As a child I watched how my father’s family coped with diabetes. My grandmother’s brothers and sisters all had it. The moment “los tíos” went into the hospital and started losing a foot or a leg, it signaled the last fight against the disease.
My grandmother never had it, neither did my dad.
My younger sister discovered her legacy at an early age – Diabetes, Type 2. She kept it from our parents for a long time, trying not to worry them. Then my mother had it. My youngest sister and both my brothers followed. It was everywhere around me.
They are all savvy as to the course it takes. They share information. They make jokes when they dig into a taco or fork into a dessert.
It seemed to skip me. It made sense. I resemble my dad and paternal grandmother. Maybe I was the lucky one?
My internist gives me meds for cholesterol and blood pressure. She recommends a low-dose daily aspirin to keep strokes and heart attacks at bay. I take these meds because I am “borderline” in all categories. I take these meds to ward off my double shotgun genetics.
Until last week. The day I became diabetic.
It would be inappropriate to write the words I’d like to use here, but know this – I am angry, very angry.
I took precautionary measures – meds, exercise, diet, yet I didn’t escape my genetics. I eat Kale, for mercy’s sake!
Honestly, I didn’t become diabetic last week. It started a long time ago, before I was born. Along with the pride I have for my rich family bloodlines, I also inherited its burdens.
Goodbye donuts. Hello Nikes.