It might appear I was only slightly affected by receiving the diagnosis. This was far from the truth. I was shocked at the disease striking so early. I knew I would be a diabetic, just not until I was well into my 50's. Dismay and disbelief took hold and held sway for a number of months. I followed the prescribed regimen of diet changes and continued to walk through the hills of San Francisco for my exercise. My smoking habit of three packs a day was definitely a thing of the past.
Before I moved to San Francisco, I was living in Evanston, IL, the first suburb north of Chicago. Living probably isn't the right word, it was more like existing. I would go out with friends but was really an observer as opposed to a participant in what we did. I was always there for my friends but never leaned on them as they did me. It's always been my habit to be the mediator, or fixer, to those around me and never care for myself. This definitely manifested itself in my habits. I was a heavy smoker and drinker and continued to put weight on, finally ballooning to over 250 pounds of unhappiness before I left the city to start over. The move is another story completely.
I figure the weight and genetics finally conspired to bring me to a halt before it got too far. At the same time, I think I knew too much about the disease so I found out earlier than most people. Initially I was a Type II but now I have to take insulin daily to help control the disease. I still have bouts of dismay, or more likely despair, about being a diabetic even though I know it's a very manageable disease. The problem is complaining about it won't change anything so I don't say anything because then I would be whining about the bad hand I was dealt when compared to others, my dad has Parkinson’s, it is such a minor life bump. I guess that's the male part of my brain coming forward and telling me to tough it out, what choice do you have?
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