk. And I love them for it. Now.
As an adult with kids, I get what my parents were trying to accomplish. And I appreciate it, although sometimes the guilt backfired. It made me feel worse, and it just made me want to eat more. First chance I’d get, I’d ride my bike into town and spend my entire allowance buying all the junk food I could afford. I’d eat it on the way home, and feel so good for a little while…until I started to feel bad. It became a vicious circle that controlled my life, on and off, for a lot of years.
Then when I was twelve we moved abroad to Germany, also known as CHOCOLATE HEAVEN. I gained twenty pounds in 14 months, chiefly because I stopped at the same market almost every school day morning and bought a delicious, creamy, mind-blowing chocolate bar, and ate it on the way to school. Did I feel good about it? No. Did it taste unbelievable? Yes it did.
Next up – college. Lots of everything except effort. I still remember walking into the refectory for the first time and standing in awe. I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. It was heaven. Well, it looked like heaven at the time. Actually, it was hell. I gained my freshman fifteen (okay twenty-five) and for the next ten years I weighed about 145. I was able to maintain that weight by smoking a pack of Newport cigarettes every day.
Then I got married. Add 30 pounds.
Then I got pregnant.
And the game changed. It wasn’t just me now; a rather jaded, unhappy person who desperately wanted to be someone other than who I was. There was a life other than my own to consider. So I quit smoking. The day the stick turned blue. I went to my favorite spot overlooking my favorite river and smoked one last cigarette, cherishing every drag. I never went back to it.
And now I weigh 210 pounds. I gained 50 pounds with my first child, eating nothing but healthy foods for the whole nine months. I had occasional desserts, but no alcohol, no caffeine, no excessive eating, hardly any junk food at all. I walked every day, I drank water, I fell asleep every time I sat down, and I’m still proud of how seriously I took being healthy for my baby. But I still went from 175 to 225 pounds. Hey, I just realized that I’ve actually already lost fifteen pounds of my baby weight. In only eighteen years! I’m so proud.
So some people out there might be sipping their seltzer with lemon and reading this and saying “What a pathetic loser.” And some are saying OMG, that’s me. I’M NOT ALONE! This blog is for anyone who wants to read it. (Please share if you like it.) In one sense it’s hard to be honest and raw and risk other people’s opinions. On the other hand, I’m now 52 and discovering the joys of not giving a flying f*** what other people think about me. I welcome discourse. Any respectful exchange of ideas is good. If it's funny, even better. This blog is for people who like to laugh, and who might find some useful tips, or some benefit in commiseration.
I’m sort of a solitary person. I don’t enjoy large crowds, or lots of noise, and my days off I spend largely by myself, working my garden, taking photographs, writing, walking, reading, puttering around. This is a stretch for me. I’m going to write, and post, when I feel like it, and try to chronicle my intended journey from being an unhealthy Type II on three diabetic medications to a healthier, perhaps happier person. I’ve lost one person I dearly loved to diabetes. I don’t want to be that person to someone else.
ENJOY. All comments welcome.
