It's been four weeks since I posted on this blog -- something you may or may not have noticed. To say I've been "busy" and even "overwhelmed" would be a fairly substantial understatement. Sometimes, life is like that. And I think I can reasonably assume that you (each and every one of you that read this) have noticed that.
I won't bore you with the gory details. Suffice it to say, they've been pretty gory. Emotionally, not physically, but gory nonetheless. Yet here I am, still standing (so far) and back for another round. Or another year. Or another dance around the floor of being useful. It's my mission.
I once had a friend who became one of my heroes when she systematically dirtied all her dishes, cups and glasses, pots and pans, silverware and cooking utensils, took one look at the mess she had made, and then boxed it all up and lugged it to the curb. I would never do something like that myself, you understand. I can't afford it, for one thing. But I'd get tired of living with it all long before I was through the process. Still, it's the kind of thing we might dream of doing when we're tired of being "good."
I declare inside the front cover of my book, Your Life Isn't Over ~ It May Have Just Begun!, that I am not a medical professional. I can't diagnose or treat illness (my own or anybody else's). And furthermore, each body is different, so what works for me may not work for you. Having said that, however, there are some things I've learned about managing diabetes -- and health in general -- that are valuable information. Playing an active role in your health care process is one of them.
If you're one of my regular readers, you know that I often write about ways my diabetic condition has actually helped me. It got me down to a healthier (and cuter) weight. It kind of semi-forces me to exercise, which I would definitely not do if I wasn't diabetic. And it has introduced me to some delicious foods I probably would never have even tried if I was still gorging on fried everything and washing it all down with big gulps of sweet tea.
But there are more subtle ways learning how to manage diabetes has served me well and today's post is going to feature a couple of them.
Some of you might be surprised to learn that a woman who teaches college full-time at the age of 70 spent a decade on food stamps earlier in her life. And I make no apology for it. I got my first job at 13, worked in high school, and started paying income tax while I was still an adolescent. Not to mention sales tax and all of the other taxes and fees I've paid through the years to support our system that so often doesn't support us.
For my first five years on food stamps, I had two small children, no child support, and no college degree. That was before Bill Clinton ushered in the policies that forced women into jobs that could not begin to keep their kids from going hungry. So I could receive assistance for five years, during which time it helped my kids and me to eat. Not well, but regularly.
I don't write much about my father. He had a fatal flaw. Maybe even more than one. But it occurred to me this morning that he gave me one gift that keeps on giving -- in a good way. He was a "management analyst" (whatever that means). Not that he talked about it much. When I asked him as a child what he did when he went to work, he replied with a chuckle that he "pushed papers around."
But what I saw, week after week, month after month, until I left his house at eighteen years of age, was my father sitting at a table with his checkbook, an accounting ledger, and a little red metal bucket full of bills, addressing them one after another. He didn't explain what he doing, let alone how he was doing it, but that image is burned into my mind and it has guided me through the years in ways that never let me down when I followed the guidance.
I'm no doctor or nurse. In fact, I'm not a trained health professional at all. And I know that each body is different. Some of us are older than others. We represent different genders and body types. Some of us jump out of planes for fun. And some of us can't get out of bed. It's complicated. But I hope that, if I communicate anything at all in these posts, one of the principal messages that comes across is that balance is key to managing diabetes.
When I was diagnosed with our shared condition in February of 2008, all I heard was, "Here's a list of everything you ever loved about food and drink that you can't ever eat or drink again" (a list four feet long) "and here's a list of what you can eat and drink from this point forward" (a list that fit tidily on one page of a 4" x 6" notebook). New information was coming at me so fast, I couldn't possibly catch it all, let alone understand it. So I got some of it confused. And I got some of it wrong. And I missed some of it altogether. Not to mention brushing some of it aside until later -- years later, actually -- because it was complicated and my brains were already stir-fried.
Twice this week, I was greatly appreciated for behaving in a kind manner. In both cases, the people involved compared my actions to those of others they had recently come into contact with. And in one case, a server actually wouldn't accept my tip because he was so grateful that I had been "nice." It's sad to me that people in public places treat those who serve them badly, so I wound up making a joke about acting like a "grown-up." But later, I got to thinking that -- though all of us grow old -- not all of us grow up.
Therapists call it "catastrophizing" and I used to be really good at it. It means going into a panic about any little thing. A flat tire? That would be good enough to convince me the Universe was crashing. Being unable to find a parking spot? I just knew it was going to cost me my job. Locking my keys in the car would send me over the edge in a New York minute. Spilling a quart of orange juice on the kitchen floor when I'm late for an appointment would make me suicidal. And don't even think about having some restaurant worker overcook my eggs! I could go into a tizzy over anything -- big or small -- and the amount of emotion was pretty much the same. The word had been rubbed right off my panic button a long time ago.
Over the years, I made some progress with not jumping to the conclusion that my life was over every time I had a bad day. But what really helped me get the hang of breathing through minor (or even not so minor) difficulties was being diagnosed with diabetes. All of a sudden, my uncontrolled emotions could -- and generally did -- send my blood glucose levels through the roof. And now, instead of just a flat tire, I was dealing with something that could turn into a real catastrophe.
