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By Deborah Atkinson
©iStockphoto.com/Lesya Hoover
I had just sunk my teeth into the last
bite of my final homemade, chewy fudge brownie when the phone rang.
The chocolate goodness vigorously fought my efforts to hastily swallow,
gloriously sticking to the roof of my mouth and hiding between my
teeth and cheeks as I tried not to sound like I was chewing when
I spoke.
“May I speak to Deborah?” I recognized
my doctor’s voice. I’d been in just a few days earlier
for my annual physical. I expected the routine all-clear follow-up.
“Everything came out fine but your blood
test,” my doctor began. “Your blood sugar is alarmingly
high, so I want you to stop eating sugar and white bread. No more
pastries or candy. Any questions?”
The impact didn’t immediately register,
and I resorted to my typical tongue-in-cheek response, literally
sporting a highly desirable flavor as I continued to clear the gooey
facial remnants of that irresistible brownie.
“I just finished my last mouth-watering,
luscious brownie,” I replied, “so your call is a bit
too late.”
“You’re right,” he said, unfazed
by my stab at humor. “That is indeed your LAST brownie.”
A Common Diagnosis
My pre-diabetic diagnosis, which means no insulin
shots — yet — is one many Americans now face. Type 2
diabetes is spreading throughout the population faster than wildfire.
My doctor said if I take care of myself, stay active and eliminate
sugar, I might be able to avoid the full-blown Type 1 diabetes that
ensnared all four of my grandparents and more recently my dad, too.
Because I’m an avid backpacker and cyclist
and because my doctor approved, I was not asked to give up fresh
fruit and whole grains, and I was allowed small amounts (as in one
tablespoon or less once or so a week) of pure honey, pure maple
syrup or pure agave nectar. However, my menu did require thoughtful
revision. More than once.
The devastating blow hit me the first time I
went grocery shopping after that initial consultation with my doctor.
I’d always fancied myself a rather healthy eater.
I didn’t have to give up white bread;
I’d been making my own bread from food storage wheat for years,
and I’d always preferred bread with a variety of embedded
crunchy whole grains to thin, bland white bread.
I hadn’t touched a soda in nearly seven
years. I don’t eat red meat. I’d always cut the sugar
in half when I baked because I’d learned in a co-op extension
class that reducing the amount of sugar recipes call for doesn’t
alter the flavor.
I thought my only weak spot was French fries.
Giving up greasy potatoes would be effortless. But my actual nutrition
makeover was not that straightforward.
Snail’s Pace Shopping
In the past 17 months, I have transformed
into a snail’s-pace shopper. I now carefully check the label
of everything I buy. That first grocery spree after my diagnosis,
I discovered many of the foods I considered healthy and good for
me were loaded with dangerous refined sugars under a variety of
deceiving names. Corn syrup. Rice syrup. Fructose. Glucose. Sucrose.
Fruit juice concentrate. Evaporated cane juice. All of these sugars
and dozens more profoundly saturate all my favorite foods.
Fruit juice. Flavored yogurt. Dried fruit. Light
salad dressing. Even adult cereal and oatmeal.
Discouraged but determined, I plodded
toward the fresh produce with a nearly empty basket. This has not
been an easy battle. I have a powerful sweet tooth. I love chocolate.
I was famous for treating my family and co-workers to a killer homemade
“Death by Chocolate” triple-layer cake featuring seven
different kinds of chocolate. Little did I know then the name of
my recipe was more than just a clever moniker.
I endured nightmares about sweet foods I don’t
even like for eight days after I gave up sugar. I dreamed one night
that I ate an entire pineapple upside-down cake in one sitting (ick!),
and when I awoke, I was so flustered and guilt-ridden, I didn’t
know if my discretion was real or just an exceedingly lifelike hallucination.
Co-workers frequently would assure me cheating
once in a while wouldn’t hurt anything, especially since I
was being so good. I did indeed cheat once. I ate one small piece
of chocolate on Halloween. I craved Hershey’s kisses for three
days afterward.
I tried commercial sugar-free chocolate. Thankfully,
I don’t crave it. It must not have whatever I am addicted
to, because I can get by on one bite or none at all.
Artificial sweeteners aren’t without risk.
I decided I was becoming too dependent on them, so my new year’s
resolution this year was to give up the colorful sweetener packets,
too. Fortunately, I suffered no withdrawals from that sacrifice,
although it did take me more than a week to acquire a taste for
plain oatmeal with nothing but spices, herbal tea or bananas to
flavor it. Now I’ve discovered stevia, which is natural and
may even tout health benefits.
Early on, I realized if my blood sugar was high
without white bread and pop, giving up dessert would not be enough.
I voluntarily elected to also give up white potatoes, white pasta
and white rice, all of which I had grown as addicted to as chocolate.
Hitting a Wall
During the organized bike rides I regularly
participate in, cyclists are encouraged to consume tons of carbohydrates
in order to sustain their energy level during day-long and multi-day
rides. Sponsors typically provide fruit, which I can eat, and white
bagels, PB&J on white bread, every imaginable brand of cookie,
baked white potato bars and all-you-can-eat white pasta.
My dietary restrictions forced me to find new
foods that would perform the same function and then find ways to
carry it eight or more hours and keep it from spoiling in the heat
of the summer sun. When I hit the trails for the first time a few
months into my new diet, I realized just how important the food
I’d grown accustomed to had been.
I filled my pack or pockets with portable helpings
of homemade sugarless granola and trail mix. I dried my own fruit
and sweet potatoes and sprinkled them with cinnamon instead of sugar.
I drank only water, no energy drinks. And I bonked.
Bonk is athletic slang for running out of energy.
It means the body doesn’t have enough fuel to keep going.
I also began experiencing frightening dizzy
spells. I feared I might have developed yet another life-threatening
condition. During a visit with my doctor, I found out my body was
learning to burn new forms of fuel and that the dizzy spells should
subside within 18 months.
My doctor praised my efforts and encouraged
me to stick with the diet, even though I hadn’t yet found
the right combination of carbs, fat and protein for my body. He
even studied the labels on commercial low-sugar and no-refined-sugar
energy bars I’d brought in for his seal of approval. (He approved
the bars that are sweetened with dates instead of sugar.) He told
me not to be discouraged by my inability to walk more than three
miles before bonking. He said he had healthy patients who couldn’t
walk that far.
Throughout last summer and fall, I kept trying
different safe foods, searching for whatever would give me the energy
I needed to climb tall mountains in multiple bounds or make it to
the finish line of a 60-mile bike ride without making my blood sugar
worse. Depression enveloped me every time I had to turn back before
reaching a summit or wave down a SAG (support and gear) wagon because
I just didn’t have the oomph to keep going.
Then came my six-month follow-up visit. I brought
down my blood sugar only a tiny fraction. Tears! Giving up all that
I did had not made a measurable difference.
I had forfeited my ability to succeed athletically
by complying with my doctor’s orders. I’d grown accustomed
to the new diet, but it hadn’t worked. Why was I putting myself
through this?
I was tempted to go back to old ways because there was nothing I
could do to stop my body’s slow deterioration. I was even
tempted to give up the outdoors altogether and just sit in my room
to quilt or write. Why not enjoy every last minute I could?
I cried because I was bequeathed faulty genes.
Why couldn’t I be like famous cyclists and mountain climbers
who perform superhero achievements while munching on and endorsing
candy bars and cupcakes?
Dramatic Answers
As frequently occurs when I become miserable
and find myself on my knees requesting comfort and support, dramatic
answers were provided.
I thought of my loved ones and friends who must
monitor their blood sugar levels periodically throughout the day.
I don’t want to reach that point.
I remembered a distant relative and a middle
school classmate, both of whom lost their eyesight and their feet
to diabetes. I don’t want to reach that point.
While attempting to ride up the highest paved
road in the United States, I was passed by a cyclist who had only
one leg. While walking along a greenbelt trail, I was passed by
a man who obviously suffered some form of muscular degeneration
and pain to boot, yet he kept pushing onward. At a Paralympics event,
I saw people with no legs triumphing. In these and other similar
instances, I felt ashamed for ever feeling sorry for myself.
God gave me a body, and He expects me to take
care of it, whether it functions the way I want it to or not. In
light of that, I made the choice to keep trying. I daily invited
my Heavenly Father to help me survive my personal battle.
Co-workers quit trying to tempt me,
and some of them even began asking me for advice regarding their
own nutritional dilemmas. Eventually, I worked my way up to eight
miles hiking or cross-country skiing without toppling over completely
exhausted. Dizzy spells became less frequent. Progress was slow,
but improvement did seep into my veins.
Meeting the Deadline
My doctor had given me one year from my initial
diagnosis to gain control of my blood sugar before medical intervention.
I was so nervous as I went through yet one more set of blood draws
during my one-year follow-up that I’m only glad I wasn’t
being given a blood pressure test. Three days later, I received
my test results.
That earthquake you may have felt back in early
March — that was me jumping for joy. My blood sugar is back
to normal.
In late April, I completed my first long hike
of the year. I didn’t bonk until after the 14th mile, and
that may have been due more to desert heat than my choice of nutrients
along the way. I may have found the proper fuel for my body in high-energy-output
mode. (Breakfast of whole grain hotcakes smothered with unsweetened
applesauce, then small helpings of fresh fruit, homemade trail mix
or spicy tuna every 45 minutes or so during high-energy activity
instead of just lunch and dinner breaks. If I wait until I’m
hungry, it’s too late.)
I have permission to eat chocolate
again, as long as I maintain self-control. But I’m going to
resist. I’m sticking with my diet because I don’t ever
want to go through this process again. I don’t know if my
blood sugar will always be okay, but if I’m doing my part,
I won’t bring on diabetes through my own neglect.
Actually, I haven’t totally
given up chocolate. My homemade brownies now are sweetened with
mashed bananas or strawberries. You can catch me trying to clear
the sweet, sticky residue from my mouth about once every month.
Just don’t try to make me talk while I’m swallowing!
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