I switched schools in September to take on a new teaching job in a leadership position. It contained a great deal of stress, some good, some not so great, and an immense amount of pressure (mostly brought on by my own need to be successful in my new role). I had historically maintained a healthy lifestyle. But now, basic priorities (eating well, exercising regularly, sleeping 8 hours) slid way down the new list, which included a host of work and family round-the-clock-duties. So when I began to lose weight, I didn’t think too much of it. I had shed the “last 5 pounds” over the summer from regular running, so a couple more seemed like a bonus. I felt I looked good for my age, loved the way my jeans fit, and thought I had it all under control.
Then came the eyes. Six weeks after placing my first pair of glasses upon my nose, I couldn’t read the TV Guide on the 40 " screen, unaware of the eery “Soothsayer” quality of the comment I made to my husband: “At this rate, I’ll be blind in 6 months.” We moved the sofa closer.
Thirst and bathroom breaks increased exponentially.
A family holiday was scheduled for December. Perfect. I’ll relax, eat, exercise, even try to put on a few pounds. I needed the break is all. FIrst morning that I woke in warm, sunny Houston, my hands and legs were tingling uncontrollably. Am I having an allergic reaction to the humidity, I thought? After all, it was minus 18 (that’s Celcius) in Toronto, so maybe my body was in shock. Ignoring the strange sensation, I head straight for a gynormous glass of OJ, since this thirst is wicked aweful…must be very dry in here.
The fatigue on that trip, looking back now, was intense. As I slept, my muscles felt like steel, making turning over a chore. Walking up stairs, my body behaved as though I had just stepped off a 45 minute StairClimber workout, yet sadly I hadn’t done much more than walk to the fridge for more water (oh, not to mention the runs for non-diet root beer and nightly glasses of apple juice). If that isn’t ironic enough, I was staying in the home of a doctor, and many of his close friends are in the same professional boat. Had I even mentioned 2 or 3 of these symptoms, as he told me later, he would have immediately seen the textbook signs.
At this family reunion, many relatives commented how fabulous I looked (never too skinny, right?). I finally confided in my sister-in-law, explaining that I wasn’t trying to lose weight, in fact was eating quite generously and was frankly getting worried.
Once back home, my blood test confirmed what you all know. At first, my GP misdiagnosed me with type 2 I think because of my age. The max dose of metformin, avandia, cholestoral meds, etc made my 72 year-old father-in-laws meds look downright meek. It all made me very sick and nauseous. Thankfully, my endo saw me a few weeks later and told me I’m type 1. I actually started laughing and stammering “Really? Really? I knew it. I knew something wasn’t right!” I felt delirious for some reason. He said patients always know. At that point I had already tired of the odd looks (from head to toe) I’d get when I would share my new type 2 diagnosis (“It’s not just for overweight people, I guess” became my stock response).
Now, I’ve put on 15 pounds, get bloated after each meal looking as though I’m pregnant, and have loads of gas (sorry, but it’s true). I am some days so sick and tired of the insulin, blood testing and thinking about food. I crave carbs more than I ever did throughout my whole life. Yet on some days, I feel like a Vegetable goddess in the kitchen, finding creative ways to ingest a multitude of green, red, yellow and orange versions. Some days, I excercise so much that I get an unexpected low BS. (Yet after being in the 20s for so long, I celebrated my first low of 5.2 even though it made me sweat and shake) (Now I don’t feel the low unless it’s less than 4)
Oh - one more important detail: I HAD gestational diabetes with my second pregnancy, dealt with it, and unlike most of us now, could throw away the insulin and needles when my beautiful baby was born, expecting to never have to go there again (at the time, pitying those who had a life-term with the disease).
So now it’s my term. These are the new terms of my life. This is the term of agreement. This is the long term solution to my problem. C’est la vie.
Thanks for letting me rant.
Elaine