So you found out you have Type 2 Diabetes. Let the news sink in. It takes a while. It’s a different kind of condition. It is ever-present. But ultimately you choose to be the victim, or the volunteer. Your life depends on that choice.
I’m reminded every day…multiple times a day…intrusively, aggressively, and fundamentally, reminded that I allowed, nay pushed myself to take on this condition. Diabetes Type 2 is the result of ignoring the body, its needs, and the necessity for physical activity. It is a self-inflicted disease. It is the inaction of its owner that gives it the wind beneath its wings.
Diabetes didn’t give me illness. Diabetes gave me the biggest wake up call ever. Without killing me (close but no cigar) it shook me by the shoulders with enough force to jog loose my brainstem. It kicked my ass with strength so powerful as to shock me into reality. It did me a favour, before so many other things could kill me. It let off air-raid sirens in my life. It pissed me off, saved my life, and gave me a new start…all at the same time.
Diabetes Type 2 doesn’t cotton to laziness, indecision, or inattention.
It demands focus. It demands my attention. I cannot eat anything or drink anything, without first considering where my blood sugar levels will be in an hour, should I consume it. Ironicaly, Type 2 enters a life because of laziness, indecision, or inattention – and then changes EVERYTHING.
It is auto-slavery of an elite form. It is our former selves saying “fuck you” to our older selves, without a by-your-leave, or a kiss-my-ass.
At first blush, it may seem like a disease. But, look more closely. If you see laziness, indecision, or inattention to what you eat, how much you move, and how you treat yourself, reflected back at you, from the eyes of Type 2, you might want to have a good long think. Because once it has its claws in you, you will HAVE to pay attention and ditch the laziness.
It’s a blessing in disguise. A manageable condition. It’s not cancer, or stroke or some other finality. It is a bridge to health, if you let it be.
My grandmother lived to the ripe old age of 89 with Type 2. Hattie got it in her fifties, like me. In those days there were no sweetners or artificial this or that. She altered recipes, began to move, lost weight, and took the condition in hand.
I’m taking my cues from her.
J. Thompson – 2023