I had a panic this week, but it wasn't at the disco.
The once-a-year blood test came back with shocking results.
My glucose levels had spiked, and the pre-diabetes numbers were moving closer to something scary,
My great pal, Dad, was diagnosed with diabetes about eight years ago. Of course, when it happened, he was a nervous wreck .
Since then, he's mellowed.
"Hey," he says to me, "what's the worst case? You take metformin, like me. It's just a pill."
Having had an aversion to blood, I became adamant. "There's no fucking way I am going to poke and test myself every day!" And I could feel myself grow dizzy with the realization that I might never go for ice cream in the afternoon again. I may never drink three gin and tonics in a row. I may never gorge out on french fries with my best friend in a dark quiet pub.
My list of sins appeared before me. But you could have sung these food groups to "My Favorite Things." "Onion rings, donuts and milk shakes and ice cream. Hamburgers, pizza and butter, not margarine." I could riff on.
The penny dropped. The hammer fell. In the upcoming conversation with the doctor, I would have to be confident and resolute. After all, I did not want to end up on meds, glucose testing every day of my life and peeing into bottles to measure urine sugar.
I joined the YMCA.
I went into the fridge and threw things out.
I bought a new cookbook, with recipes friendly to diabetics (Assuming I already am one.)
I confined my drinking to one day a week, and one 4 ounce glass of bubbly (I can have that, can't I?)
The only way to face the fear was to make a plan, one I could stick to.
So when the dreaded call came, I was prepared, and so was my doctor, as I had written him of my intentions. "You're pre," said Dr McGilmer. "Let's retest in four months. I think you can turn this around."
I did over-react and thank him repeatedly, reassuring him and myself that yes, I was on board.
He told me to take it easy and have a blessed day.
The past four days have not been fun. I swear I think I am always thirsty. I think I pee too much. I think I get sugar headaches. I am a bag of worry.
But then I am reminded that my mind creates a doomsday scenario and overblows every possible incident. What is this called? "Catastrophizing?"
On other occasions, I have talked myself into colon cancer, early dementia, breast cancer and thyroid disease.
Why do I keep trying to convince myself that something really bad is going to happen to me?
I have lottery-winner syndrome in reverse.
I feel I have had such a great and healthy privileged life: something bad just has to occur.
And these are the dramas that are usually prevented by one thing: the distraction of creativity.
If I weren't coaching and producing clients, if I weren't collaborating in making new songs, jamming, and writing, and envisioning the next round of performances.. where would I be?
Probably headed toward a diabetic coma, or the loss of a limb, even my vision.
In my case, just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine come round, which is exactly what I do not want.
Truth is, post-Covid, much of me is still living that Pandemic Life Style. Loose pajamas, nightly booze, late-night consuming, poor sleep.
Hell, I used to be shooting baskets at night, or sweating my arse off, playing an electric guitar.
Perhaps the message is that my used-to-be might be where I need to go, with a few adjustments.
Somewhere there's a better breakfast idea. Has to be.
This isn't about loss, after all. It's about what we creatives do best.
Reinvent.
So. Pass the protein.