What I've Learned this Summer (So Far)

Admittedly, I am a fat diabetic. I know that. My “take this to the counter” sheet after every nutritionist’s appointment reminds me of it. “Morbidly obese” it states. “Diabetes (under control)” it says. But that’s only because of my medication, and lately, the doc’s on the verge of marking it “uncontrolled,” and here’s why.

Every three months, I have a blood test to chart my long-range blood sugar, or HbA1C levels (or HgA1C, I can never get that second letter straight). For non-diabetics, it should be a number under 6. It’s the percentage of your blood that has glucose attached to it. For diabetics, it should be under 7.

For 6 months (2 blood tests), mine was 7.1. So I got summoned to the doctor’s office.

“What’s going on?” she says. Um…you tell ME – you’re the one who called me here.

I’ll cut to the chase. If I don’t have my weight and A1C down with this next test (which is in July), I will be put on insulin. Now THERE’s a prospect that does NOT thrill me at all. I’ve had diabetics tell me it’s no big deal. If you’re afraid of the injections, you get over that fear pretty fast.

Well guess what? I don’t WANT to find out how fast you get over that fear. So I walk. Eight-tenths of a mile 3-5 days a week. That’s how long it is to the end of the street I work on and back.

There are a group of women here who walk every day at noon. “You’ll LOVE it!” they tell me. “You’ll feel SO much better!” they gush. And I've been asked "How come you don't walk with the ladies?!?" Here's why.

They lie. These women can get almost 3 miles done in 40 minutes, if not more (miles, not minutes). They walk faster than the speed limit on my street. And if you can’t keep up, too bad, so sad. Considering they walk the grounds of the State Hospital where the crazies and the criminals are incarcerated, and have left someone behind before, this is a problem for me. So I have never walked with them, and I never will. EVER.

I start out with another girl at the office. While we start out together, that lasts about 50 paces before I’m behind. It increases as we go on, but that’s OK, because I’m still moving and not facedown on the sidewalk, twitching. Although she's said she'll pick me up and call 9-1-1 if she passed me prone on the road. I like her.

Here’s what I’ve learned in the past month.

I don’t like doing this. It’s not fun. Not even remotely. It’s painful. Don’t tell me it will get better – it’s been a month and it has NOT gotten better. It hurts every day, just not as badly some days as others.

Shoes that are specifically sold for walking DO make a difference as to how your muscles work. LOVE them.

My calves hate me. Despite the shoes. If they were animate, independent beings, they’d be walking behind me with a lash, smacking me in the legs with every step after the first 50. TRUST me. I do stretch. Specifically my calves. Every time I walk. And I’ve tried the potassium trick. Orange juice (but only 4 oz. – diabetic, remember?), tomato juice, almonds, bananas. None of it works for me.

Nothing smells like summer. Freshly cut grass, white and purple clover (yes, they smell different from each other), crown vetch, daisies (OK, they stink a little), hot tar on the street, wild primroses, and my all-time favorite – honeysuckle. There’s not a perfumer in the world can duplicate the scent of real, live honeysuckle. And MANY have tried.

Nothing sounds like summer. The summer breeze can’t be called wind unless it’s associated with a wicked thunderstorm. The grass rustles, the leaves on the tree turn over, the birds chirp and sing and call and even on occasion holler because their nest is in the tree under which I’m walking. If I walk at home at night, the toads sing, too. And there are crickets and cicadas (although not until July here) and katydids.

A good salad after a miserable walk is small consolation.

Raspberry Vinaigrette stains. Badly.

I’ve also learned walking has made SOME kind of difference because I went out for some retail therapy last night, and guess what? My pants size doesn’t start with a 2 anymore.

It’s the little things.