Coming Out the (Diabetic) Closet

I am a lot of things to a lot of people and hopefully most of those descriptors are good things.

I am a child of God.

I am unapologetically Black.

I am a loving husband and hyperprotective father.

I am a fairly decent friend and neighbor, from what the people on/off Next Door think have seen in our subdivision and what most of you already know about me.

I am pretty laidback yet extremely passionate regarding my interests.

I am a reliable team player at work although I spend twelve hours at a time alone in my office.

I make some really good barbecue, some of which I hope you would sample a bite or two, or even purchase the sauces. 

I can go all day long with this but there is also one new description that comes into play:

I am diabetic.

Type II to be exact, but it doesn’t matter which diabetes (Type I or II) it is because untreated, it can lead to permanent damage.

I was diagnosed five years ago with Type II diabetes and once that sunk in, my stomach wasn’t as cast iron as once was and devouring almost anything at will was no longer permissible. Combine that with simultaneously finding out that I also have high blood pressure made me want to throw something up against the wall – or at the very least, curse my genetics. Of course I moped around to my wife about the changing health status yet I also decided to read up and kick this disease’s ass by any means necessary because simply griping about it does no good except for the few seconds used venting about my new life and its upcoming challenges. Fortunately, I’m not so far off the deep end that I have to resort to using the insulin pumps or pricking my finger throughout the day to check my blood sugar levels.

Upon hearing my doctor tell me that my diabetes and high blood pressure combined were the byproducts of “eating like a kid” and lousy sleeping patterns, I began to imagine the worst:  having to treat my everyday meals like the bland ones you’ve eaten at Luby’s or some all-you-can-eat place where clearly the love wasn’t put into the cooking. For a burgeoning pit master/caterer, I wanted to know how that would impact my flavor profiles [on pork specifically ribs, butts, and shoulders, it’s the Big 6 dry rub seasonings that I won’t tell; beef, chicken, and others, I may share BUT only if you ask politely].

Beyond moving fork or sandwich from plate to my fat face, what else could I do? I was lost with no path homeward. I hurt my back several years ago at work and instead of proper rest and rehab, I was fed a steady diet of Flexeril which guaranteed eight hours’ sleep and an escape from recurring bouts of pain that would eventually cripple me. I didn’t know where it was coming from, so I quit playing basketball and running as an attempt to eliminate the pain. Yet it came back sporadically – and with a vengeance when it did. Several years ago, I signed up for men’s city league basketball and played relatively well for my health issues and being away from the game for so long until my back acted up following another Sparkle Motion loss. I missed those two late-season games – it wouldn’t have mattered, as we were blown out in both contests and limped into the playoffs with a 3-8 record. Here I was, once the governor of the paint and well-known rebounding machine, reduced to a shell of myself; the subsequent weight gain from recently getting married and slowing metabolism rate didn’t exactly help. I could patrol the lane but for one reason or another, I found myself a step slower than the guys I guarded and out of breath more frequently.

Then I suffered from sugar cravings:  I couldn’t leave those damn honeybuns alone.

Say what you want about how much I like drinking craft beer – those Little Debbies are my real kryptonite.

I should have noticed that I was going to the restroom more often and how much liquid sugar I was punishing daily, but I dismissed both. Ditto for the migraines I occasionally suffered after waking up from the afternoon nap before work. What did pounding copious amounts of Dr. Pepper or Full Throttle have to do with anything concerning my body or waking up every three or four hours to pee? More than I knew.

Like I said, I’ve been diagnosed as diabetic for a few  years, so I’m still learning how to beat this devil – and at the very least, manage it well enough that it is a minimal part of life. With the regimen of medicine I have to take every day, I do feel a little like a junkie (I know it’s not politically correct to say junkie, but that’s how I feel with six separate pill bottles and a glass of water every day); consequently, this is a part of my new life. I slowly have also rededicated myself to at least walking through the neighborhood and shooting hoops in the driveway; as I get my moxie back, it may include an abbreviated game of one-on-one before I try to hold my own with the AAU crowd. Initially, I had lost twenty-five pounds (and since have regained it back and then some - thanks, Rona) yet despite my dietary backsliding into the drive-thru windows around the region, I aim to beat this thing.

How do I beat something that I am genetically (and culturally) predisposed to?

I have two strikes against me:  the genetics and the culture. It doesn’t mean lay down and do nothing; living in a new world which Metformin is going to send me to the toilet if I even gaze at a slice of pizza too long presents new obstacles to good health. Genetically, I knew I was screwed:  both sides of my family are battling high blood pressure and diabetes, and there are some of us who do have to use the insulin pumps and pricks daily. It could be worse, but hopefully nipping it in the bud early will be the catalyst in changing not only what we eat but how food and drink are consumed. As for the culture, I am not solely talking about Black culture:  I am a son of the South and a summer cookout is not the same without fried catfish or chicken, grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, smoked spareribs or beef brisket, or some sort of sugary goodness!

In other words, I LOVE TO EAT. We ain’t snacking on vegan anything over here.

In this day, I need to learn how to eat to live, not live to eat. My grandparents have all made it to their 80s and one even saw age 90 before she passed away, so whatever they did health-wise is worth taking a look at. Then there is the one still-living grandparent who turned 94 in October who my daughter is fortunate enough to meet and know – Grandma’s dad (my great-grandpa John) lived to be 101. As far as I can tell, moderation and exercise are the keys to living such a long healthy life; applying those tips can perhaps help me.

Another way I can conquer diabetes is by actually listening to what my dietician says – and that includes following the notes she recommends. Trust me when I say that big bowl of Golden Grahams isn’t there to help me get to where I want to be. Does it taste good on the way down? Hell yeah it does! Do I really need the sugary goodness each morning? Not really. Therefore, I’ve given myself an arbitrary weight goal of my wedding day weight, but what matters more is being able to keep up with Little Miss Sunshine and her boundless energy without doubling over and grabbing basketball shorts for a deep breath every couple hundred feet.

Being diabetic hasn’t been a death sentence like I expected back in February 2017; it instead has become my wakeup call to change some habits for the better while I have my good health.

Fuck diabetes. I mean that.

— A. Cedric Armstrong (@cedteaches) July 31, 2017