Senior Daze

by Katie Bourg

About Katie: Having arrived in time for the Great (?) Depression, WWII, and all other 20th century problems, I am endowed with long and varied memories. Writing classes have long been my home away from home. Other people's stories are fascinating, and sharing is growth at its best. Hope you seniors will join me with your stories. Try it. You'll like it.

Recently my grandson surprised me with his casual mention of Desi's demise. Desi was his brother's golden Labrador, and had long been a favorite of mine. Desi had developed diabetes. Another grandson recently started giving his ancient cat insulin shots.

"Even the family animals can't escape," I mused. "Who's putting sugar in dog and cat food?"

But after this last call ended, it occurred to me that I shouldn't have been surprised. This has been a frequent problem in my life, one I was never prepared for. I'd thought of it as my husband's curse. One of those things you don't expect when you are young.

Gus grew up in sugarcane country. He often mentioned sucking on the sweet cane right out of the field. His father was a cane farmer. Sugar was a way of life. We gave little thought to that until one bright afternoon when he developed a raging problem that sent us racing to emergency. The medical folks calmed us down, took the usual tests, and sent us home with instructions not to worry. They would let us know later if there was a problem, when their tests were completed.

The phone was ringing as we entered the house. There was a problem--a big one--and we were to go straight to our primary care physician the following morning. We did and life took a turn.

Gus had diabetes. If he was careful, and changed his eating habits, he might avoid the daily shots he dreaded. Pills could suffice, if we were careful, for now anyway. I didn't know it then, but I had baked my last apple pie.

This was quite a shock to both of us, as Gus had always been the healthy one. Our five children were also the picture of health. I didn't think I'd been a bad cook, and neither did Gus. His father had moved the family away from the original family area, so we didn't know many of his relatives. Of those he did know, this was not something he ever heard of. This remained a puzzle occasionally floating through our heads for twenty years.

With retirement came travel, and for the first time we visited the family. That's when we learned most of his aunts and uncles had the problem, and the grandfather died of it. Gus had been careful during those early years, and I'd done the studying, daily testing and diet changes. He did complain that I never made pie anymore.

I learned what every diabetic needs to know to stay healthy, and I got pretty good at it. I found substitutes that worked. I even learned to make lemon pie without sugar, but only once or twice a year. Eventually, I gave even that up, as I learned that sugar was not the real problem. Carbohydrates were. Flour, bread, and his beloved rice. Ever try to take rice away from a southerner? He remained healthy in spite of himself for over thirty more years. Insulin only became necessary in his mid-eighties.

When I became a widow I threw away his testing kit, pills and insulin. I was through with all that. My own habits had changed along with his, and I remained overweight but healthy. I had learned to like rice, in moderation. For a few years I forgot all about diabetes.

Then my daughter developed diabetes; next my older son did. Within a year or two of their father's age at the time of his diagnosis, three of my five children were fighting the good fight. A fourth one was informed he was pre-diabetic.

I said, "Face it. You got your father's genes. You are diabetic." Only one of the five has not gone down that road. They are all doing well, but two are already on insulin. The two who are the most careless about diet, I might add.

But I had no problem. They got it from their father. Had nothing to do with me. And then it happened.

I received notice from my doctor that a recent test showed I had a problem. I was handed a test kit and instructions. I felt outrage. This was Gus' problem. It wasn't supposed to be mine. The doctor smiled. "You are in your eighties. Your pancreas has slowed up with age." He told me. "It happens."

I was still sulking a few weeks later when an old friend sent me an e-mail. "I have developed diabetes," she wrote. At 84 the pancreas just doesn't want to work well. We are the same age, and now have the same problem. Neither one of us was expecting it.

And the urge to resist is still with us. We went to lunch recently. She suggested we share a piece of pie. I knew better, but I agreed. My numbers climbed that evening, and I told her we better have the sugarless pie next time. Reluctantly, she agreed. Fortunately, Shari's makes very good sugarless pie.

Now if we just don't eat the crust, we might live to be a hundred. And we might even get to keep our eyesight, and our legs. If we just accept and behave. It's a hard adjustment. But at least we know we are not alone. It happens to a lot of us. Something you might want to keep in mind.