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."
Some things can be planned and some resist you like a two-year-old full of birthday cake. And you can't always tell which are going to be which.
One thing that seems to be working pretty well for me right now is coming home after I shop at my favorite grocery store and remembering to do their online survey. I've mentioned this before because, while I have a few friends who are so much better off financially than I am that it really doesn't matter (within reason) how much they spend -- on groceries or anything else -- most of the people I know have to count their pennies more or less.
I'm not sure when the store implemented the practice of offering a five-dollar coupon for filling out the survey. I mean, by the time I spend an hour reading labels at the end of a long day and go through the process of checking out, I'm pretty brain dead. So past the perfunctory "thank yous" I trade with the cashier, there's little real communication going on at that stage.
Those of us who have diabetes may get a lot of finger-wagging from medical professionals, family members, and even friends about high blood sugar. And it's absolutely true that if we're not managing our condition, if we're eating more than we should, forgetting to take our medication, or eating the wrong things, our blood glucose will be high and our risk of developing complications -- like blindness or strokes or heart attacks or neuropathy (which can cause us to lose an arm or a leg) -- are greatly increased. So I take this really seriously and try very hard to keep my numbers down where they belong.
But since 2008, when I was first diagnosed, I've had a number of adventures with low blood sugar, which can come on fast, is sometimes no fun to deal with, and can be dangerous itself. Low blood sugar can occur if we get busy and forget or don't take time to eat. It can occur if we accidentally take more medication (especially insulin) than we need. And it can occur if we exercise even moderately for a half hour or more. And those are just a few of the examples.
Last week, I told you about an event where I sold ten books in thirty minutes -- a very unusual experience in my process to interest people in the book I published a year ago, Your Life Isn't Over ~ It May Have Just Begun.
This week, my story is vastly different. I stood (or perched on a stool) for three hours while literally hundreds of people strolled by at a huge downtown event and sold...wait for it...none. I was just outside the door of a popular bookstore, had a snappy double poster on an easel to catch the attention of passers-by, and tried to make sure I wore an inviting smile. But no dice.
This time last year, I had just brought out my book, Your Life Isn't Over ~ It May Have Just Begun!, I had an official launch event scheduled for October (National Diabetes Awareness Month), and I was feeling my oats. Everyday, I did something to promote my new book -- handing out flyers, attending and speaking at health fairs, talking to medical professionals, giving away book after autographed book (that I was paying for) -- and I just knew I was going to help all kinds of people suffering with diabetes. After all, there are thirty million of us and an additional five thousand new cases diagnosed every day! How could I go wrong?
As the weeks and then months went by, however, I slowly but surely realized that most folks that share my condition don't want to think about it and certainly won't pay to read about how they could (let alone need to) change how they are dealing with it -- or not. I shook my head sadly, admitting that I should have expected this disappointment, but the fact is that had I done so, I quite possibly wouldn't have written the book at all. It was a lot of work and cost me money to publish and distribute. And while I was proud of my accomplishment, I didn't have much to show for it.
When I was first diagnosed with diabetes in 2008, I was 5 foot 6 inches tall and weighed 168 pounds. I was put on oral medications. I started counting carbohydrate grams like my life depended on it (because I was convinced that it did). I started hitting the gym regularly. And six months later, I weighed 118. The weight had just melted off.
Nobody was more surprised than me. I went from a size 14 to a size 2. I was rocking long form-fitting sweaters and skinny jeans. And I was almost glad I was diabetic. But the diabetic nurse educators took one look at my tiny body and told me I was borderline underweight, not good at my age. And I stayed that way for five years.
I readily admit that my orientation to family (unfortunately, perhaps) is less than warm and fuzzy. I realize I wouldn't even be here if my father and mother hadn't...well...you know. And I'm glad they did, of course.
But my father was a pedophile and my mother was psychotic, so my childhood was right up there with "Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?" on steroids. I don't even like to imagine what happened to my two younger brothers and two younger sisters after I ran for my life at eighteen. It has taken me seven decades to reach a point where I'm not dragging the wreckage of my past around behind me like a dirty blanket -- often for all the world to see.
At some point in my adulthood, however, I came across a book that I found helpful in processing my "issues" and some of its ideas have remained useful over time. It was a book on "self-parenting."
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.
Few of us will ever run a marathon. Several years ago, I won a 5K run for women in my age range (coming within a hair's breadth of beating the first place male) and I'm still bragging about it. I haven't run competitively since because there's nowhere to go from there but down. And I get older every day that I stay alive.
My point is that running 27 miles is more than most of us are up to, especially as we age. People do it, but it takes a lot of training. It takes a lot of commitment of both time and energy. And it takes the willingness to push through the wall you hit when your body say "no." From what I understand, it's that last factor that really makes the difference. And that's the topic of today's post.
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.
When I was a little girl, my mother used to sing a song I only vaguely remember. It went something like: "The thigh bone's connected to the leg bone and the leg bone's connected to the ankle bone..." and on and on from there. It had a catchy tune, so I liked it. But it also taught me an idea that has become very important to me as a person living with diabetes: things that don't necessarily appear to be connected often are, so everything I do (or don't do) affects my body and, ultimately, affects my condition, as well.
Today's post is going to feature some of the connections I've discovered since I was first diagnosed eight and a half years ago. Since each body is different, yours may not work just like mine in a particular way, but hopefully, you will find some useful information in what I've learned. Or at least, you may begin to look for the things that are connected for you.
Last week, I wrote about why we should feel perfectly all right applying for and spending Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (better known as SNAP) funds. One of the reasons this is on my mind is that in the summer, I don't get paid. And regardless of how much I've put away to cover my basic bills out of the salary I get from September through May, the summer months provide a challenge. Then, if my car battery dies (like it did last week), I find myself stressing not unlike I did in the bad ole days.
Then I start thinking about those who live on a fixed income because they're retired or collecting disability benefits or unemployed or unable to work for whatever reason. They have to worry every month -- not just in the summer. And at 70 years of age, I could very easily be one of them any time now. So it helps to know that SNAP exists. But I have some other things I'm doing right now to help me get the nutritious food I need and keep my glucose in check.
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.
Since writing Your Life Isn't Over ~ It May Have Just Begun!, I will pretty much talk to anybody about diabetes management any time anywhere. I don't claim to be an "expert." I'm no kind of medical professional. And there are lots of folks who have been managing diabetes quite successfully for far longer than I have.
But I have learned a few things through the years since I was diagnosed in February of 2008. And the process of spending an entire summer wading through my memories and writing it all down helped me to organize what I've learned into areas I think are the most obvious (like weight loss) or easiest to implement (like taking the stairs instead of the elevator) or even more crucial to saving one's life (like not giving up as if there is no hope when your life isn't over ~ it may have just begun).
The past couple of weeks have been an adventure. As I told you in my last blog post, I left for Cuba on May 24th to plan a conference there for 2017. That would have been adventure enough, needless to say. I hoped that I would have time before I got on the plane to schedule a post for last Sunday, but that didn't happen.
So I told myself that I'd jump right on the internet as soon as I was state-side again on June 1st to make up for leaving you hanging. But by the time I got back, I was so wiped out physically, psychologically, and emotionally, that didn't happen either.
There was a time in my life -- sometimes it feels like a million years ago and sometimes it feels like yesterday -- when I would make a decision and run with it into a fire. Nothing could stop me or even necessarily slow me down.
It wasn't that I thought I was always right. It was that I didn't think period. Each day was a millennium and I was the sun at the middle of it all. It made for some rough going on occasion. But I wasn't looking back. I was going to live forever. Or die young. And neither gave me great pause.
Three weeks ago, I stood in front of an audience of 1900 strangers and admitted that I'm seventy years old. I had to work up to the admission for a month before the event. I had spent some years already telling people, "I'm really, really old." But I couldn't typically find the nerve to casually admit my age in conversations. Except with my doctor. Or a very close friend. And then only in a whisper.
I cracked jokes about it in front of my students in class. "I would tell you how old I am," I'd say, "but I'm afraid they'd come make me retire." Or I'd quip on a different occasion, "I'm perfectly fine with getting old. There's only two options, you know: getting old or getting dead -- and I'm not nearly ready to get dead yet."
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.
