Saturday, March 9, 2013
The times, they are a-changin'
It's 6:15 Saturday morning. Tomorrow at this time it will be 7:15. It always fascinates me to think of this related to time change. Simply change the clock setting, and voila! Instant new normal, albeit a less drastic one than many.
Like most other folks at this seasonal juncture, I'm beyond ready for any harbinger of spring to emerge, and daylight savings time is a biggie. The purple shocks of crocus against winter brown rain/snow dampened earth have been wooing for a few weeks, but repeated storms and last gasp winter onslaughts have kept them from fully flourishing. But time change...even mother nature can't mess with that. It immediately and literally brings new light into every moment from dawn to dark.
I generally don't post on a weekend (and no cracks about how I generally don't post much at all these days), but I want to reflect and write out my thoughts this morning. Recall my Wednesday post about beginning to pay attention to my health, by scheduling appointments, having blood drawn, etc. Today's musings evolve from there.
Let me note that denial has never been a river in Egypt in my world, but magical thinking with a big dose of ignoring reality have often figured prominently in my operating system. Before I got sober, I knew my drinking wasn't "normal", but I was having too much fun to worry about it. Until I wasn't, and even then - armed with the knowledge that I was an alcoholic, I kept doing what I was doing, thinking that eventually I'd stop, or "get over it".
I determined to quit a million times and meant it with all my heart every time. But eventually (in a few days, or a few weeks) I'd go back, or rather, pick up the drink. And I never picked up planning to moderate. I never wanted a civilized glass of wine with dinner. I wanted obliteration, but without those pesky blackouts and fights with the husband.
That is how it's been with my eating and food struggles. While the consequences in my daily life have been less drastic in the social sense (I have a zillion friends, wonderful family, good job, love and feel loved) than those wreaked by alcohol, they have been painful in my inner life, and increasingly serious to my physical being.
I've ignored Type 2 diabetes for several years. It started out around 2009 with warnings that I was showing signs of it (borderline values). My doctor told me "You can cure yourself", and sent me to a Diabetes Educator/Dietician for food guidelines and menu planning. I went a few times, began losing weight and my lab values flipped back to normal quickly. So I figured I could control this thing, and lapsed back to eating what and when I wanted. My borderline status quickly turned to teetering-on-the- brink, and my doctor gently warned me.
At one point about 18 months ago, the office nurse called and said that the doc wanted me to take the Diabetes Education classes offered at the local hospital, and I (know it all nurse and pain in the ass patient) said to her, "I'm not going to do that. I know what to do, and I could probably teach the class myself." It won't shock you to know that was the last time I had blood drawn, until this past Wednesday. I had an office visit for a muscle spasm in September of 2012, and the doc gave me a slip for blood work that I hung onto, vowing to self (HAH!) that once I got a "good month of sane eating" under my belt, I'd have it done.
If I waited for that month, I'd likely never get stuck with a needle again. A moment of clarity, a deep fear, finally wanting to stop NOT WANTING to see family who aren't close by...something I can't explain jolted me into just getting the blood tests done.
And then the wait for the phone call from the doc's office.
It didn't take long. 24 hours.