It’s a bloke thing...
How Superman got over his depression
By Ken Grace, Auckland
A few years ago I was diagnosed with diabetes. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I was in my early 40s, seriously overweight and in a job that had me sitting on my backside virtually all day. And, until recently, that job had been deeply stressful for the best part of 10 years.
But I was surprised. I was one of those people who never get sick. When everyone around me was dropping like flies with flu, colds, tummy bugs and headaches, I ploughed on like Superman. So when the diagnosis arrived, I reacted as any good Superman does.
I became depressed.
It seemed that the life I took for granted had been stolen from me. No more eating something without giving it a second thought. No more banana sandwiches on white bread, my favourite lunchtime snack. No more lashings of ice cream or buns or...oh, horrible, horrible.
It was the gym and its instruments of torture for me now. And constant blood testing. Five times a day, with regular reminders of how the least indiscretion would result in a reading that seemed to say: “There’s another 10 minutes off your life, boyo.”
The knowledge that I was diabetic crowded out everything else. It was a dull hum that began playing when I woke and droned on, constantly, until bedtime. That was the worst thing of all.
In many ways, of course, I was lucky. For one thing, I’d developed Type 2 diabetes, which meant I still enjoyed a lot of control over how it affected me.
Also, I was surrounded by the sort of people you want when things turn upside down. My family all made their presence felt. Friends behaved as friends should.
And I had a wife caring enough to take care of day to day things (guess who’s always got metformin in her handbag, wherever we go?), yet wise enough not to nag me about what I ate or how much exercise I got. Forget violins and roses – for my money that’s as good a definition of love as you can get.
My wife’s family, who have first hand experience of Type 1 diabetes, were wonderful too. No pity; just plenty of understanding.
After a while I noticed something else too. In a bizarre way that I still don’t fully understand, I started becoming attached to my diabetes. Maybe because it made me feel a bit special. There was certainly a small thrill in watching people’s reaction when I told them the news. (I feel embarrassed admitting this, but there you are.)
Was that a turning point? I’m not sure. But somewhere along the way my perspective shifted. The gym, still not my favourite place, at least made me feel a bit holier. My weight fell – dramatically – and people noticed (bless ‘em). And I began not missing the banana sandwiches so much.
Another key moment was my first HbA1c. At 5.9 it was within the range for people without diabetes. My efforts (and medication) were paying off.
As I write this, I’ve just recorded a blood sugar reading of 9.9. But that’s OK. Diabetes means high blood sugars from time to time. As long as they’re infrequent, I can live with it.
Diabetes isn’t a sentence of death, not even necessarily of a shortened life. In my case, if I hadn’t developed the condition, I’d still be overweight, sedentary and a serious candidate for an early heart attack or stroke. Until a year ago, I was able to kid myself about that. With diabetes, there’s no fooling anyone – not even myself. Consequently, I’m now the fittest and leanest I’ve been for 15 years.
Don’t get me wrong. I know how serious diabetes is. There’s a good chance my life will be shortened, despite my best efforts. But life’s uncertain, with or without diabetes. The difference is, diabetes can be managed. If I’m smart, focused and have just a modicum of good luck, I could well enjoy the 80 plus years that my father did. Most of it in good health.
That’s not the end of the world after all.
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