Well, kids, it's official: I did it. I've got me some diabetes. Or as I will probably continue to refer to it, the diabeasties.I know, my darlings, I know. This is not good. My dad had diabetes as a complication of heart disease; his diagnosis was rapidly followed by both of his sisters coming down with the hot mess. And of course, the news isn't much better on Mom's side: her dad died of it; but what was worse, two of her aunts lived with it: a veritable cornucopia of blindness, amputations, high blood pressure: the gift basket no one wants. And I know that my family and friends are now officially worried sick: I totally understand. If my darling Connor or Ryan came home with this news, I would basically clear the house of all the Nilla Wafers, Devil Dogs, Fruit Roll-Ups, Teddy Grahams, etc. and forbid them from ever consuming that crap again. And it is because I love them and I want them to have happy healthy lives.
So I am working on ridding myself of the bad stuff: my friend Joe today told me: "Here's the rule: no more white food." Which sucks because that eliminates a whole bunch of stuff I like, but in the immortal words of the Brady kids: When it's time to change, you've got to rearrange -- who you are into what you're gonna be (sha-na-na-na na na-na na-na, sha-na na-na-na).
What happens next? A whole battery of tests: something called an A1C to see just how reversible this bad boy is: followed by more tests, classes at White Plains hospital on how to manage blood sugar testing (if it comes to that), medication, wellness, etc. The good news is, I have lost 12 lbs already on Weight Watchers (after 3 weeks back on the chain gang) and when I began that, I decided to eliminate sugar, in all its evil forms and with all of its empty promises.
Having poured the Tennessee Valley Authority Irrigation Project's worth of Coke down my gullet for the past 4 years, I can say it's a big change. No sugar, no ice cream, no cake, no high fructose corn syrup, no chocolate, no candy, no soda, not even ginger ale. Everything in the market seems to have a big old skull and crossbones on it. Only problem is, everything that I should be eating still has a Mr. Yuk sticker, if only in my head. I just don't like the healthy stuff - whole grains, veggies, fiber - ugh, gross. I am your classic All-American first-string fat-ass, susceptible to temptation and convenience. If I didn't live in New York, with all these great restaurants and cooking options, G-d help me, I'd probably be a regular at Olive Garden.
But it's time to embrace the Yuk. Fiber One has no points, and it doesn't taste that bad. Weight Watchers ice cream is great even though I think it's made of whale parts. And I tried whole wheat bread today for lunch, and you know what? It was pretty good. I must keep chanting the mantra. The Yuk is health and wholeness. The Yuk is good and righteous, and I don't want to get my toes cut off. The Yuk is the light, and I don't feel like having a stroke just yet. The Yuk is inspiration. And the Yuk is love.
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