The trip after the trip.

Home is sweet. I was glad to be back in my court, my week started as it normally did. A mad scramble to get to work on time and in one piece. That’s when I noticed that I wasn’t feeling so hot. Something on my inside was doing something funky that made me feel horrible on the outside. And I don’t usually feel horrible – physically at least. Not enough for it to concern me.

Okay fine, I complain a lot. About this, that and every other thing hurting. But I’m not a complainer just an interpreter of life’s misgivings. That’s all. Consider me the equivalent to a public service institution.

So admist the chatter, it arrived. Silent and deadly. Here we go:

I recently had some blood work done. So I got the dreaded call where they asked me to come into the walk-in clinic. I went in with Rama. And apparently, my blood glucose levels are at a record breaking high. Most people are at a 4 to 6 – my random sample was at 27. Yeah, apparently that’s reason enough to be hospitalized. But then the walk-in doctor found my test results that showed a reading of 16. Which is still horribly bad. Still life-threatening. Still preventable. That was the hope. The hiding silver lining.

So amongst all the good and the bad things I’ve inherited from my folks – I also bear the brunt of being too sweet. There’s just too much bloody sugar in my system. Which rationally makes total sense. After all, if anyone saw our snack drawer at work – you’d know why that doesn’t surprise me.

In the last few weeks, this is what I have learnt:
My family adores me
M loves me to death
B loves me enough to give up sugar too
My friends are there – all the time
Everyone’s getting healthier for me
I have to take a pill twice a day
I have to take some more blood tests
I have to figure out how to become normal
I have to take care of myself
I have to cut out ALL sugar
I must wave goodbye to all things Refined (read: yummy)
And most importantly,
I have to find an effin doctor.

It seems to be easier to find a hit man than a god damn family physician in Toronto. Perhaps we need to send out a memo to all the brownies who are expanding their horizons and getting into communication arts. No expanding necessary thank you very much. They need to be doctors god damnit. DOCTORS. Young, healthy, virile ones that promise not to keel over in the next few years. Cuz god knows, I can’t imagine going through this ordeal twice.
I need one.
ASAP.

So apart from that – I’ve been working out diligently.

Who would’ve thought that facing my mortality could be so powerful?
Who would’ve thought that I had the self control to break away from sugar completely?
Who would’ve thought that I had the power to say no?
It’s so inspiring - the threat of dying actually makes the weakest duckling stronger. I feel reincarnated.
Alive.

And with all the people holding my hand
And helping me through this enormously confusing tunnel
I feel adequately loved and blessed.

But what did amaze me through all of this was the sheer power that my body has over my life. You see, I’ve always disregarded it. My body is my vehicle – that’s it. Well and now, my vice. I’ve never cared enough to worry about it’s performance, endurance, health etc. And now I realize that the one thing I never felt the need to control or worry about – is the one thing that can end my love affair with everything else I absolutely adore. That’s powerful stuff people. And heady too.

It makes you feel small and powerless. It forces you to realize the fact that there are greater things at work in this universe. It bitch slaps you until you open those eyes to the fact that you really do have just one life to live. And its precious. Especially when you are loved and when you love so many other people and things.

It sounds clichéd. Felt clichéd to even scribe. But it is the truth. Powerful and simple.

That night, I wept my eyes out. M drove down to console my sorry behind. And I realized. I have 7 people in this life that depend on me – not literally but figuratively. They belong to me. They are my responsibilities. Their happiness is partially in my hands. And if I was to die (as I very well could’ve apparently considering that my eyes are flippin out and my head is doing something funky) – I would leave them with one less love portion. And that’s horrible. And so, everything else is relative.

I still hate the gym. I’m fine once I get there. But the trek there is filled with soap-operatic self talk that resembles a series of grade 9 gym class excuses. And when I’m on that elliptical machine that I’m certain was designed by a sadistic bastard – I keep reminding myself – the next ten minutes will make sure I get ten more with R or ten more fighting with Appa or ten more playing with M– god the list goes on. And it might seem silly and childish – but that’s what I need: I need to know how every second of sweat is going to change my life.

I’m grateful for having found out now.
So I can fix this now.
And I’m lucky to have friends and family who are willing to pitch in and help out.

So that’s that – my run in with the sugar monster.
(the word on the street is that once I get everything under control, I could have a sliver of cheesecake without it killing me – I’m looking forward to those days.)

cross your fingers folks – I need all the luck I can get.