Willful Child

For some reason, I've taken a perverse amount of pride in the fact that I stopped napping when I around two years old. There’s more than a small bit of irony there – these days I’d kill for a good nap.

“A willful child,” my parents called me – when I was around to hear them. I’m sure at other times they used other words.

But when my dad would describe me sitting in my crib shaking the rungs and screaming at him – I’d find myself cheering for the former me. Yeah! Give him what for!

I supposed this was in no small measure because that little guy in the crib could carry the day in a way I never managed when I was older.

I don’t recall a lot of knockdown, drag-out arguments with dad. There was simply an understanding that once he’d weighed in on something – that was pretty much how it was going to go.

I vaguely remember dad carrying me down the hall by my belt loop when I was in first grade. I’ve always associated that memory with a spanking (itself a singular event), but thinking about it now I honestly can’t be sure the two events happened together. But I have no other memories of physical discipline from childhood.

In our house, discipline was mental.

Mom practiced a kind of parental judo that resulted in her kids unknowingly doing what she wanted all along.

Dad would usually take the direct approach – and while I should have more than a few memories of getting a full dressing down by my father – they’ve all seemed to blur together into a general sense that crossing dad was a very bad idea.

What’s interesting to me are the milestones I do remember – wearing the ratty jeans my father expressly forbid me to wear and remaining home when the family went to the beach, despite my father’s angry insistence that I go.

Two wins for my side.

Memorable for lots of reasons, but largely because of the basic fact that two is a number that can be remembered.

I couldn’t possibly remember a number for the loss column. The times I was browbeaten, shamed, or intimidated into doing what dad ordered me to do.  Uncountable moments – most of them trivial, surely – but innumerable moments of substance where my stubbornness gave way to my father’s.

Just do what he wants.

Which is not to say dad was a cruel man.  He wasn’t. But it took a long time to realize that he wasn’t just this inhuman thing meeting out justice and punishment.

One of the reasons I am sure my dad spanked me was a time mom told me dad cried after spanking me. The idea that dad would cry at all was unthinkable. That he would question his treatment of his kids doubly so.

One of the things dad always did that annoyed me was this pretend fighting he’d do. He’d get into a mock boxing stance and tag me once or twice in the shoulder, baiting me. “C’mon,” he’d say – clearly inviting me to try to land a few practice blows on him.

I never did.

Try, that is. By the time this game started, the idea of swinging at my dad was completely alien to me. You don’t cross dad. Despite this being a game – I remember wondering what would happen if I did join in. Would he hit me for real? Would he expect me to hit him for real? It made no sense to me.

My refusal to join in was always met with a disappointed look on dad’s face. I always took this to mean that dad wished I was more athletic. That I let him down, again.

For awhile dad would invite me to help him work on the cars or in his woodshop – but his insistence on correcting everything I did made it impossible to feel like I was anything other than in his way. I have vivid memories of tightening a bolt on the car as hard as I could – and then my dad re-tightening it afterwards. Dad did everything – the only thing I was allowed to do was hold the lamp while he worked.

As I got older, I tried to stay out of his way more.

Surely some of that was just being a teen ager. I wanted to do what I wanted to do, and dad and I shared very few interests. He was always out fixing something, or mowing, or building, or any number of constructive things that I regarded as nothing but a pain in the ass.

I’m sure some of my enduring hatred of yard work comes from the numerous arguments that resulted in me weeding or raking – or any of the other pointless things he’d ordered me to do.

The obvious irony is that what little handyman work I’ve done around my house is because dad dragged me along on his projects and taught me what he knew. That time we put in the bathroom in my old house taught me a ton about wiring and plumbing  - stuff that I’ve drawn on as I’ve struggled with my new house.

Mostly what I’ve drawn on was the realization that my own obstinance could be a resource to get things done. And I realized that was a good part of dad’s method as well. Once he started something, quitting became almost impossible. It’s not that he knew all the things he needed going into a job – it’s that he knew whatever came up could be dealt with. As long as you put in the work.

I remember a thawing in the cold formality dad and I had manufactured between us. Roles had changed somewhat and old patterns gained new context.

When the boy was born, I got to see a whole new side of my father. How he delighted in playing with my boy. My dad – playing. Dad wanted the boy to have everything.  Had us send him photos of these little chairs we liked so he could make them.

I’m sure it’s not chronologically accurate, but the last memory I have of seeing my dad is outside my last job. Dad was dropping me off at work for some reason and was about to head for the interstate. He made a point – a very obvious point – of telling me how proud he was of me. It was such an odd thing for him to say at the time, but I stammered out a “thanks,” and waved at him.

And then he was gone.

I’ve thought a lot about that day in the past few years. Not so much that dad said he was proud of me, but of how urgent it was to him that he say so. Almost like he’d been chastised. He seemed sincere, but almost apologetic. “I’m sorry I hadn’t said this…”

Thinking of him in his last few years, there were other moments like that I’d missed at the time – but they were lesser copies of that last moment.  Wanted you to know this, son…

This was dad in quite a new light. A dad trying to relate. Struggling, even.

This was not a word I would normally apply to him in any context. If there was a problem interacting with dad, it had to be mine.

But here he was, talking up my writing to other family members – conspicuously being supportive to an adult son too clueless to even realize what was going on.

But now I know. And I think – at long last – I get it.

I hear my dad come out of my mouth so often these days – I can practically see him in the mirror. There was a time I would say that with pride – but the parts I see and hear are the very things that made me avoid him as a kid.

Yelling at my son for ridiculous things – things he should know better – but things that certainly don’t require a screaming lecture.

Pick your battles, I’ve always heard, but win them. Well I’ve picked, fought and won. Then stood in the ashes of my victory wondering what it was all for.

Everybody talks about the time you hear yourself sound like your parent – but nobody prepared me for watching myself appear in the guise of my son.

My son is a willful child. And he is the son of a willful child.

One who was taught that you keep going until you win.

And I have won. Time and time again. I have prevailed in contests so foolish you would question my sanity. You will do this. Even if you fight it. Because battles joined - must be won.

And I’ve see my boy cringe under a pillow because he can’t face me. I’ve yelled at him for something he has no answer for – so he’ll hide. Or glower silently up at me like I did thousands of times. I will stand here and defy you. I will refuse to answer. Because otherwise you win.

And I think back on years of inadequacy. Feeling certain – absolutely certain – that I would always be less than dad wanted – and I want to swoop down on my boy and save him from his total jerk of a father.

My boy is wonderful. And I’ve managed to force him into the same nervous shell I had as a child.

Yes, he does need to sit up straight, use his napkin, and all that. But first he needs to know that he’s wonderful.

We send our kids into the wider world with the tools we give them – and I cannot rob my son of his self respect and expect him to thrive.

I have to learn to forget about winning battles. Keeping score is just a different way of losing.

Waiting until he's grown and married... that's not fair to anyone.

Stay Hungry

Bit of catching up is in order.

First off, the boy’s leg is cast-free. He’s limping around on a leg that doctors assure us is doing fine – but I’m still waiting to see him run around like the wild little boy he deserves to be. He needs to do more and being cooped up with his family isn’t doing him a lot of good. He comes from an indoor-kid family, so I suppose it’s a bit much to expect him to turn into an extreme athlete – but I want him outside and throwing things. Soon.

Following December’s developments, I’ve necessarily plunged into the habits of a person with type II diabetes. I test my blood sugar with a meter that is astoundingly easy to use (the Freestyle Freedom Lite).

As a UI snob, I can attest to the quality of its workflow:

1. Add needle
2. Insert test strip
3. Stick finger
4. Apply blood to test strip
5. Pitch needle and test strip

Everything else is done by the machine.

Notice there were no steps to turn on and turn off the machine. Someone was thinking.

Not that I think this meter is particularly special, mainly I’m just impressed at how not an issue this process is.

The quibbles I have are fairly minor. The needle tool resembles a vending machine toy in quality of manufacture. The side seams look as if they are about to separate at any moment. The depth setting changes each time I get it out of the kit – so it’s always a double check to make sure it hasn’t dialed up to 4 (maximum needle depth) when 1 or 2 is sufficient for my office worker hands.

I don’t expect they put a lot of work into the needle tool – after all, they give these things away – and the bulk of their work goes into the meter. You break the needle tool and they’ll give you another for free. Everyone knows they make their money on the test strips.

The test strips are about 1 to 2 bucks a pop (pre-insurance). As you’ll be using them multiple times a day for the rest of your life, the meter manufacturers figure they can spot you the start up gear for free - many times over.

The strips degrade in open air so you get them in a sealed container. A single, sealed container – which would be another quibble I have. You buy a month’s worth of strips at a time. If you biff it when you pop the lid open - you could dump over a hundred bucks worth of product all over the floor of whatever public bathroom you happen to be in.

They should have a better dispenser – one that spits out one at a time – or (more simply) provide them in multiple containers so you put less of them at risk at any one time.

But overall, the easiest adjustment I’ve had to make – by far.

The more dramatic changes have obviously been with food. Quality and quantity.

Quantity I view as the easier of the two. At least at first. It would be very hard to continue eating the amounts I had been eating before. Breakfast amounted to two meals. Lunch was at least a meal and a half. Dinner was two meals, plus something afterwards before bed.

Laughable, all of it - but only in hindsight. At the time it was like, I feel like eating - I'll eat. Diabetes is particularly insidious as it has a number of effects that make you hungry. Your food becomes fuel, but your body isn't delivering the fuel efficiently. So your muscles and other cells tell your body they need more fuel.

So you feel hungry. And eat more. Which makes your body store the extra fuel as fat. More body fat makes your body's insulin function less effectively - leading to poorer use of the fuel you eat.  Poor use of fuel leads to cells demanding more energy, so you feel hungry, and off we go again.

Diabetes can lead to depression and fatigue, all of which play into doing less and eating more. Which is exactly the opposite of what a person with diabetes should be doing.

Any wonder why there are over 20 million cases in the US alone? Cripes, who designed this damn disease anyway?

So, I'm cutting back on portions. They are visible and tangible. I like to think I'm doing a lot better on this.

Food quality is a bit more mercurial. I need to know what's in the food I eat. Sometimes you have no idea - somebody else made it, I can't find an equivalent breakdown online.

So you go to classes where they break down what food is made of what.  

Carbohydrates, gotta watch the carbs.

I'm given a guideline on how much of them I should have over the course of the day.

Then you have to read serving sizes and count grams. Naturally cereal has different serving sizes because they vary by weight. One cereal is 1 cup per serving, the next is 3/4 a cup, the next 1/2 cup. Apples to apples requires math and then you have to set and remember a visual benchmark about how big a cup looks in a given container.

3oz is a standard serving size they want you to track on. About the size of a pack of playing cards. Depending on density. Blah, blah, blah...

I've opted to start with the basics. Half my plate should be veg, 1/4 carbs, 1/4 protein. Easier to remember, easier to visualize.

So long as I keep myself to a single plate. I'm sure to be better off than I was. I'll refine with math once I can sustain a sane eating pattern.

Plus, I get meds. Metformin once a day. I've had to renew a pill perscription for the first time in my life. Bleah.

Over and above that is activity level. I've fallen off the running wagon, but have every intention of getting back out there. In the meantime, I spend about a half an hour each weekday legging it around the concourse like a speedwalking senior.

I'm walking in a circle so I can live longer.

But that's the honest truth. Life expectancies for the average Type II diabetic are well short of where I want to be. Being diagnosed at my age means I will have to behave myself for decades. Have to start now and keep it up - there is no other option.

I am not losing limbs to this bullsh!t.

Early results have been encouraging. But I would think they would be at my age. My blood sugar's averaging around 118 these days, and I'm down more than a few pounds. It is depressing in the extreme to think I will have to become a scale addict. "What do I weigh?" But the reality is I need to know that I'm trending in the right direction. My dietician gave me numbers to hit and I need to believe I can hit them.

Insulin is produced by beta cells in the pancreas - and they always degrade over time. What I have now is the most I will ever have - and I can't afford to burn them up like I've been doing.

Which leads to a total rewrite of how I've looked at food. I've of course known what eating healthy required - but I've never regarded food with fear before.

A coworker of mine offered me a peanut butter bar the other day and I reflexively accepted it. Then I took it home and threw it away. Pre-diagnosis, I would have eaten it before I left their desk, and perhaps asked for another.

Now, I find myself glaring at the frustrating omnipresence of baked goods at work. Chocolates and snacks, everywhere. Every business sells food these days - and none of it is on the happy list.

My sister in law told me once that you never forget the first time your body lets you down - and sometime in the future my pancreas and I are going to have some serious words. But for now I've got to baby it, every day, for the rest of my damn life.

Jen tells me plenty of people find themselves living healthier with diabetes than they ever did without it. I suppose that makes a bit of sense. The feedback on a day of pre-diagnosis overindulgence would take years. At that rate, you'd never connect the dots.

Post diagnosis, I find out within hours when I've strayed from the true faith. We had a baking contest at work and I had two small slices of pie. My blood sugar was stratospheric three hours later. What's bad for me hasn't changed - but now I get graded one or two times a day.

Feedback on that timetable can occupy a conscious thought. A thought you can draw on when you're staring at a coffin-sized display of snacks at the gas station. 

And until my body magically adjusts to the new regime, I will have to get used to wanting things I can't have- or wanting more and not getting it.