Where to begin? Hmm, well let me start with this. I love to write, but for years I had only written for myself, never showing anything I ever wrote to anyone. I still have journals upon journals full of pages of writing, scribbling, drawings, everything. I guess it’s been one of my secret fantasies that my journals will be discovered after I die, and all the critics will say, “How did we miss one of the great American literature writers of our day?” Yeah, I’m secretly hoping that. Don’t hold your breath.
Why am I telling you this? I tend to ramble when I write, only coming to the point at the end of 13,488 words (just kidding) when I discover what that point is that I’m trying to get across. I write to discover what it is I’m trying to say. I know I have something to say, and it’s very wise and profound (and I don’t take myself seriously very much) and I want to get it out, I just don’t know what it is I want to get out. So..
I write for myself, and I ramble, and if you can hang on long enough, you might be interested. I really do want to change the world and I want to help. And I always try to take the high road, which very often makes me look like a stuck up ■■■, but that’s me. I’m a really friendly guy, not a stuck up ■■■. I’m a super helpful guy, but maybe not the guy you would say “Oh, he’ll give you the shirt off his back.” I’m the first person to ■■■■■ at other drivers for going to fast or to slow, or running stop signs, but I give everyone the benefit of the doubt and trust everyone, and always speak up for those who either can’t or don’t speak up for themselves. I criticize, but I leap to help those less fortunate. That’s just a little about me.
Again, why am I writing? Because this is LADA week. And that’s me. I’m LADA, or latent autoimmune diabetes in adults. What the hell does that mean. Basically, it’s adults who are becoming Type 1 diabetic. Type 1 used to be called juvenile diabetes, because you got it as a child. I was 31. Definitely not a child. I’m writing because I wanted to tell my story, and maybe help.
So here I am, I’m 31, I’ve been living in Breckenride, CO for a couple years. Totally living the ski bum lifestyle. I’m skiing, I’m partying, I’m living with 4 or 5 guys and it’s basically a frat party. It’s straight out of Hot Dog, complete with beer, hot tubs, drugs and FUN! It was fun, life was good. I’m a bartender, and I ski and mt. bike a lot. I’m actually in terrific shape, and haven’t been sick in I can’t remember when. I’m outside everyday, just about all day. Did I mention life was good? And fun.
But it was slightly incomplete, and I decided that I wanted to move back East for a while, and I was going to work at this really cool kids camp, that also did backpacking and canoeing trips. Like Outward Bound. So everything gets prepped, the owners are psyched to have me, and I’m excited to go. But I have a month to go before I need to be anywhere, so I decide to couch surf to save a little money.
Staying with good, hometown friends was the best thing that ever happened to me. I had known Tim and Sandy, a married couple, for many years. They were going to watch my dog while I was gone for the summer. But things started changing while I was at their house over a couple weeks. I had to pee a lot. I was still doing random catering jobs, and I always had to excuse myself, frequently, to go to the bathroom. Like way too much. And man, I was drinking. Water. Pounding it. And soda. I’ve never been a soda drinker, we never had it as kids (thanks Mom & Dad) But we went out for pizza one night and I had two HUGE refills of Coke before they even took our dinner order. It was one of those super pipeline straws and I would suck down a 20 ouncer without even blinking.
Crazy
The next giveaway was a bike ride. I was fit. Really fit. I did 24 hour mt bike races one weekend, with a trail marathon the next weekend. With rock climbing in between. I did ski races. I did it all. And I smoked people. One day I’m out with some friends who didn’t take training as seriously as me, not even close. They were out of chubby and out of shape, but friends. And they beat me to the top of a bike bike climb. At the top, they looked at me like I had a piece of dog poop on my head. “What is wrong with you? You usually crush us on that climb, without even breathing hard. Are you alright?”
Around that time, other things had been happening. Peeing a lot, drinking a lot. Weird muscle soreness. Blurry vision. Yep, all the typical signs and symptoms. I was like a walking textbook. Of being diabetic.
But I didn’t have health insurance. Like I said, I never got sick. I was as strong as an ox. Fit as a fiddle. Sure I drank a lot, but I exercised way more than I drank. I didn’t need health insurance, it was expensive. Waste of money. So I couldn’t go to the doctor’s office.
Luckily, Tim and Sandy finally made me go see a doc. It took him all of about 3 minutes to determine I was indeed diabetic. But here’s the thing. I was 31, so that meant I was Type 2. Only juveniles got juvenile, or insulin dependent, diabetes. But I certainly wasn’t your typical Type 2 candidate. I was 5’11, 150 pounds, not an ounce of fat, and could run a marathon off the couch. So what the heck was I? Well, of course, I was Type 2, or called back then, adult onset, diabetes. And treated that way. With no insulin.
I certainly didn’t know ANYTHING about diabetes then. Neither did my doctor. Our medical system really is in a shambles, and unfortunately, the doctor I saw was part of the problem. He just didn’t know any better. But he also didn’t recommend I see someone who did know better. So he treated me as best he knew. By telling me to not eat sugar, but nothing about carbs. Carbs were OK. Milk was bad, but soy milk (think flavored, heavy on the sugar) was OK. Whole grain pasta was OK. But any and all sugar was bad. And never any mention of insulin, let alone basal and bolus.
Wow. OK, when I look back at it, I laugh. Out loud. How mis or poorly diagnosed I was. But what’s even worse, I bet it’s somewhat common. I think doctors start out as good people, and they truly do want to help, but somewhere along the way, the system messes the up. Their hands get tied. And then it becomes about the money. They work on commission, from whatever drugs they prescribe. That is not how it should be. No way. But it is.
Yeah, so there I am. With some off the chart BG reading, they at least knew I was diabetic. But as we know, T1s are treated very differently than T2s. He just didn’t know that I was a T1. It took about 2 years for ME to figure out that I was a T1 and I needed insulin, but that’s when things got worse, and that’s a story for another time.
I thought I wanted to tell that story tonight, but maybe I’ll write it tomorrow, I’m just not emotionally ready to do it yet. But I did want to try and help with LADA week, and write something. So if you’ve read this far, this is where you come in. Spread my story, tell people who might be experiencing weird health in their otherwise healthy lives. Like what’s going on kind of weirdness. Maybe they’ve had some sort of autoimmune thing happen that didn’t seem major (mild case of Mono) that leads to becoming Type 1. Who knows? We don’t quite have all the answers yet, hence LADA week, were trying to raise awareness (and money) and maybe figure out exactly what the hell is going on.
I’ve learned a lot in a couple years, and I don’t want anyone else to go through the pains I’ve gone through to get to today. I don’t wish it on my worst enemy. Becoming diabetic is hard enough when you’re an adult, and set in your ways. Not treating it properly is a whole separate hell. Tomorrow.