It's been a roller coaster ride. Some days I'd wonder if I'm actually insulin-resistant and there are days when I feel like dancing in the street in my birthday suit. There are days too that my "score" is neither here nor there. And to say that the result of the daily monitoring is determinant of my mood for the rest of the day (I get my sugar level in the morning, postprandial or after breakfast) is an understatment. It goes beyond just mood. It's depression-inducing or cause for elation, it's a ride to hell or a gift of invicibility, it's both a blessing and/or a curse. I've been telling myself since day one that a "high" score means I need to work harder and a "low" score means I'm on the right track. But as with anything mental, it's easier said than believed. For hard as a I try, I can't totally rationalize how in the world do I sometimes get extremely opposite scores for two succeeding days when the second day is a carbon copy of the first routine-wise? I'm having anxiety attack just by thinking about it.
My score on the first day was 234. The normal level would be somewhere between 80 and 120/30 but my doctor said we should aim for the 90-100 range. Suffice to say, I was humming The Windmills of Your Mind for the rest of that day. Good thing there are some things that the mind has no control over like sleep. Anyway, since that day my sugar level has been playing around or between 180 and 130. But to end this entry on a good note, I have observed a downward trend in the last four days. It's 160, 141 and yesterday it was down to 114. Today the glucometer almost made me dance in the street buttnaked. It nosedived to 107. Apparently, I haven't totally lost grasp of my sanity.
"hot grande, five pumps irish cream, one brown sugar, cafe americano and an ashtray please"
That would be my friend Win at the counter of Starbucks. He had ordered mine first. And that would be soy latte. I'm a simple guy with simpler taste in coffee so he orders mine first every time, simple to complex. A natural progression. And besides, barristas are humans, too - his philosophy. But they do smell better. Aromatic would be the word. Oh but the ashtray would be for me. Win's quit smoking altogether, affects his tonsils or so he says. But even if he does go back to the habit, he could never outpuff me, not even in his heyday, as I have become a human chimney - it has taken me awhile but my lungs delivered. But I'm a friendly fire, I only smoke where it's allowed. And that's virtually everywhere. But not inside Starbucks. So you have to ask for an ashtray and smoke outside while you drown in your cuppa. Which I prefer anyway. Al fresco, one with the elements and noisy traffic. Incessant talk only heightens the atmosphere. Ahh nothing is more casual and laid-back.
if looks could kill
But nighttime in the same place is a different world and I'm a different cat. The world turns into a black and white dream. Yes, film noir-ish. Or -esque. No, -ish is correct. I become Liam Neeson in that first few sequences of Schindler's List. Brooding, mysterious, dangerous. I would work on that cig like I'm being filmed but unaware. Deliberate yet casual - slow like honey but heavy with mood. And if the air around me is steady, I would let out a smoke ring. And before it vanishes into thin air with your attention, I would produce another one to hold hands with the first. And another, and another. Until I form a chain of white menace that would charm out all the good things your momma taught you.
One thing about my smoking though is that I never smoke for the sake of smoking, it's always with intent. I smoke to determine if I have waited long enough. Five sticks and you're not there yet, I'm gone. Buh-bye. I also light one to imply that I'm done in bed...or the floor. Turn off the red light, the party's over, till the next craving. No amount of contortionistic persuasion could drag me away from a drag right after. I'm selfish like that, but I can share a puff. Okay two puffs. Cigarettes are also my major source of strength. Like when I'm up for a job interview or a blind date. Nicotine calms my nerves, clears my mind and blunts hunger pangs (it made survival possible in the workplace where lunch breaks were a privilege and not a right).
the seductress
And now to my other love, a selfless mistress given the more considerable time I spend with my Marlboro Lights (lower tar, slower death). If only bringing a cup in the toilet on the throne would make an agreeable sight. But truth be told, my affair with the dark muse started way before I can even spell "M-I-N-O-R". As a kid, I'd have a cup with the adults on the table during breakfast. And black, too. You can say my relationship with coffee started early. And intense. No cream and therefore guiltless.
I generally love my cup blistery hot. Specially during stormy weather. News of a storm abrewing excites me so that even before the slightest hint of a change in the wind's direction is felt by my black lab, I had already conjured a vision of me, on the terrace, the holy grail clasped, within the whispery kisses of the falling rain. I know it's quite ironic, my feeding off of the warmth of a cup and yet exposing myself like that in the cold. But I'm incongruous like that. Like any artsy writer probably is. Otherwise I'd write news Or anything business.
But coffee is the antithesis to my smoking. If a stick unclogs my brain cells, the dark poison suffuses my thoughts with inspiration. Poring over a cup, the deep, mysterious, undulating or still liquid allows my mind to wander and introspect. Suddenly I'm swimming in metaphors and itching to pound on that keyboard and write poetry that would make you cry or feel like crying. Fine, I'm okay with "slightly affeced".
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As I've said, I'm pretty much a simple guy in many ways. Black coffee is fine by me. Soy latte? Better. But fancy Frappucinos? I'd have a slice of that dome cake if I want desert.
Originally published in my other blogsite diptyched
Had to get me a glucometer quick as it's going to be my new boss for the rest of my diabetic life. On its uh, face shall lie my failure or success in controlling my blood sugar level on a daily basis. Getting one was the easiest part despite the array of available brands with prices ranging from relief-inducing to "huwhat?!-I'm-not-buying-a-new-kidney-for-chrissake!"-kind of reaction. Anyway, like I said, I didn't sweat the small stuff and went for the middle of the road - a decision seconded by the pharmacist who claimed her husband uses exactly the same model. So there it was, my spanking new glucometer. The gadget to take the place of my cell phone atop my things-I-can't-live-without list. Techie category that is (actually there are only four things on it). However, I realized later that it's not going to be a one-time spending for glucometer-ing as the strips do not come for free. Far from it. A strip costs, roughly, the same as a pack of cigarette. So there lies the catch. Oh well...
Since it's nearly impossible to use the glucometer with three hands, I have designated one sister as my personal Florence Nightingale. And so to the first attempt at drawing blood...
Rub alcohol on the finger of choice. Apply dry cotton on the same area to avoid mixing alcohol with blood. Prick and draw blood. Let a droplet of blood flow on the yellow line on the strip. Easy, right? But definitely not if your blood is as viscous as mine.
So Florence, er my sister (who shall henceforth be called Florence on this site) had to squeeze the life out of my ring finger to produce a droplet until a scarlet orb appeared. Only if it would fall, run to the strip. Needless to say it won't, so Florence had to smudge it onto the yellow line. The unappreciative glucometer yielded ERR. Uh, for the undiabetic that means "error". So back to step one with my index finger this time. Guess what happened next? All in all, we ended up "doing" three fingers on the first day, two on the second and third day. And that's how many strips?!
A nutritionist friend of another sister said I should try drinking water with slices of okra (gumbo) soaked overnight. The gooey stuff produced in the water should do the trick. And guess what happened next?
Now, even Florence sees the lowly okra in a whole new light for my blood, once a drop breaks out of the confines of my skin, has become a river swimming downstream in haste to meet the sea's embrace. Ahh...
So I have a dependency for drugs. But, two things: The drugs are not the illicit kind, nor they have the potential for illicity; The dependency is coerced, mandated therefore not some form of addiction. Nevertheless, it is still correct to say that I, for now at least, depend on those life-preserving pebbles in white, purple, what have you.
My drug list reads like this:
glimepirice (Getryl) 2 mg, before breakfast
atorvastatin calcium (Avamax) 10 mg, 7pm
insulin (Lantus), 16 units/shot, 7pm
vitamin b complexes, after breakfast
multivitamins, after breakfast
bitter gourd food supplement, 10 min before each meal
also:
virgin coconut oil, 1 tbsp after each meal
young coconut juice daily
I initially worried about my liver (what with all that chemicals) but an ultrasound and some lab exam revealed that it is as clean as my mother's backyard. It's a good thing I have never been drawn to alcohol even if I try.
The only side-effect I have noticed so far, if you can call it that, is that every trip to the toilet has become - for lack of a more precise yet palatable term - an adventure. But I'd have that any day if it means controlling the disease.
It has been 3 weeks since I was served the drug menu above and so far so good. I have become less lethargic, less depressive and most importantly less scared of what's going on under my skin. And the doctor said that when my sugar level becomes stable in the normal range, we would weed out the drugs one by one. And I'm clinging to that hope.
I've been exercising like hell for the last three weeks since I was, uh, formally diagnosed with diabetes. I was told, and have read quite a lot about it on the net since, that physical activity is good for diabetics. Exercise = control of blood sugar levels. A doctor friend said a 30-minute walk a day would suffice. Easy peasy. But I want the affliction gone, I mean controlled, sooner than eventually so I decided to go on overdrive.
My makeshift exercise regimen consists of stretching, jogging, push-ups and walking. In the morning, I start by walking to the market right outside our village, buy young coconut (said to be good for the kidneys) and walk back home. Afterwards, I jog around the house, do push-ups, stretch and to finish the regimen - my favorite part - do deep breathing. All in all, it takes me somewhere around an hour to finish with everything. The same routine, minus the walking, is repeated in the afternoon and right before bedtime. Oh and when in the mood, I throw in some wicked dance moves in the mix to the tune of 90s club music - think CC Music Factory, Blackbox, etc.
I plan to get some weights too as I read somewhere that resistance training is as good as cardiovascular exercises in controlling the blood sugar level. And there's no harm in looking good while sweating it out besides.
July 2, 1011, Saturday. I was surfing the net when I suddenly realized I was seeing red. A thin film of red was on my left eye. It was around 4 in the afternoon. The ink-like stain could not be seen from the outside, this I found out when I looked in the mirror. The thin film of red was in my left eye. The first thought that came into my mind was that I was having stroke or cardiac arrest - the bursting blood vessels. I went numb all over, a burning sensation crept in the back of my neck, my head felt like it was about to explode and breathing became a struggle as a lump dangerously formed in my throat. Death came for me through the back door. I stopped short of saying goodbye to family and friends when the last shred of my sanity said I probably could still make it to the ER. As a child, you cry out to your mother when you're in the claws of pain or fear. As a grownup, you speak the name of somebody, someone, something even more powerful than her.
The nurse said my BP was 120/80. Normal. My ECG showed the same results. The doctor asked me if I ever considered, no offense meant she said for good measure, seeing a psychiatrist for my anxiety.
The doctor said I have glucosoria when I went for a follow-up checkup after the results of an annual physical exam indicated high sugar in my blood. It was 1998 and I was working as a manager for a data processing company. According to the doctor it's a symptom of diabetes. True enough, I had already been noticing then that I was losing weight and hair and urinating quite frequently. At my biggest, I weighed 186 pounds and measured 36 inches around the waist. Yeah, life had been treating me better than well. I got alarmed by what the doctor told me, but only briefly. I even actually felt thankful of the weight loss - I mean, minus the physical exertion it's a good thing, right? As for the vanishing hair and the abnormal urination, I managed. No problem is too big when you run the other way. Ahh regrets I have a few. Quite a few.
