“Ok… just a little pin prick… there’ll be no more AAAAAAAAAHHHH, but you may feel a little sick.” – Pink Floyd
I often stopped at a convenience store during my fifty minute commute to and from work. While standing in line, I often passed judgement on those that stood in front of me. Who will waste my time today? The guy who asks for a particular type of cigarette that seems to be hidden in the case behind the register? The woman who spends more than her fair share of time dictating what lottery scratch offs she wants? The young man who plops down his two or three large energy drinks at the cash register? The gentleman who heaves a case of beer and declares it to be Miller time? All of these folks stood in between me and work or home. Finally, I get to the clerk and get the opportunity to purchase my snack cakes. Nothing knocks the pointy edges off your day like a couple of Double Decker Little Debbies.
Hello, my name is C.L. and I’m addicted to food. After fifty-one years, I can finally muster up the courage to take that first step and say these words. In some respects, however, it may be too late. Yes, after years and years of abuse my pancreas has decided to rebel against my inner demons and tell the rest of me that it is tired and has had ENOUGH, thank you. The cruel truth comes into view when the ‘pointy edges’ shaved off by Little Debbies reappeared in the form of the lancets I need to use every morning to check my glucose.
The diagnosis of Type 2 Diabetes is not a new one for me. That phrase first appeared in my medical charts over ten years ago. Just how do you deal with something that both keeps you alive and could possibly kill you? Eat too much food? Get diabetes, heart disease, and die. Don’t eat enough? Shrivel up, waste away, and die. Staying in the middle makes life a balancing act, a constant stream of choices that can be good or bad. Choices that individually amount to very little on their own, but build and build and build until one day your find yourself tens, if not hundreds of pounds heavier, in terrible shape, and on the pointy end of a lecture from your doctor saying that the amount you spend at the pharmacy is about to go up… a lot.
Type 2 Diabetes is not a terminal diagnosis, it can be managed… as long as I determine that I want to manage it. The problem is, there have been a lot of times that I haven’t. Me Becoming Me is supposed to be about positive transformation, but there isn’t always a lot of positivity that can be gleaned from intentionally pricking your finger and making yourself bleed every single morning because of a lifetime of negative choices.
No, not a lot… but there are some.
In my brushes up against Buddhism, the concept of being present stuck with me. I can’t control the past, it’s done, it’s gone… it’s never coming back. Quite a few things in the future also remain out of my control. The only thing I can do is worry about the day ahead. When I prick my finger and give my sample, it will provide me an objective measure of yesterday’s choices. If a low number returns, I can rejoice in my good fortune and set an intention to replicate my actions for that day. If the number is high, I forgive myself for my bad choices, remind myself of what I am trying to do, and set an intention to better that day. Among those intentions are to be kinder to those who are suffering and need something to get through their day… including myself.
Perhaps if I keep on a program of self-improvement long enough, I will get to the point where I can get past this part of my day. For now, the little pin prick will have to stay and I will do my best to embrace the lesson that it’s trying to teach me.