What must we hear, see, feel, or do before pledging a lasting commitment to health? Is self-improvement a task we take on for ourselves or others? I have heard recovery framed as something you do to express respect for those whose lives your own might impact. Should you not care what happens to yourself, think of how your illness burdens family, friends, caregivers. In an interview published Monday to USA Today's LIFE columns, comedian and talk show co-host Sherri Shepherd recalls she was "in denial" of a careless, unbalanced meal and fitness regimen, even after a doctor warned that her type 2 diabetes might lead to foot amputation. The severity of this did not take hold until faced with comments from Shepherd's good friend Mo'Nique, a strong-willed and confident recent Oscar winner: "We keep saying we would die for the people we love. Are you willing to live for the people you love?"
For me, it has not been enough to strive for a better existence, as apathy and depression influence my views and dampen any imaginings I might summon of a sunnier future. I have had a few "close calls" in the past, as most of us brush against death, whether aware or not of its company. In more than one occasion I have been unenthused and almost blasé about survival. This sounds ungrateful, but I cannot change the play of my instincts. It has been challenging for me to rally spirits and charge ahead, unless something is recognizably amiss. Yes, my body is in a rather hideous state of emaciation, but as long as I have energy enough to briskly walk about, completing gruntwork and participating in quotidian activities, I, like Sherri, rarely acknowledge a problem. In this last week, however, my mind has been operating with palpable impairment, so much so that reading and writing prove difficult. In fact, I shower these paragraphs with colorful words to distract from my clear limits of thought. Cognitive abilities stall when reached for abstract answers and do not improve until (surprise, surprise) I down my first meal. This large, late-afternoon lunch is being increasingly delayed with the demand for mounting ritual chores, most of which involve physical effort of some kind. I can admit that with depleted consumption of carbonated beverages my leg strength has reversed from frail to moderately sound, seeing with it diminished ankle pain where there was evidence of fractured fibulas. Then again, drinking less diet soda has brought a troublesome sluggishness to contend with in my head. Such a development is surprising, as usually it is with drinking artificially sweetened beverages that I encounter a hazy sense of confusion -- could the reverse point to a form of withdrawal? Exposure to aspartame and Sucralose arrives in other foods, not forgetting a two can Diet Coke allowance. Am I merely failing to hydrate myself with other, replacement liquids? Whatever the case, both symptoms, whether indicating cracking bones or stalled cogitation-- have frightened me and spurred minor improvements in self-care. Aside from avoiding soft drinks I am also having in evenings certified organic popcorn, rather than microwaved bags from ConAgra, adding "nutritional" Brewer's yeast powder as condiment. I have seen a slight increase in the protein I measure and a serving of banana has been restored. I wish I could say I was doing this for the love of family, especially my father (who I know I disappoint). Perhaps more than anything, it is the ignominy of being "disabled" in a close-knit community, where a reputation is built and circulated, particularly if you are an example of something queer or amiss. I would have to contradict The Doors, who sang: "When you're strange/ No one remembers your name." In rural Maine, the parents of old friends will report within their own circles; soon you are spoken of in pitied, hushed tones. If anything, bruised pride might finally have me salvaging what is left of my identity, piling any remaining skills, accomplishments, or virtues like soiled laundry needing care. The acrid stench of this past decade-plus has left a rotten impression, with remnants of the spunky, plucky girl I first became somewhere beneath moldy layers, requiring retrieval and repair. Once again, I concentrate on symbols of beginnings and rebirth, haunted by the specter of something innocent and pure still caged within. If I cannot profess love to who I am at this stop in my journey, what would I say to the child stranger at its point of origin?
For me, it has not been enough to strive for a better existence, as apathy and depression influence my views and dampen any imaginings I might summon of a sunnier future. I have had a few "close calls" in the past, as most of us brush against death, whether aware or not of its company. In more than one occasion I have been unenthused and almost blasé about survival. This sounds ungrateful, but I cannot change the play of my instincts. It has been challenging for me to rally spirits and charge ahead, unless something is recognizably amiss. Yes, my body is in a rather hideous state of emaciation, but as long as I have energy enough to briskly walk about, completing gruntwork and participating in quotidian activities, I, like Sherri, rarely acknowledge a problem. In this last week, however, my mind has been operating with palpable impairment, so much so that reading and writing prove difficult. In fact, I shower these paragraphs with colorful words to distract from my clear limits of thought. Cognitive abilities stall when reached for abstract answers and do not improve until (surprise, surprise) I down my first meal. This large, late-afternoon lunch is being increasingly delayed with the demand for mounting ritual chores, most of which involve physical effort of some kind. I can admit that with depleted consumption of carbonated beverages my leg strength has reversed from frail to moderately sound, seeing with it diminished ankle pain where there was evidence of fractured fibulas. Then again, drinking less diet soda has brought a troublesome sluggishness to contend with in my head. Such a development is surprising, as usually it is with drinking artificially sweetened beverages that I encounter a hazy sense of confusion -- could the reverse point to a form of withdrawal? Exposure to aspartame and Sucralose arrives in other foods, not forgetting a two can Diet Coke allowance. Am I merely failing to hydrate myself with other, replacement liquids? Whatever the case, both symptoms, whether indicating cracking bones or stalled cogitation-- have frightened me and spurred minor improvements in self-care. Aside from avoiding soft drinks I am also having in evenings certified organic popcorn, rather than microwaved bags from ConAgra, adding "nutritional" Brewer's yeast powder as condiment. I have seen a slight increase in the protein I measure and a serving of banana has been restored. I wish I could say I was doing this for the love of family, especially my father (who I know I disappoint). Perhaps more than anything, it is the ignominy of being "disabled" in a close-knit community, where a reputation is built and circulated, particularly if you are an example of something queer or amiss. I would have to contradict The Doors, who sang: "When you're strange/ No one remembers your name." In rural Maine, the parents of old friends will report within their own circles; soon you are spoken of in pitied, hushed tones. If anything, bruised pride might finally have me salvaging what is left of my identity, piling any remaining skills, accomplishments, or virtues like soiled laundry needing care. The acrid stench of this past decade-plus has left a rotten impression, with remnants of the spunky, plucky girl I first became somewhere beneath moldy layers, requiring retrieval and repair. Once again, I concentrate on symbols of beginnings and rebirth, haunted by the specter of something innocent and pure still caged within. If I cannot profess love to who I am at this stop in my journey, what would I say to the child stranger at its point of origin?
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| The day before my second birthday. Memory provides no evidence of ill will towards that ripe summer bounty. Location: Nantucket, Massachusetts |
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