I’m a Type 2 Diabetic: by Reginald D. Brown – Contributing Author

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Hello To my Baby Boomer friends,

My name is Reginald D. Brown.  I have been a type 2 diabetic since 1995 and I’d like to share my story with you about how I became a diabetic.

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The Beginning

In the Spring of 1995, I weighed 217 pounds.  I was 10 pounds overweight, so I decided to go on an exercise program to lose weight.

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For a full month, I lifted weights and jogged 3 times a week.  During this time, I began to lose weight rapidly.  I went down from 217 pounds to 181 pounds.  However, I started having issues with my health.

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Symptoms:

• I was urinating every 45 to 60 minutes.
• My vision started getting blurry.
• My feet and legs would cramp at night.
• I also started seeing blood in my stool.
• I had an awful thirst
• I craved anything sweet like orange juice, pineapple juice, and cranberry juice.
• I would drink up to a quart of juice at a time and still be thirsty.

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Something’s Not Right

I thought the weight loss was from my working out.  Finally I woke up from my denial and went to the doctor on Good Friday.  I took blood tests and it was revealed that my blood sugar level was over 400 mg.

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If I hadn’t gone in that Friday, I would have gone into a coma by Monday.  Reality set in.  I was a diabetic.

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My New Reality

The doctor prescribed 3 pills of Glyburide at 5 mg’s a day.  I did this for a 30 day period and then my blood sugar leveled off to an average 120 mg a day.  Then the doctor prescribed I only take one pill day and advised me that diabetes was a progressive disease and that I had to monitor my blood level every day.

Denial and Relapse

Since I was feeling well, I thought the one pill a day was all I needed.  So, I went back into denial with bad eating habits and not exercising like I should.  I didn’t even use the blood sugar monitor the doctor provided me.

Within 2 weeks, I started having the same symptoms as before.  I tested my blood sugar and was shocked when the glucose monitor read 258 mg.

Consequences

I went back to the doctor. He chastised me for not following instructions as he wrote a prescription for 3 pills of Gylburide at 5 mg’s a day.  I promised to be proactive in my diabetes care and not re-active when I was ill. Within a day or so, my blood sugar levels were at an acceptable average of 120 mg.

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Hint: Doctors want to see an average blood sugar level of between 90 and 120 mg. I still had a bit to go, so I tried the following tip:

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Here’s a tip for my Type 2 diabetic friends:

Don’t eat White Bread, Rice or Potatoes for One Week . . .

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If you follow that tip, along with your medical professional’s advice, you should lose a few pounds and your blood sugar levels should go down to manageable levels.

Try it  and email me with your results.

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For Me Contracting Diabetes was Inevitable

All the ingredients were there: Working out and exercising actually contributed to accelerating my diabetes to becoming full-blown;  On my Father’s side of the family, he had two sisters who were type 2 diabetics; I also had set into a sedentary lifestyle and was eating everything in sight.

So, it was inevitable that I would become a diabetic.

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In Conclusion

Diabetes is not a death sentence.  I have learned the hard way that if we are pro-active we can control the disease. It can be controlled through diet, exercise and oral medication. However, it is up to us. We diabetics must make an effort to change our life’s habits in order to live a healthy, full life.

Thanks for reading and you can expect many more articles about controlling diabetes.

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Reginald D. Brown

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Part 2: I’ve got a Million Excuses

My friend’s co-worker, and many like him, will use every excuse in the book to remain inactive which will lead inevitably to him becoming reactive.

Once the disease takes over, it is in control. That’s when most people go into survival mode and come around to doing what is right. Often, too late. Then the friend, family member or co-worker is left wondering how they could have done more, or worse, feeling guilty like it is their fault.

Here are a few statements that I have been told personally when I made suggestions.

• “Butt-out man, this is my problem, I’ll handle it.” A typical “man” comment. We’re always ready to ”fix” something.
• “I don’t believe in taking medicine.”
• “I can’t afford the medicine.”
• “It’s too far to the doctor’s office.”
• “The doctor’s just trying to get all my money.”
• “I hate needles.”
• “Using needles like that will leave tracks and make me look like a junkie.”

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Really, I was told that last one by a person with type 2 diabetes who refused to take insulin.

But with real friends, family and co-workers, they’re in this with us, step for step.

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Everybody cares. “They don’t accept excuses when it comes to our health. They want us around to help them enjoy this wonderful life.”

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Guess what I hear most often though, when I suggest seeing a specialist? And this one, I think, is supposed to shut me up. “I’ve got faith that God is gonna work it out, and send me the answer”

My first thought and comment is always the same. “You’re right, but maybe God sent you me, with my suggestion; the medicine that you won’t take, or the answer that you won’t listen to.”

So to wrap this article up, if there is a disease that we are dealing with personally, let’s not forget those around us who, although not ill, are just as involved.

Let’s honor our friends, family and even co-workers the benefit of listening to their suggestions and not shut them out.

After-all, they’re just saying . . . !!!

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See Part 1 How it Affects Our Loved Ones

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“Good Health and Success are a Lifestyle . . . Live Well,”
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African Americans, Baby Boomers and Diabetes

Hey, how’s it going? Thanks for stopping by.

Has a good friend, family member or co-worker shut you out when they became desperately ill?

Today’s article will focus on a different aspect of diabetes, or any disease for that matter that we may contract. The affect on friends, family and loved ones.

When we are stricken with a serious disease it is natural to become inwardly focused, but what we sometimes fail to understand is, our illness, it affects everyone close to us. They are taking it as hard as we are in some cases.

We may crave solitude while trying to figure it out, thinking we are in it alone, but will it be at the expense of those who care for us?

Friends, family members and co-workers who want to help or understand, often don’t know how to deal with what we are going through.

Yeah, I know, sometimes we just want someone to listen and not give advice. But these people who have our back regardless of circumstances, can carry a heavy mental (and possibly physical) load when it comes to our well-being. They are trying to help.

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Case in point. A good friend mentioned to me this morning his concern for his friend and co-worker who has diabetes.

His co-worker’s condition seems to be worsening, but he is either in denial, or is unwilling to be pro-active in battling the disease.

My buddy last week made a good, healthful suggestion. He was just trying to help without being overbearing. He’s like that.

As they perused the menu he said, “Instead of fried chicken, butter soaked mashed potatoes with gravy and a soda for lunch, bro, let’s go get a salad.”

His suggestion was shot down. “Man, that bird-food ‘ain’t gonna fill me up.’”

And therein lies the challenges.

The wrong foods “‘ain’t gonna fill me up” with the right nutrition. “A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, and other places.” “What’s good to you, ain’t necessarily good for you.” “An apple a day keeps the doctor at bay, but a donut a day will supplement his pay.”

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See Part 2: I’ve got a Million Excuses

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“Good Health and Success are a Lifestyle . . . Live Well,”
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CK Dillon

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Revenge? . . . Nah! Just Triumph!

I hadn’t taken the Prednisone a whole week before things were looking up. One month later at doc’s office, he told me his research showed Sarcoidosis may eventually go into remission, I’d just have to wait it out.

I had gained back the 35 pounds and then some. I was a bit overweight, plump even, and loving it.

Eighty milligrams of Prednisone a day causes that effect.

Doc asked, “Are you feeling pretty much normal now?” I said, “Not quite like my old self just yet doc, but I’ll take ‘new normal’ any day.” Doc was happy.

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My complexion was back, the crack rumors had ceased, I enjoyed the last laugh on the naysayers, some of whom would still occasionally avoid eye contact, when we met in the hall or the elevator.

Best of all the constant pain was gone and I was back in the gym.

I had found out who my real friends were, eliminated the fakes, and I was happy.

Her smile eased its way back onto my wife’s face and her worries vanished.

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We were Happy!

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Fast forward 15 years and even though I know it’s there lurking, I can’t realistically say I’ve experienced a serious symptom in over 12 years. I like to think it has been in remission.

Sarcoidosis is a serious disease that doesn’t discriminate.

About me

• I’m an African American male.
• I’ve had Sarcoidosis for fifteen years.
• Initially I was afraid, now I’m educated on the disease.
• I’m not lazy.
• I know who my real friends are.
• For this moment I thank God my Sarcoidosis is in remission.
• I feel like all African Americans should get tested for Sarcoidosis if they have any of the symptoms.

As they say in my part of the country, “I’ve been Blessed.” I’m one of the lucky Sarcoidosis survivors.

I hope if you, or anyone you know has the symptoms, you’ll join me in getting tested and having loved ones do the same. Sarcoidosis is a very serious disease, but with diligence and a little pro-activity, it can be managed and . . .

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That’s my story. Hope it helps.

See Living with Sarcoidosis Series 1 – 10

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The trip home was better

On the commute home that Saturday evening, I still had to deal with my emotions and other commuters.

One driver, an older woman, was driving erratically in my opinion, so I made a move to pass her, then changed my mind because we were coming up on the toll booth.

A highway-patrolman saw what I did and flashed the dreaded red lights. “I pulled you over for weaving on the bridge, we’re you having mechanical problems?”

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“Nah, I’m just tired.” I decided not to mention the woman. Traffic school taught me to not even attempt to blame other drivers for my misdeeds. “I work for (a utility company). They have been forcing us to work seven days a week, ten hours a day for the last month.”

He chuckled to himself like he’d heard it all before and wrote something down. “Please step out of the car. I need you to perform a few tests.”

The cold air and drizzle felt good, just what I needed to pep me up.

After I passed the drunk test, he said, “I’m going to let you go with a warning, to go home and,” (wait for it) . . . “get some sleep. You look like you need to get some rest.”

I thought about the waiting day-bed and said, “Thanks for that, and you can count on me knocking out as soon as I get home.”

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He continued, “I know what you mean about (utility company), my brother-in-law works there too. I almost took a job there myself, but changed my mind. He’s been stuck working overtime for weeks too. Sis is not feeling happy at all about it.” He chuckled again.

The rest of the weekend wasn’t a blur, it was all invested in much-needed sleep.

Then comes Monday. Back to work, more rumors and as it turned out, hope.

See Part 7. My illness Her Pain

See Part 9. There’s Hope Yet!

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There’s Hope Yet!

When things seemed out of control, my granddad was known to say, “There’s hope yet!”

On Monday morning my cell phone rang at about 10 am, during my commute. I like to think  I was in the Caldecott Tunnel, awake, when it rang, but in retrospect, that’s more likely me trying to make my story more dramatic.

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The caller was my respiratory specialist, who’d kind of

become a friend, and he sounded excited. He said, “Charles, I’ve got good news, bad news and good news. How soon can you be here, and which do you want to hear first?”

Swerving to take the exit, I said, “The bad news, I’d prefer to end this chat with good news.” “Ok,” he said, “here’s the bad news. There’s no cure for what you have . . .” Silence.

Surprisingly, my life did not flash before my eyes, so I said, “And the good news . . . ?”

“We’ve finally gotten a handle on what you’ve got. Your lung biopsy revealed that you have a rare disease called Sarcoidosis.” I could actually hear him smiling.

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“Say what? Leave it to me to get a rare disease that can’t be cured?”

But still hopeful, I said, “Alright Doc, what’s the other good news, this first piece does not fit with my plan to live past a hundred and ten.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said cheerfully. Doc knew my plan to be a hundred and ten was important to me. I promised myself when I was 6 that I’d live at least 110 years.

“I can’t promise you a hundred and ten, but I wouldn’t rule out ninety. We can get your Sarcoidosis under control with steroids.” More silence on his part, and now mine. I told you he was good.

I’m thinking, ” Sarcoidosis? Steroids?”

Ok, I was a pretty consistent weight lifter before the illness and Doc knew it. I was familiar with some of the horror stories about steroids . . .

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. . . and he must have read my mind because he said, “Not that kind of steroid Charles, so when can you get in here?”

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See Part 8. There’s Hope Yet

See 10 Revenge? . . . Nah! Just Triumph!

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That’s What Friends Are For

I took a detour before starting my commute home one night. I stopped by my best friend’s house for what began as a friendly game of pool, but soon turned into a “vent” session.

Once I shut the heck up, he looked up from the pool table, smiled at me and said, “Hey man, you and I both know you’re gonna beat this. “Yeah,” I said, “I know. Thanks.”

Then he said, “When it feels like everything is turning to s–t, and I’m sure you feel like that right now, remember dude, s–t makes flowers grow.” Then he sunk the eight ball, in the corner pocket. “S–t!”

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Thanks Eric, for hanging in there with me bro.

That’s when you know you’ve got a friend. They keep it real. They listen and don’t judge and they don’t dwell on the negative. A true friend has your back no matter what the circumstance.

They are the ones who pull for you every chance they get. Refuse to let you wallow in the muck of self-pity and “woe is me.”

Not like the, “it’s all about me,” fair-weather, so-called friends,” who are always willing to receive, but never manage to give.

Every day comes with its own challenges, health issues, financial woes, or whatever. It is always better to have someone to lean on, or if it’s your turn, be someone for them to lean on during those times.

See Part 5. Rumors Sprout Wings

See Part 7. My illness was her pain

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Rumors Sprout Wings

Back at campus, people I had worked with since ‘82, inched away from me in the elevator. Black, Hispanic, Asian or White, it didn’t matter.

Most of them looked the other way when I approached, concentrating on the elevator buttons like they were reading a juicy novel. It was almost comical.

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Nobody ever bothered to ask what was going on with me, how I was feeling or why I looked the way I did? They preferred to whisper, stare and point. I’d heard of things like this happening, but it was always to someone else.

So-called friends were suddenly busy all the time, or they out-right disappeared. People who didn’t know me spread rumors with so much detail you’d have thought they lived with me.

One rumor that really got to me, mainly because of who started it, began to spread early on a Monday morning. I went to work early because I had a pulmonary test that afternoon.

Halfway up the sidewalk to my office a co-worker who associated with me outside of work, blocked my path and pulled me to the side.

“Hey man,” he said, punching my shoulder, “how you feelin’ today?” “I’m good bro. Thanks for asking.”

“I thought you’d wanna know the latest. People up here sayin’ you lost all that weight ’cause you smokin’, crack or somethin’.”

“Now I’m a Crack-head? Where’d you hear that b.s.?”          

A woman I never would have suspected was telling my co-workers that she knew for a fact, I was on “crack.”

She claimed that she had heard it over the weekend from somebody, who’d heard it from somebody, who’d heard it from somebody, who was on crack. Not exactly the horse’s mouth.

“She don’t know me man!” I yelled, “Ain’t no end to this crap!” You can guess who was on the elevator when the doors opened. My first mind said, “confront her,” but I refused to invest any energy to rebut the woman or anybody else. Besides, like most of the others, she wouldn’t make eye contact.

People will smile in your face, while stabbing you in your back. By the time the rumor mill got up to full buzz, I had contracted everything from Aids to Zits.

One of the department officers that I reported to had heard the rumors. We’d worked together for 13 years and played racquetball together. He was a good guy.

He called me in for an “urgent” meeting and the first words he said was not hey, how are ya, or good morning. He said, “We’ve got to do something, I know you are on drugs. You smoking crack, or what?”

My dad taught me, “You won’t get stuck, if you don’t stop moving.” In my effort to keep moving, I didn’t have time to dwell in his negativity. So much for a racquetball partner.

I answered, “or what.”

See Part 5. Rumors Sprout Wings

See Part 6. That’s What Friends are For

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My illness was her pain

The following Saturday, after “crack rumor” week, was a mandatory work day. Forced overtime, the company called it. The money’s good, but I’d rather have slept in.

That commute was the longest 65 miles of solitude I ever drove.

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I awoke on the daybed and climbed, or rather rolled off onto the floor. By now I was in pain and stiff all the time. I showered, dressed, went to the door, looked back at my wife and was about to say , “see ya tonight.”

I froze in my steps and asked, “What’s up honey? Why are you looking at me like that?”

She said, “Nothing,” and gave me a slightly tighter hug than I normally got before I left for work. I tried to joke, “Oh no! Not the nothing!” She didn’t smile.

I couldn’t read the look on her face as she handed me my jacket and said, “See you tonight, be careful.” It wasn’t like she was frightened. She wasn’t crying, frowning or anything I could put my finger on.

Then it dawned on me. Her look said she was resigned to the possibility, or maybe even convinced, that I wasn’t going to be around

much longer. I have to admit I’d felt the same at times and had dealt with a ton of despair, but had to keep positive.

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I said, “It’ll be alright. I’ll beat this. I promise.”

Problem was, I had another promise to keep. I was nowhere near 110 years old, and I’d promised my six-year-old self that I’d live at least that long.

I’ve never been a quitter and wasn’t about to give up, but I was exhausted with being ill.

Honestly, looking back, that day began as the lowest point in my life, before or since. That was when I realized how taxing this whole thing was on my wife. She was a trooper but it was wearing on her.

I was emotional all the way to work. One minute laughing at fate, that I’d be leaving my family behind. The next minute, crying, the next, pissed.

Fellow commuters, if they happened to glance my way would have thought I’d lost it. And I did for a while. Hell, I deserved to lose it.

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I must have ticked off one mini-van-mama in particular, because she pulled alongside me one mile from entering the tunnel and stopped applying eye-liner long enough to give me the middle finger salute.

I think she thought I was shaking my fist at her, when I was railing at my circumstances.

See Part 6. That’s What Friends Are For

See 8. The trip home was better.

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“Good Health and Success are a Lifestyle . . . Live Well,”

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My New Normal

Get up. Go to work. Work. Nap at lunch. Work. Two-hour nap after 6 pm. Commute. Sleep in tunnel. Home. Fall on the couch. Sleep. No supper. Just me, the couch and sleep.

It got so crazy at one point that when she knew I’d be coming in soon, my wife would  open the daybed in the family room, which was right through the hallway from the garage. I’d come in, plop down, exhale, and go to sleep.

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This went on for three months straight. It was my life. Through no fault of her own, it was hers too. We’d go to the doctor’s office every couple of weeks. I’d take all the tests, blood, pulmonary, etc., then we’d go home so I could take a nap.

I didn’t know what to do other than pray, because the answer was definitely beyond my control, and the doctors were at a loss. I was sleeping more and more. Not eating. Just sleeping.

Then in just three weeks, I lost 35 pounds. Jaws sunk in. Skin tone went pallid. Just like that. Boom!

I have to admit, I was looking kind of scary.

My wife did all she could to keep my mind off the obvious, but I could tell she was concerned and it was wearing away at her too. I remember one day she walked in and said, “We’re having a family photo taken, this Saturday,” and walked back out.

I hated the way I looked. Why’d she have to pick now? Then it dawned on me . . . I’d better take the photo, just in case.

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To this day that photo remains on our bookshelf. When I look at it, I am always reminded of the strength it took for her to offer support when she had no one to lean on.

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See Part 3. My Symptoms

See Part 5. Rumors Sprout Wings

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“Good Health and Success are a Lifestyle . . . Live Well,”

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CK Dillon

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