Never give up on your health. My Story, PART ONE
“Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other.”
Abraham Lincoln
That turned out to be absolutely true when it came to my health. As well-meaning as all my doctors were if I had just given up and done what wasn’t working over and over I’d be dead, or worse.
Quadruple Bypass Open Heart Surgery, But First a Stroke.
PART ONE
First grade, fat. Fifth grade, fat. Eighth grade fat. Senior in high school, fat. Adult, fat.
That was my life in a nutshell. I was cute, but fat. I was funny, but fat. I was athletic, but fat. I was artistic, but fat. I was fat. Number one descriptor… fat.
Why? Why was I fat? I ate too much. Oh, and I didn’t move enough. Forty five years ago, when there were only three channels and two of them were news, I moved a lot. According to my teachers sometimes I moved too much.
I didn’t move any more or less than my peers. I didn’t eat any more or less or differently than my peers. In fact within my own family my sibling, who ate what we all ate was a normal size.
So I must have the fat genes. Heredity had picked me to be the fat child and grandchild and I would inevitably pass that on to my children and their children. Is that how it works? I was just unlucky.
Decades of being teased and harassed probably did make me a funnier, tougher, possibly a better person, but at 49 under the care of a doctor, naturopath and cardiologist I had a stroke and at 50 after adding a health coach to the mix I had quadruple bypass open heart surgery. None of that was funny.
It was true that heart disease and diabetes ran in my family. The two generations before me had a mix. Which was why I was under the care of all those experts. Obviously I lacked discipline and couldn’t be trusted with my own health, I had been fat all my life. Nothing I ever did worked. So finally in near desperation I hired a cardiologist and plethora of smarter people to tell me what to do. Then I did it.
I gave up red meat. I stopped using butter and salt. I had already stopped eating bread, rice and of course sugary desserts. What exactly was I eating?
At first I could go months on pure will power. I would not let myself have anything sweet or bad for me. I could will myself to make “good choices”. I could force myself out of bed in the morning and go to the gym. Until I couldn’t.
Until that one day, that one bite and it was all over. I would lapse, like a heroin addict in some dark doorway, huddled like a cocaine addict over lines on a mirror, I would begin shoveling sugar into my mouth. Then came the high. The waves of happiness and relief at giving in finally.
Elated and high, bite after bite, it would be several days to several weeks before I could reign myself in and gain control - until the next time. I would fall asleep promising myself to start over tomorrow, or my least favorite day, Monday. I would start over on Monday. But I might as well eat myself into oblivion until then and make it all worthwhile I would tell myself. You have the fat genes what difference does it make? You’ll always be fat. Just give up and stop trying. But I would try again, and again, and again…
So my life went until finally the day came. It was a day I had tried to avoid, but according to the prevailing wisdom I was the problem. I had prepared the best way I could and now it was time to face my failure head on. I had lost the battle, maybe even the war. I had no idea what I was doing. This body might as well have dropped from the sky like an alien space ship. I was in it but I had never known how to fly the thing and now it was broken. I was crashing.
At that point I had been a professional nanny for nearly thirty years. I was working with a wonderful family that had two kids, a girl and a boy. That day the little girl turned three and I asked her what she wanted to do for her birthday. She picked the park, the pet store and lunch at her favorite diner where she always ordered one pancake, a side of avocado and a side of cottage cheese.
Easy. It was a gorgeous day in February. We lucked out with good weather and headed to the park after dropping her brother off at school. The playground was packed with kids needing to run and yell after being stuck inside for too many rainy days, and parents sipping coffees and pushing them on swings.
The pet store was just as fun with gerbils, lizards and cats she could pet. Then we were hungry and ready for lunch.
I was teaching her to place her own order and we bragged to the waitress that she was now three. The waitress feigned amazement at her age and maturity when she ordered her faves and I ordered my salad with cold turkey. That’s what I ate. Big bowls of lettuce and lean meat.
As we were finishing, my newly three year old asked if she could color on her placemat again. I turned to her and said, “Are you done with your lunch?” But instead the words that came out of my mouth were, “Tick, tick, tick, tick.” I heard it. I knew it was wrong and weird and not good. So I paused.
Maybe if I just changed my words, it would correct itself? “Sure, let me move your plate.” But instead, “Tick, tick, tick, tick.” Again. She didn’t even notice as she began choosing a crayon and I moved her plate.
This was bad. This was a stroke. I knew it. My speech was out of my control and although I was thinking and moving normally I couldn’t risk putting this child that I loved, someone else’s child, into a car seat and driving away as if nothing had happened. It had happened, and I called 911.
Minutes later, having paid the bill, 4 guys in medic uniforms pushed through the front door and into the restaurant. The waitress looked shocked but stayed where she was as the men crowded into our booth and my three year old looked up stunned at the commotion.
They immediately asked all the usual questions and let me catch them up on the situation as they took my blood pressure. Without question we were going for an ambulance ride. They pulled the gurney up to the door, lowered it so I could sit down, sat my three year old on my lap and off we went to the hospital up the hill. This was the icing on her birthday cake as far as my three year old was concerned. The paramedic let her choose a stuffed toy from a drawer in the ambulance and she held and hugged her new pink bear all the way to the ER. Best birthday ever!
I called her parents to meet us so she could go home, then I spent four days in a beautiful 5 star hospital surrounded by super nice people from all over the world taking excellent care of me. I had three MRIs, a brain scan, a spinal tap and lots of blood work. It was fun (not really) but after three days and no diagnosis I was ready to go home. My symptoms never reappeared and I felt great. I always felt great. Apparently you don’t have to feel like crap to have a stroke.
One thing I found interesting was that while I was there, in ICU, I was put on what they called the “Diabetic/Cardiac Menu”. Not surprising or interesting since my situation seemed serious and as it turned out I had become diabetic at some point. What was even more interesting, in a sad and frightening way, was this menu had a bakery section and my carbohydrate LIMIT according to them was 245 grams a day. For perspective I don’t eat more than 20-50 grams of carbohydrates a day now and sometimes 0 grams.
Here I was fighting for my life and trying to keep my blood sugar under control and I was restricted to over 200 grams of sugar daily. More on that later.
The fourth day with no real progress and no answers, having talked to neurologist, specialist and doctors I got up and got dressed. I had a lovely time but wanted to go home, take a shower and sleep in my own bed. Still no diagnosis and no mention of a stroke from anyone. But I knew.
To be continued…