Blood work would ascertain whether I had been pre-diabetic or diabetic. Tests would determine blood glucose, such as summary of my blood glucose level within the previous three months.
“Why should I worry?” I asked my doctor at my exam. “I follow a healthful Mediterranean diet and I exercise three or more days a week. My mother had diabetes but I’m not likely to go down that rabbit hole that is same.
Just having the conversation transported me back to the days when I had been responsible for the attention of my mother. I remember finding candy wrappers in her trashcan, although seeing the jar of sugarless lifesavers on her counter.
In earlier days, when my mother will take me shopping for new clothes for school, she always proposed a stop to get a soda…. Though it had been ten o’clock at the morning. “It’s always a fantastic time to get a chocolate pop or a hot fudge sundae,” she’d explain. It was a tradition. Her dad owned a drug store that included. It was weekend delight or her day to sit at purchase and that counter whatever chocolate delight was available that day. My grandfather sold the business before I could appreciate those same delicacies, but I discovered so much about these days.
One day I walked in the home to locate my mother, now wearing a wig and leotards. “I’m diabetic now,” she explained. “So I’m joining a Richard Simmons exercise course down the road. I need to get a special diet and a great deal of exercise.”
I never inquired about that diet. I simply left it up to her to ascertain what she should eat. I never asked if she should eat the birthday cakes, or why she always had a lifesaver or a cough drop. I was really ignorant regarding the decisions that she had to make on a daily basis.
However, driving home from a weekend trip lately, my husband and I stopped in to a gas station and I went inside the store to purchase snacks for the ride home. What would if I had been diabetic, I believed, I find to eat? The answer was obviously…not 1 thing.
I returned to the car, currently frustrated. “There was nothing for me there,” I whined. “Should I become diabetic like my mother, there is nothing here for me to eat. That is not fair!”
There I was, eventually facing the possibility that I would eventually become my mother, inherit her diabetes so, and need to change my life. I looked at the mirror and faced the daughter of my mother. I wondered why I hadn’t thought about how she’d felt when she had been diagnosed. I wondered if I had been, how I would feel. I yearned to have a dialogue with her. The dialogue she wanted to have with me. That opportunity was finished. Now what was left was getting the results of the blood examinations.
I lost the candy the bread and the biscuits and cleaned my pantry. I opened the freezer. There were my favorites: frozen pizza yogurt and chocolate croissants. I cringed at the idea of not having the ability to enjoy those foods any more. I hoped the popcorn could remain.
I would think ideas and hope for the best when the test results came in. I wish I could talk about the outcomes.