"I didn't ask for this! I don't want anything I didn't ask for!"

Years ago, before I had children, I had a brutal time with menstrual cramping and PMS, as many women experience.  I would double over in pain and cry the first two or three days of my cycle, until the symptoms would eventually let up.  One particularly horrible time, I was sitting at the kitchen table crying my eyes out in agony.  Out of the blue, in complete frustration, I uttered that statement out loud.  My husband had his back to me, and started to silently chuckle.  He didn't want to make me feel bad, but, it had struck him as pretty funny.  Which made me laugh.  I only want things in my life that I ask for!  What was I, a toddler?  Now, these days, anytime I feel bad for myself, I think of that statement and it makes me smile.

During my first appointment with my PCP after my diabetes diagnosis, I was thinking about this exact statement.  Except, this time, it didn't make me smile.  As I got out of my clothes and changed into a medical gown for my checkup, I pondered.  I didn't ask for this.  Or did I?  Did I invite this disease into my life?  Like, "Here you go, diabetes, here's the key to my body.  Do with it what you will, while I eat another piece of cheesecake. Thank you, carry on, now!"  The remorse and regret was too much for me to handle.  The fear of being looked at in pity by a doctor was overwhelming.  The words "I told you so!" was most assuredly going to come out of his mouth, I just knew it.  I heard the knock on the door, and he walked in.

"Well, Donna, you have diabetes."

Me, in a nutshell.

No shit, Sherlock, I thought to myself.

He proceeded to weigh me, check my vitals, my eyes, my feet.  He pricked my toes to check for Diabetic Neuropathy.  There definitely was some loss of feeling in my toes, but not severe.  Blood pressure was good, but my cholesterol was slightly elevated due to the diabetes. Should be under 100 and it was 116.  Again, not severe.  "Ok", I thought, "so maybe there's a small chance I'm not going to drop dead any minute".  My mood began to lighten a little bit.  He left the room so I could change back into my clothes.

About 5 minutes later, he came back in and sat down.  He was going to prescribe Alpha Lipoic Acid supplements to help the neuropathy in my toes.  He gave me the information to see a Diabetic nutritionist as soon as possible.  He adjusted the dosage on the Metformin.  He wanted me to have my A1c and my cholesterol checked in 3 months and then come back in for a follow-up.  Then, he said the words I never in a million years thought I would ever hear come out of a doctor's mouth...

"Long term goal, Donna, we're going to get you off the Metformin. We're going to get you off of the Alpha Lipoic Acid.  I know you can do it."

WOW.

Like a bolt of lightning from the sky.  Like the Red Sea parting.  The angels from Heaven blew their trumpets and sang in harmony.  Did I hear him correctly?  He wants me OFF the medications?  He wants me to handle this disease eventually ON MY OWN with just diet and exercise?   My faith in humanity began to come back.  My faith in MYSELF began to come back.

Or, did I ask for it?

I walked out of the doctor's office with a slight spring in my step.  I actually was looking forward to meeting with a nutritionist to help me eat correctly.  I actually began to become excited about my future.  Did I ask for this?  Maybe, subconsciously, I did.  Did I actually want something, anything, I didn't ask for?  Maybe, in this case, I did want this.  Maybe I NEEDED this.  Could this disease actually be a gift?  A gift to finally free myself from my unhealthy relationship with food I dealt with all these years?   A gift to finally see myself as a strong, resilient person with great willpower?  A gift to be a role model for my children?  A gift for a long, healthy life?

Maybe.

Until next week, stay safe and well!

Be a butterfly...🦋

Down The Proverbial Rabbit Hole To Rock Bottom Status

Monday, April 4, 2018.  The day after Easter.  I binged particularly well that Easter Sunday, I recall.  In fact, looking back, I do not believe I have ever binged that much and with so much fervor in one sitting before.  I couldn't stop, and the bingeing went on through the night.  It was almost like my "Last Supper".

I got dressed and went to work, as usual.  But on this day, I felt particularly sick.  I was dizzy, I had a headache. The past few days before this I had noticed blood in my urine.  It alarmed me, but, I chose to dismiss it, ignore it.  I kept saying to myself that it would pass eventually.  Possibly a UTI.  No big deal, I've had those before.   I didn't mention it to anyone.  Deep down, though, I knew there was something wrong.  Something I didn't want to finally face.  My conscious wasn't clear.  Like the old saying, "The sword of Damocles was hanging over my head".

Fifth period was about to start.  This was when I monitored the lunch room and worked with my one-on-one student.  I began to get really dizzy all of a sudden, and I sat down.  I started feeling some pain in my stomach and asked another Paraprofessional to watch my student while I used the ladies' room.  I sat on the toilet, and to my horror, blood was streaming out of the rectum area.  I gasped, quickly cleaned myself up, ran to my supervisor and told her I needed to go to the doctor, and quickly drove to Convenient MD.

I got there, I don't really know how, because the whole drive was a complete blur.  "Dammit, I'm in trouble", I kept thinking to myself.  I told the nurse my symptoms.  Immediately she said that I probably had a bladder infection that had spread to the anal region.  She promptly took some blood, and I had a urine test.  Within 5 minutes, a doctor and a nurse walked in looking quite grim.  "Well, we know what the issue is.  You're dumping sugar.  Your blood sugar is 510. You are very close to diabetic coma stage.  You need to call someone for a ride and go to the emergency room."  I asked if that was absolutely necessary and she said, yes.  I called my husband, and I started to cry and shake.  I wasn't crying and shaking out of shock and fear, though.   I was crying and shaking because of my immense guilt and shame.  I knew very well I had experienced all the warning signs in the not too distant past, and I did absolutely nothing to take care of myself.  Why?  Because I was afraid of what I would hear.  I was ashamed of the constant denial of my symptoms.  I was ashamed that my eating disorder would be exposed to the public.  People would be disgusted, and would judge me.  "I told you so!"  The statement I dreaded to hear.  All the times in the past when I was bullied for being overweight by asshole kids and others came flooding back in one fell swoop.  One particular image kept coming back to me.  The time I was taking a walk while on vacation and a car drove by me with two guys in it.  One guy stuck his head out the window and yelled "MOO!"  I never told anyone that anecdote, not during that vacation, or since.  The shame and sadness flooded every cell of my being and overtook me.

"I'll be bullied again," I thought.  "And this time, I really don't know if I'll be able to take it."

"This time, I might be done."

While I was waiting for my husband to come, another nurse came in to talk to me.  The doctor had asked her to come in because I was so overwrought.  She began to explain to me how she, too, had Type-2 diabetes.  "I only need to take one pill, she said, no more sticking myself with insulin.  I just have to avoid certain foods, like corn and peas, and I only eat half a cupcake instead of a whole one."  And on, and on, and on.  She wouldn't stop talking!  Her words just swirled around in my head and made my headache worse.  My temples throbbed.  On the one hand, I was listening to her, but on the other hand, I just wished she would shut the hell up, walk away, and leave me alone, for crying out loud!  I couldn't deal with what felt like lecturing right at that moment.  I knew she meant well, but, I wasn't in the right frame of mind to digest what she was saying.

My husband arrived, we collected my things, and he drove me to the emergency room.  Again, I don't remember the drive.  I don't remember any conversation.  I just remember overwhelming guilt, shame and disgust.  I was promptly brought into one of the rooms, where I was weighed and my blood sugar was taken again. 425 this time.  I changed into a gown, climbed onto a bed, and was then hooked up to a bunch of monitors.  They did an EKG, and started pumping me with IV fluid to hydrate me so that my blood sugar would come down.  I remember my husband and I staring at each other in horror and complete disbelief while all these nurses and doctors were buzzing around me, working on me.  WTF is happening???? It was a surreal moment.

Metformin...My Ally, My Foe

Within 30 minutes my blood sugar was brought down to the 200's with the IV fluids.  This was a good sign.  This meant my body was still making its own insulin.  If it had stayed in the 500's, that was a sign of permanent damage to my pancreas.  My EKG came back normal...no heart damage or disease. Thank God.  I also was administered an A1c test.  This is a test which checks the amount of glucose that is embedded in your cells over a three-month span of time.  My A1c came back as 12.3. A non-diabetic person would have an A1c of 5.7 or under.  An A1c of 5.8 is considered pre-diabetic.  Oops.  That ain't good.  The doctor officially diagnosed me as having Acute Diabetes Mellitis, gave me a prescription for Metformin, a drug that brings down the A1c, made an appointment for me to see my PCP within the next couple of days, wished me luck, and I was sent home.

That night, I quietly sobbed in my recliner chair while my children sat at the dining room table.  My husband told them the whole crazy story, while I just sat there, numb.  I could tell they were trying to understand, but couldn't fully grasp all the details.  Which was fine, because that was exactly how I felt.   They went to their rooms, and I continued to sit quietly and mull over in my head what exactly had occurred that day.   Did everything really happen like it did, or was this just a horrible nightmare?  Am I going to wake up and breathe a sigh of relief because this was only a dream?   Could I be so lucky?  Ehhh...probably not.  "This is my new reality", I thought to myself.  "I have literally hit rock bottom.  I have to come to terms with it, face it head on, and deal.  I have no choice."

Then, in a flash of clarity, that came out of literally nowhere, I realized maybe I did, in fact, have a choice.  I started to ponder and reexamine my plight. "This disease is an unwelcome visitor in my life.  I do not want it!  I do not want to lose my eyesight!  I do not want to lose my toes!  I do not want to lose my limbs!  I still have a family to take care of!  I'm only 51 years old, I'm not too old!  I'm still healthy!  The doctor told me, you heard him, right?  I don't need to take this medication forever, I can do this all on my own, right? Right?"

"I'm going to fight this!"

And I did.

That's it for today!  This was an emotional blog for me...cried the whole way though it!
Hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, please be sure to click on the blue "Follow" button at the bottom of the blog page.

I'll see you next week!  Stay well!

Be a butterfly...🦋

Aimlessly Adrift Upon the River "Denial"

So...there I was, at my first pre-natal appointment with my first child.  September, 1999.  I hadn't weighed myself in, maybe, years?  I don't even know.  Anytime I ever had a doctor's appointment, I had always requested not to be weighed, and they always complied, reluctantly.  In this case, however, it is imperative to get weighed for the health of your unborn child.  Grudgingly, I stepped on the scale, but asked the nurse to please not tell me the number.  She didn't, I breathed a sigh of relief, and the appointment went on.  But, at the end of the appointment, another nurse came in to draw some blood for a test.  "Let's see,"she said, "your weight today is 339..." I didn't hear anything after that.  I was in utter shock.  339?  Are you kidding me?  I went home, and never said a word to anyone.  I was embarrassed, ashamed, disgusted.

As the pregnancy went on, my weight fluctuated up and down.  I was really, really trying to eat healthier and really, really trying to walk during lunch breaks, but, I inevitably fell back to my eating-disorder.  Granola bars were my drug of choice, for some reason.  Boxes of them.  Every single day.  The drawers at my desk at work were filled with pop-tarts.  I was completely out of control, and told no one about my secret hoarding.  In spite of that, though, the pregnancy was going relatively smoothly.  No morning-sickness, I had lots of energy. Some bleeding, but that quickly stopped.  All was good, all was fine.

Until Week 16.

This is when every pregnant woman starts to get tested for Gestational Diabetes.  Actually, anywhere between week 16 through week 28.  GD is common, and cannot be completely avoided.  The placenta is one of the culprits.  It affects how your sugars are metabolized.  Of course, being overweight, having Type-2 in the family, being over 25 years old, those are risk factors, as well.  I had every single one of those risk factors.  I knew deep down GD could show up.  My doctor kept warning me that it was a strong possibility, but, I didn't listen.  DENIAL.  Sure enough, my blood sugar was through the roof, and I was immediately put on insulin.  I had to shoot insulin in my thigh 6 times a day, checked my blood sugar 4 times a day, and put on a special diet, kind of along the lines of the Atkins Diet.  It was brutal, painful, and I was always hungry.   I kept my eye on the prize, however, making sure my baby did not weigh over 8 pounds, and trying to avoid a C-Section and hypertension.  I delivered my daughter at 7 pounds 13 ounces, and when I delivered the placenta, the diabetes magically went away.  Yay!  No more diabetes!  I can go eat cake again! DENIAL.

Second pregnancy, July, 2001.  I had a different doctor, but she still gave me the same warning.  "You are more than likely going to get GD again, because you had it the first time.  Try to get your diet under control, try to walk every day."   I did try to eat less carbohydrates.  I really did.  I was more active naturally because I was chasing a toddler around and taking her for walks in the stroller, etc.  I really was.  I was nursing, which burned calories.  My weight was down some...around the high 200's.

And then, the dreaded 16-week checkup came.

The test came back negative for GD.  WOOHOO!!!!! I don't have it!  DENIAL.  The eating disorder came back in full-force, and I started eating everything in sight.  I mean, EVERYTHING.  No food was safe from my grasp.  I was not working anymore, so I wasn't hoarding food, but, I still would go to stores and buy sweets and baked goods.  I would quickly eat the food and throw the wrappers away, for fear of getting caught buying crap I didn't need, and wasting money along the way.  This behavior kept going.  I didn't realize, however, that I'd have to get retested for GD at 28 weeks. 

OOPS.

My blood sugar, again, was through the roof, even worse than before.  So, I began the whole regimen again of shooting Insulin in my thigh 6 times a day, checking my blood sugar 6 times a day now instead of 4, and adhering to an even stricter diet.  More like a Keto Diet this time.  It was more brutal, more painful, and I was always hungry.  "This time," the doctor warned, "it's going to be a lot more difficult to keep the baby under 8 pounds, and there is more of a chance that even when the placenta is delivered, I could still have diabetes."  Again, I kept my eye on the prize, delivered my baby at the exact same weight as my firstborn, 7 pounds 13 ounces, the placenta was delivered, and the diabetes magically went away.  Yay!  No more diabetes!  I can go eat cake again!  This time, I specifically requested chocolate cake.  DENIAL.

Except, this time, there was a cost.  At my 6-week post-partum check up, the doctor said something that was haunting and scary.   She recommended that I not have a third child.  If I were to have a third pregnancy the chances were very high that my diabetes would remain post-delivery, and the baby could have a greater chance of being too large, diabetic, or have any number of diseases.  So, realizing this was the end of my child-bearing years, I drove home and cried the whole way.  I had really wanted a third child, but my hopes were dashed.  And it was all my fault. 

"I told you so."

Yet, the years went on, and my children were healthy, thank God.  Here and there I would start to eat right, exercise to Leslie Sansone's at home walking programs, lose some weight.  270's, 280's, 250's.  Eventually, though, the eating disorder would creep back in, and I would gain it all back.  A vicious circle.  Therapy, and Depression and Anxiety medications were added to the mix, which helped my eating disorder somewhat, but not completely.  Along the way, doctors would frequently and gently remind me about the chances about getting Type-2.  I always knew, deep down inside that the possibility was there, but, drifting on the River Denial was the only way I knew how to live.

Until 2017...

7/13/17-my new "Denial glasses" 

I started to have blurred vision in my left eye.  "Oh, I'm just getting older, I just need a new prescription for glasses, that's all!"

DENIAL.

I started having horrible, unrelenting thirst and dry mouth. "Oh, it's just because I'm in the process of moving to our new condo, and it's hot out, and I'm really busy!"

DENIAL.

I lost feeling in my toes.  "Oh, I think I need to get new sneakers.  Must be pinching my toes."

DENIAL.

I started to experience constant incontinence. “Oh, well, I’m getting old! I guess I need Depends now! Haha!”

DENIAL.

Which leads to 4/4/18.  Where I could not deny my unwell feelings any longer.  Where I alighted from the boat I was drifting on for so long, and fell to my knees on solid ground.  My journey of denial ended here, and my journey of recovery began here.

Which is where I will end this post for today.  Boy, this post took even longer than the last one!  I'm exhausted!  Now, I gotta go workout!

Until next week, stay well and safe.

Be a butterfly...🦋

Where it all began...I think(?)

So, in looking back at these 53 years that I have roamed the Earth, I have come up with some conclusions (I think), on all how all of this came about.  On and off therapy, and what not, has brought some insights, and it kinda makes sense.  I still feel there are other underlying issues, maybe trauma, but, I'll never really know for sure.

Me, age 9

But this is what I know, for sure...

My Eating Disorder and Depression began at the age of three, or thereabouts.  I believe this was the time when I started to become aware of my environment and my family structure.  I knew there was only one parent, not two, like other children had.  I knew I had siblings, but they weren't always around. They were older than me, had their own lives, and didn't have time to hang out with me.  I always remember feeling lonely.  Extremely lonely.  An underlying, constant feeling of sadness.  I never put two and two together, though.  Too young for that.

So, I turned to food.  My life-long drug of choice.

Food was my constant companion and confidant.  Food was my enjoyment, my playtime, my comfort when I was sad or sick.  My reward when I had done something I was proud of.  My punishment when I did something wrong.  It had become everything except the one thing that it was meant to be.  Fuel for the body.  Period.

Then, of course, the inevitable happened.  I became obese at an early age.  Right around the time I was starting my school career.  The taunts, bullying, and insults began.  Full force, relentless.  To make matters worse, I was also the tallest child in school.  Taller than the teachers, even.  GREAT!  I'll never forget my first realization that I was truly different than the other kids.  Second grade.  It was a health-type class, and each kid had to walk up to a scale, weigh themselves, and put their weight on the chalkboard.  My first panic attack!  YAY!  "Hello, Anxiety, nice to meet you!   I walked up to the scale and stepped on it.  In my embarrassment, I noticed it topped out at 100 pounds.  I quickly realized, "This wouldn't do", and I wrote 80 on the chalkboard.  My first lie!  YAY!  Of course, the kids still berated me.  The teacher didn't do anything.  She just sat there, reading a book.   There you have it.

So, the years went on, the pounds kept on adding up.  I hit 175 pounds at sixth-grade.  It was during this time when I began to notice new, strange dynamics in my peer group.  Girls becoming really cliquey and judgmental.  If you didn't look like them, didn't act like them, didn't participate in the same activities as them, forget it.  No friendship for you!  Another phenomenon I noticed was that girls and boys were beginning to like each other in a whole other way besides playing in the sandbox.  If you looked any different than the tiny, cute, skinny blonde, blue-eyed girl, again, forget it.  Not only would the cool girls not want to be your friend, the boys wouldn't like you either.  Another "This wouldn't do" moment.  Thus, my first foray into dieting, called, "Let's Eat Nothing And See What Happens!" began.

It worked!

I got down to 140 pounds, just in time for middle school, that lovely time of every person's life.  The friends appeared, the boys liked me.  Hey...good times!

I quickly realized, however, that I can't NOT eat forever.  I mean, I do get hungry, you know?  I truly felt I had no one to confide in, or ask questions about nutrition.  Retrospectively, I'm sure there were some supports I could have looked into, like health teachers, my doctor, a family member.  But, in that moment in time, I did the very best I could with the knowledge that I had.   So, the binge behavior began.  It was out-of-control bingeing, too.  Like I hadn't seen food in years.  I couldn't just eat a slice of pizza and say, "Sigh...that felt good!", and go on with my day.  No.  More like 10 slices. Then cake. Then ice-cream.  And on and on.

Unfortunately, and rapidly, I saw the results of this new behavior I adopted.  I saw the weight creep up on the scale.  "Uh oh, I gained five pounds."  Panic attack!  Another "That wouldn't do!' moment.
The starving cycle began again.   And over and over and over...

As I got older, through my high-school years, I began to notice another new dynamic playing in my brain.  Grown-up, emotionally-charged issues start to pop-up in life that were difficult to handle.  Am I going to make the Honor Society?  Where I am going to go to college?  Am I going to be able to live in a dorm, or do I have to commute?  Do I work full-time instead and get the hell out of this house?  Friendships and all the drama that entails.  Budding sexual feelings.  I still got lonely.  Extremely lonely.  I still got sad.  Constantly sad.  I still got angry.  Very angry.  I still got scared.  Like, terrified, actually.  But, instead of dealing with these more mature issues in productive ways, like maybe talking to school counselors, community members, or other trusted individuals, I turned to food.  Just like when I was three!

The cycle had come full circle.

There you have it.  My Compulsive Emotional Overeating Disorder, its technical term, was now fully in-place, with an iron-gripped hold on me. Its best friends, Major Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder set in comfortably for the ride. too.  Ready to direct my every move in my adult life.   Which it did, and finally brought me to my knees, at 339 pounds.

That's where I'll end today.  I wanted to devote just one post on my background and no more than that.  Not dwell on it too much.  The remaining posts will follow my diabetes diagnosis, and my positive journey thereafter.

Phew!  This was a long post!  Hope you followed through to the end and didn't get too bored!

Thank you for reading, and I'll write my third installment next week.  Or, maybe earlier than that.  It is going to be beautiful here the next couple of days, so I am going to take full advantage of getting outside into the fresh air.  Get some much-needed Vitamin D!  Stave off this virus.

Stay well!

Be a butterfly...🦋

Welcome To Day One of My Blog!

It is interesting to me that I should start my online blog on my son's 18th birthday, during a worldwide pandemic, two days before my second anniversary of being diagnosed with Type-2 Diabetes. But, here I am, week two of a stay-at-home order, not being able to go back to work at my children's center until at least May.  Sigh.

In watching YouTube, the news, QVC, and other media, (which I'm doing a lot more of these days), I am quickly realizing a common theme.  In this new way of higher-than-normal stressful and unconventional living, people are beginning to tend towards either one of two ways.  Either really focusing on their self-care, getting disciplined about their eating and exercise habits (meal-planning, et. al), or going the complete opposite direction of letting themselves totally go.  Eating and drinking to excess, maybe beginning to experiment with unhealthy outlets (drugs, etc.). The new stressors of online remote-learning, being in close contact with family members in small quarters, being uprooted from dorms and finding themselves all of a sudden to have to abide by different, possibly more stringent rules in the household-these can cause havoc in many aspects or people's lives.  There is even the fear of more and more domestic violence, child abuse and sexual assault cases not being accounted for. Frightening.

So, I figure, this would be a good time to tell my story.  How hard work and discipline CAN AND DOES pay off.  I had to hit rock-bottom to change my life, but maybe you don't have to.  Maybe a stay-at-home order is an advantageous time to really look at your self-care.  What can be improved upon?  What is working for you?  What is not working for you and should be let go of completely?  Do you need to seek out professional help?

I am planning on writing this blog weekly, but maybe more at first, since I have more time to devote to it right now.  I am not the most eloquent writer.  This blog may feel kind of like journal entries to you,  so bear with me.  I am not seeking profit or monetary gain from this project.  I just truly feel, in my heart or hearts, that these last two years have been a time of incredible growth for me in all areas-physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.   I feel there is a higher purpose to what I have experienced.  I believe, if I can inspire just ONE PERSON, then all I have gone though and all that I have accomplished was worth it.

So, join me in my journey, won't you?

Here are two pictures for you to see. The bottom one taken in 2000, at my highest weight of 339 pounds. The top one was taken a couple of weeks ago, at the weight of 154.

Until next time...stay well!

Be a butterfly...🦋