Type 2 Diabetes, Part II

by Tina Moody
(Austin, Tx USA)

---Part II of Type 2 Diabetes---

The next afternoon, sitting in the lobby, surrounded by great art and views of the sea, I was tinkering with the jigsaw puzzle laid out on the coffee table. It provided a better past time than thumb-twiddling and an opportunity to surreptitiously check out other “inmates”. The clock ticked on and no one showed up to escort me to my ultrasound appointment. Then the light clicked, I was supposed to be at x-ray, not in the lobby. Oops. Here it was the first full day of my sentence (oh, I mean visit), the only item on my plate being this *^&# ultrasound and, true to form, I’m late. Busted so soon.

As I breathlessly entered the x-ray suite, the ultra-sound man was just hanging up the telephone, trying to track me down, no less.

“Hi, I’m so sorry I’m late.” I apologized sheepishly, “I forgot where I was supposed to be.”

“That’s all right.” He reassured me as he drew a curtain for me to change into my hospital garb.

I daintily (NOT) hoisted my heft onto the exam table, once again recalling Hospital D’Maria in Vera Cruz and the cold, sleazy ultrasound man there. Since I’d gone to Vera Cruz for Spanish lessons, I took advantage of them during my hospital stay, recalling one lesson in particular: “Respirar pofundo, respirar normal.” Breathe deeply, breathe normally, a practice, I thought worth engaging now.

I recounted my hospital Spanish to Dr. Ultrasound along with memories of pregnancy as he slathered the cold gel on my belly and manipulated the imaging wand all over. After coming back to my right side for the fourth time, he said, “This kidney isn’t working.”

Now, Mr. Ultrasound’s English was okay, but not at the level of other professionals I’d encountered at Sanoviv to this point, so I was hopeful his statement fell into the crack in the language barrier.

“Maybe it’s just resting?” I suggested desperately as visions of dialysis streamed through my head. (Most people on dialysis today are diabetic).

“No, it’s finished,” he remarked somberly.

“How long do you think it’s been off-line?” I queried.

“Months, at least.” He replied, still swirling the wand over my abdomen and around my side to my back.

“Can we get it back?” I asked with faint heart while silently pleading, please, please, please.

“Your doctor will talk to you about it more after I get the results to him. Your other kidney looks fine,” he comforted seeing my obviously distraught expression.

Donning my Sanoviv uniform of cotton shorts and a yellow tee shirt, I thought of my children and the past two years of pain, tragedy and loss, quickly spiraling down to the depths I so accurately anticipated in my fearful approach to this Mexican paradise.


***





Walking down the hall toward the lobby, panicked once again, my better-self reproached me. There’s nothing really different now than 25 minutes ago. You’re walking. No danger is present here in the hallway. The only difference now is a piece of information, a few pixels on a monitor, a conclusion drawn. My baser self replied, “This is what they mean when they say ‘ignorance is bliss!’”

The remaining ten days were spent being tested, re-tested, imaged in various machines and talking to specialists, all punctuated by massages, wraps, saunas, and, of course, la comida. A beautiful, mostly glass, rotunda overlooking the ocean housed the dining room. With doors wide open and the 68º temperature breezing about, the smell of the sea and the sound of the ocean were pleasant companions to all our meals. Six out of seven days, a fresh, luscious salad bar was prepared for our pleasure and health. Care was evident, especially here. These chefs never met us face to face, and yet, the beauty they exhibited in artful presentation of the same daily lettuce was so lovely it almost overshadowed the fact that there was little else. However, keen on cuisine, I noticed.

We ate at tables of four, the company varying meal to meal. And this is where friendships were forged over food. Jocular animosities as well came to the fore. There was Ethel, who looked about 60 years old, a tiny bird of a woman. When Deb told me she was 80 years old, I called her a liar, and asked Ethel, “How old are you?” Her spry, cocky reply was “80!” Oh, Deb was right about so many things.

Since Ethel had come to Sanoviv to gain weight (it’s so hard to fathom there are people who have difficulty doing what comes to me effortlessly), the kitchen staff supplied her with enviable treats. All the brown rice she wanted to eat. I, on the other hand, never saw one grain of any kind on my plate. Ethel could get fruit whenever she wanted, or fish, or anything else. By the end of the two weeks, no matter who sat by Ethel, and we all vied for that enviable position, we became rabid poachers by the end of the meal. I particularly felt proud the day I absconded with her leftover cauliflower.

Several Canadian inmates resided among us. Apparently you can’t buy medical care in Canada. These fluent French-speaking spirits were delightful company to discuss politics, the economy, and socialized medicine. One particularly noteworthy Canadian couple was Suzanne, and her daughter, Julie. Suzanne had been here several times before in pursuit of health, and on this trip, Julie, her daughter, a chiropractor in Canada had joined her as companion for a week. This meant that she had entrance to all the lectures, exercise classes, meals, and pools just for being there. She was one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen. She glowed with porcelain skin, blue eyes, and a basketball belly. At first I looked, and thought, “you know? She’s probably six months gone.” When I mentioned this to Deb, she said, “yeah, but look how low she is.” Come to find out, she passed her 35th week while hanging out with us. That new life was constantly evident as Julie asked question after question on nutrition, food preparation, and vitamins in every venue available to her. The two women and a babe presented a sweet juxtaposition of age and lifespan. I couldn’t help but fantasize about bringing Yoki here some day to be another dynamic mother/daughter duo.

Between meals on one end, colonics on the other, imaging of the in-between, and exercising it all, I was accompanied by my friend, fear. The most intimate time spent in that state with myself was in the hyperbaric chamber. My gentle doctor, Xavier, told me this procedure was good for diabetics’ circulation; oxygenation…doing with air what our diet was doing with nourishment. I would go down to the basement where Jorge took my blood pressure and blood sugar readings then escorted me into a small submarine-like structure. Fortunately, Sam, Yoki and I had visited a Russian submarine as part of our San Diego entertainment, so I’d had a recent test of my claustrophobia, and knew I could pass. After closing the door with a clang, Jorge adjusted knobs, manipulated switches and the space pressurized to 1.7 atmospheres; an other-worldly plane.

My first experience in the space capsule was ominous. Surprise surprise! Here I am, Scared again! The mask was heavy, like having a very big hand over my mouth and nose. “Ah, yes, I remember this,” my personal historian recounted. And I found myself holding my breath eventually remembering that the point of this exercise was to inhale and exhale repeatedly, not to see how long I could hold my breath. I spent hours breathing in and breathing out diligently, purposefully, sucking down oxygen under pressure. Riding emergent bulges of feelings like the surfers in the neighboring cove rode their long-awaited waves to shore. Thank God I birthed children to teach me the temporary nature of pain and, likewise, pleasure, breathing through the emotional contractions for all I was worth. Every landfall provided validation that I was learning what fear was teaching. That experience could be a book in itself.

Deb left early Sunday morning before my departure the same time the next day. Having done my “time” at Sanoviv, I was not so anxious to leave. Fear faced, demons heard, data evaluated and companions arising from strangers, I was a bit sad to go. My breathing capsule had expanded to include the whole compound, breathing in the whole experience. Here I had had the most incredible encounter of being supported in every dimension of my life: space, nourishment, movement, breath, touch, even down to the maid washing my clothes every single day! I would miss this level of support, this place where I had time and space to encounter my antipathies. Yet, at home, precious people waited to buoy me. Would I be able to allow this level of support back in my real world? “We’ll see,” chimed in the internal chorus, “after all, you’ve got to come back here sometime in the next four weeks to get that kidney out.”

I’ll let you know how the next round goes.

Love, Tina