I was recently diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. I suppose it shouldn't come as a shock considering how little I exercise, how poorly I eat, and how my BMI has just tipped into the "obese" category. Welcome to middle America. As a self-proclaimed spokesperson for the ballooning (no pun intended) middle class, I can assure you that it is not lack of knowledge that has led to my current condition. The VAST majority of us know what to do: exercise daily, eat vegetables with every meal, drink plenty of water, don't smoke, don't do drugs, get plenty of rest every night. The problem is that we live, uh, ON PLANET EARTH. Here in the REAL world there are mortgages and bills that oftentimes necessitate extra workdays, there are active needy children that require long endless hours of attention, and there are domestic conflicts and date nights and girls nights out, all of which cut into the time, money, and effort required for the recommended "healthy lifestyle" necessary to avoid chronic obesity-related diseases like diabetes. There are meals on the run, comfort foods, responsibilities, stress, pure exhaustion - the mantra of every unhealthy and overweight person.
"I don't have time." How many times have I said or thought that phrase in response to admonitions to change my lifestyle? I have an endless supply of justifications for my unhealthy choices. There were bad days, bad break ups, celebrations, Happy Hours, holidays, parties, vacations -- and this was all before I became a mom. After my children were born, it only got easier to validate my poor choices. I stopped going to my gym because I didn't want to take precious "quality time" away from my children (the burden of every working mother and the subject for another discussion). I was tired every day because my kids kept me up at night so exercise fell ever further down my priority list. I no longer even thought of a balanced diet for myself because I only had enough energy to cook meals appealing to my little toddlers.
I read somewhere that "the currency of love is time" and I wanted my children to have as much of my love currency as possible. If it came at my own personal expense, then so be it! After all, I reasoned, isn't this type of sacrifice the true hallmark of a good mother?
My kids are going on 4 years old. I was diagnosed with diabetes less than a month ago. It now occurs to me that if the currency of love is time, perhaps I should have spent some of that precious time loving myself. Of course hindsight is always 20/20.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my variety of diabetes is not simply a number after getting my blood drawn showing a steadily rising hemoglobin A1C level that is about as frightening as a bad grade on an exam. No, I had the misfortune to present with actual symptoms. Less than a month ago, a sharp stabbing pain started throbbing along the side of my head. Assuming it was a tension headache, I took Tylenol then ibuprofen. After a couple of days, when the pain did not abate but rather intensified waking me up in the middle of the night from a deep sleep, I called my doctor and requested Vicodin to get me over this bout which I still assumed was a tension headache. She reluctantly acquiesced and I used Vicodin to get me through two more painful days and nights. But instead of subsiding, the headache only intensified. By the end of the 5th day I was literally reduced to tears, writhing in pain and unable to sleep at night despite the Vicodin (which has the lovely side effects of nausea and constipation). When I was in so much pain I was unable to stand up for any prolonged period of time and I had to call in sick to work, that's when I decided to go to my doctor and get checked out. One blood draw later and I had a diagnosis of diabetes. I didn't even know that diabetes could cause headaches. I learned something new, albeit the hard way.
Since my diagnosis, my lifestyle has drastically changed. And, quite honestly, most days it sucks. On days when I've ingested a few too many carbohydrates or sugars, my headache comes back, a klaxon alarm and reminder that I now have a chronic illness. While I never considered myself a true foodie, I was able to enjoy and appreciate a magnificent meal at Manresa or Pampas from time to time. I was able to indulge in carbohydrate laden snacks at movie theaters. I didn't think twice about putting crackers in my soup or eating a roll with my salad.
Those ingrained habits are now a thing of the past. No juice or even fruit in the mornings at breakfast. No desserts, ever. I don't even carelessly pop an after dinner mint into my mouth after a date night dinner out. Speaking of which, the first several date nights following my diagnosis usually ended with me in tears of self-pity after scouring the nutritional content of every food item while bitterly reflecting bygone carefree meals of the past.
No, food is no longer my friend.
My 44th birthday is rapidly approaching. There will be no birthday cake for me. I don't even want to go out to dinner with friends because I know that I will be salivating over their entrees and turning every shade of green with envy. I am cranky and short-tempered with my husband and kids. I find myself angrily regarding people who are waaay larger than myself wondering why THEY can eat a plate of pasta that would give ME a headache so severe I would end up in the fetal position for a week.
I know it's not cancer. I know there are WAY far worse diseases to have. And I know that I am fortunate to be aware of my diagnosis while I am still young enough to do something about it. My sainted husband scours the internet studying up on what will or will not help me avoid the many complications of diabetes, and every evening is a new experiment in how to make home-cooked meals that are within the tight confines of my new diet yet still palatable (a work in progress).
Still, for now, if I want to cry a little when no one is looking, I will.
