Young at heart, my ass!

The Heartbreaking Reality Of Diabetes And The Surprising Light Of Hope At The End Of The Tunnel

If you can hold out….

I’m a mess and I need your help.

I’m starting a new fitness journey. I know, I know, another old woman who’s trying to be 20 again. But no, that’s not it at all.

You couldn’t pay me to be 20 again. Not one dollar. Not ten million.

I’m perfectly happy with my 56-year old brain. If I had to start all over and re-learn everything, I’d stab myself in the eye.

Every wrinkle on your face corresponds to ten in your brain and without brain wrinkles, I’d do stupid things all over again. Like drinking ten shots of tequila without dinner and begging my husband to make the bed stop spinning during the night.

(Wrinkle wisdom = keep one foot on the floor at all times when metabolizing tequila.)

Old Age Is Not For Sissies

I’m good with brain wrinkles because I earned every single one of them.

We live. We learn. We wrinkle.

But this 56-year old body is making my head hurt.

At age 49, my doctor diagnosed me with diabetes, high cholesterol, and hypertension.

It seems I was perfectly healthy. Until I was not. One day I felt young, strong, and healthy, and then, poof.

Of course, I know that it didn’t happen that quickly, but it sure felt that way.

Just a few years previous, I worked with my husband in his roofing business. I was 45. I worked as hard as he did, in the sun, ripping the old roof down, and loading up the new.

I hung with the boys and girls on that roof who were half my age.

At 5’5” tall and 180 pounds, my body type falls in the apple body type category.

With a healthy assist from good genetics, God saw finesse (and humor) in adding long, muscular legs and strong, skinny arms to my round little belly.

Can you say candy-freaking-apple?

Depending on which expert-of-the-month you believe, I’m 40–60 pounds overweight.

Which isn’t confusing at all, right?

Multiple factors determine a person’s health, not the least of which include lifestyle and family history. I gotta question anyone who pins their assessment of my physical health on BMI.

Here’s an article on why from Web MD:

I have to believe there’s so much more to each of our stories than a simple calculation dividing height into weight.

We can’t let anyone reduce our value to the sum of our physical parts.

Our bodies are mad machines, indeed, but we’re driven more by spirit than even blood, muscle, and matter. Our spirit is what moves us. It’s who we are.

Lucky for me, I’m much more interested in health, energy, and vitality. I want to feel happy and energetic.

But I just haven’t felt my best in a long damn time.

Scale numbers don’t impress me, so I’m not worried about the weight other than how it affects my all-around health. I am, however, worried about muscle loss. I lost most of my muscle tone about the time I was diagnosed as a diabetic seven years ago. (Horrible, stupid, evil metabolic syndrome)

I’ve never been particularly athletic, but still, I didn’t expect to lose all my muscles seemingly overnight. I had good muscle tone and I was moderately active, even if I was a bit overweight.

How did I get so old so fast?

I knew I wouldn’t stay young forever, but damn.

The Old Lady Blue Hair came out of nowhere. Packing a mean uppercut and dirty bodywork that crushed my shopworn dance.

She bamboozled me.

It caught me entirely off guard because of endless compliments on my youthful movement and attitude. I almost started believing all those smooth-skinned twenty-somethings who told me they loved my young spirit and wicked cool love of Zeppelin, Crue, Mercury, Presley, and Cash.

Guess what happened when Old Lady Blue Hair threw diabetes and high blood pressure at me? Those kids scat out of here, ducking and dodging gray hair and chin stubble on their way out. And laughing. So, so hard at me.

Those bastard kids.

The Struggle Is Real

Diabetes sucks ass. Don’t let anyone fool you into thinking it’s easily avoided or managed.

It sucks your life away from you, one hour at a time.

I’m not exaggerating.

You think it’s all about eating too much sugar, don’t you? You had a mental picture of an old woman who couldn’t control her Twinkies and sweet tea and now she only has six toes and is blind in one eye, didn’t you?

Well, it’s exactly like that and so much more.

It’s stabbing yourself with your glucose monitor in the morning and then stabbing yourself with an insulin needle right after that and then stabbing yourself again throughout the day.

It’s gaining thirty pounds in thirty days because of a funky little pill called Actos that your doctor ordered because of blood sugars so high she considered admitting you to the hospital to regain control of the blood sugar, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol.

None of which you knew you had until you saw the doctor.

It’s your doctor not caring about those thirty pounds because she’s happy you’re holding your nutrition rather than pissing it away, which is why you lost the weight in the first place.

It’s spending seven years trying to lose those thirty fucking pounds again and failing every month to even lose a pound.

It’s reading every crackhead explanation about diabetes you can find online and winding up more confused than when you began.

It’s researching every drug you’re taking and being completely horrified at what they’re doing to your body.

It’s a skinny, cute 29-year old Physician Assistant telling you it’s okay to check your blood sugars five times a day because it doesn’t hurt.

It’s being exhausted from taking a shower.

It’s waking up every morning listening to your heart pounding like a bass drum in your ears.

It’s working two jobs to make ends meet and then losing a toe to osteomyelitis because you didn’t have time to go to the doctor during office hours.

It’s sitting on your husband’s lap and crying your eyes out because you’re scared to death. Of death. Of everything.

It’s praying to God every night to help you figure it all out.

Yes, you should always strive for positivity. No, you can’t be too pessimistic when it comes to this evil metabolic disease.

I’m in the beginning stages of Charcot, in my right foot. That foot is starting to pull inward because my arch doesn’t want to hold up my ankle anymore. The bones are becoming soft because of relentless neuropathy.

Besides that physical horror, diabetes assaults my good fashion sense because my sandal days are behind me.

Oh hell, what was I thinking? I’m down a toe. No sandals for this one.

I’m down to sturdy shoes with orthotics to keep that stupid foot straight for as long as I can.

That foot keeps me from walking as much as I want, too. I can walk short distances with no discomfort but even with good shoes and an orthotic, I become weak and fatigued if I walk more than a city block. After three trips around Lowe’s with my husband on a hunt to find the perfect screw to add to the ten thousand he inherited from his father, I need a ride back to the register.

I’m not lazy. It’s not a mental block or an exercise in sloth. It’s a real physical obstacle. And I hate it.

And hey, don’t get me wrong here, I’m not painting this morose picture for sympathy.

I am if nothing else, an eternal optimist, but I’m also well aware of a few bad choices made by no one other than me. Genetics may predispose me to a metabolic disease but poor eating habits and non-existent exercise routines got me here on the express train. I own this. All of it.

So don’t feel sorry for me.

Starting a new life plan (and that is exactly what this is, kids) requires planning and determination.

I’m good at both of those things, but I need help with implementation. And accountability.

I like things that come in threes, so I made a three-prong plan I’m implementing next week. So as not to overwhelm myself, I’m launching each new segment in consecutive new weeks. Beginning next Monday.

You have to start new fitness routines on Monday. I think that’s a rule or something

DIET

Fresh vegetables, lean protein, some fruit, supplementing morning and evening with a protein shake. No processed foods. No sugar, no grains to start, restricting carbs to fruits and vegetables, limiting starchy veggies.

Lots and lots of water all through the day.

(For the safety and immediate well-being of my husband and co-workers, I’m not giving up coffee at this time.)

EXERCISE

I’ve been quite depressed at trying to start an exercise routine and always ending up frustrated and fatigued without realizing even the tiniest benefit.

I’m not alone, either. Not by a longshot!

It’s really hard for many people to start and maintain an exercise routine.

But good thing for me, I read smart writers like Benjamin Hardy, who says:

“Your identity is not fixed. You don’t have some personality you were born with that remains the same. Like a garden, your identity is either becoming more polished and refined, or more entangled, confused, and distracted.”

I’m not giving up on exercise. Diabetes can’t stop me. Charcot can’t stop me. Neuropathy can’t stop me.

The only one who can stop me is me. It’s always been me.

I know where I want to start.

Keenan Eriksson inspired me to start this journey with this article:

Fifteen minutes a week? Holy shit! Anyone can do that! Including me!

BETTER SLEEP

As a lifelong insomniac, I’m making a pledge for better sleep.

Good sleep is essential. Formerly, I worked for a pulmonologist who provided sleep medicine services. Sleep deprivation is no joke. Those who suffer from sleep apnea and other sleep-related pathologies live a lower quality of life with increased health concerns from cardiovascular disease to increased accident susceptibility.

Sleep deprivation also causes memory issues and trouble with concentration and mood changes, decreased immunity, and increased risk of diabetes, weight gain, lowered sex drive, and poor balance.

Hell, I suffer from almost all those symptoms!

Lately, I’ve been on muscle relaxers and anticonvulsants to treat nocturnal lower leg muscle cramps. In addition to decreasing the stupid Charlie-horses, (related to the stupid muscle loss, duh) a side benefit (if you want to call it a benefit) is staying asleep all night once I get into bed rather than lying there for three hours trying to fall asleep or waking up ten times after I fall asleep. The downside is how drowsy and sluggish I feel upon waking.

It’s a vicious circle of no sleep, no exercise, and weight gain. I have to get the muscles back. If I can bring back the muscles, I can hopefully lose those muscle cramps and the nightly drugs.

Wish Me Luck!

So that’s my plan. Here’s where I need your help: I sure could use your best wishes and kind thoughts while I struggle through this journey. I’ll even keep you posted on my progress if you want.

I hope you won’t laugh at me. I hope you will laugh with me and encourage me to keep on keeping on, even when it sucks ass and I think I’m going to die if I eat one more piece of lettuce, lift one more weight, or drink all the coffee after another sleepless night.

I hope you want to see me back to my old spark and muscle tone. I want to sprint into my second act with a spring in my step. I want to have lots of hope and lots of friends wishing me well.

I got this one life. And I can’t wait to see what’s around the corner. And I need all my friends there with me. Now more than ever.

And hey, I’ll do the same for you when that Old Lady Bluehair shows up on your doorstep, unannounced and uninvited.