(Prior posting from my old webspace)
Well, it’s been a couple of interesting months with my new life surrounding Diabetes. I have to admit that I’m slowly starting to get the hang of needles and carb management. Never thought I’d see the day.
What I can’t warm up to: breakfast. Bacon and eggs, toast and juice…hold the juice and toast…ugh! I see and I immediately reach for my whore’s breakfast, minus the cigarette. It’s about all I can do to even tolerate the smell of food. It’s like kryptonite to this writer.
I get dive bombed by everyone about my inability to imbibe in the A.M. My mother, God love her, force fed her oversized son when on my last visit with her. When questioned about how I did during that morning’s breakfast, I told the truth, like a dotty old fool, and confessed that I ate a banana. Scratch of needle across melodious record as oh so pretty happy happy tune suddenly comes to an abrupt halt! I was five years old again. She towered over me with that look in her eyes that said it all…purse was going down, and so was I!
Mamas are an interesting breed of human. They know, instinctively, exactly what you have and haven’t done. And they can time warp you from middle age to preschool in one quick swoop. She wasn’t having ANY of my excuses. She was now the “Food Nazi” and I was now a prisoner in her nutritional gulag. So off to the store we went.
I gotta say that sammich was brutal. It was worthy of the title “Death Camp Cuisine”. Mac’s Milk is known for convenience, not for it’s gourmand selection of deliciously flavored breads and meats. I guess my expectations were too high as I took the first bite of that “Sahara Blend” whole wheat repast. This is what you call Karma. I noted first the amazing texture of sand and tumbleweed as it sucked up literally every molecule of moisture from my mouth’s interior. Soon after, I noted that the former feathered friend now occupying my sandwich’s central space was not going to provide me any relief in the flavor or humidity department. Dessicated turkey and crumbly dry bread with no butter or mayo. This was one fine feast. I very quickly reached for the water and guzzled. God, even wet, that shrek was glued to the inside of my mouth and throat.
Mama just smiled.
This was her equivalent of the orange Hotwheels tracks I used to fear growing up. Never try to outfox yo’ Mama. She’s always one step ahead, even when she’s careening towards death. So, I choked down this fine turkey jerky surprise, and promised her she was going to finish the other half. Not sure why, but it ended up in the trash. Mama wasn’t ever gonna be THAT hungry!
So now the war is on. It’s Mama in the artillery bunker, checking out every single solitary bead of sweat and color change I experience. I wonder to myself if I’m gonna survive this visit. It’s funny how a fat dude has to be forced to eat, but it’s true. I just don’t like food too early in the day. Never ever have. It’s probably the reason that alert beep broadcasts so furiously when I walk backwards.. not unlike my cousin, “Mac” the truck. However, now, it’s me in the high chair, and Mommy telling me I ain’t gettin’ out until I finish all my strained goop! So, on the way, we pass a diner. It looks like it might fit the bill. She INSISTS we’re eating, cos if she’s hungry, I am too, like it or not. Heil Hitlerina!!
In an effort to escape her culinary gas chamber, I order a BLT I’d rather not be eating. Soups were not that appealing, which was a pain but I just can’t get into Cream of Poutine this day, so I go with my choice and pray for a quick painless death by sandwich. It arrives without much pomp and circumstance, and God help me… it’s made with Miracle Whip. Great, I can feel the hyperglycemia coming to a body near me, real soon. So I ate half, feeling like I just had a bag of sugar added to my tomatoes and other sundry ingredients inside that feast. I figured I didn’t want to use five vials of insulin attempting to finish this glorious meal, so I foolishly put half away for later. Perhaps my knapsack in the back of the Jeep wasn’t the best spot for it’s storage.
Well, when later came, it was, shall we say, interesting. See, BLT’s are generally held together by toothpicks. This one was deprived in on so many levels. Not only did the mayo get abducted, only to be replaced by a “pod” condiment, but so did the toothpicks. Let’s think, shall we, of what happens to a meal that is supposed to be affixed to wood being left to it’s own devices inside a loose bag with a lot of different things piled loosely around it. And to paint the picture a little more vividly, add to this a twenty one year old Jeep with barely any suspension left, a rough road and.. well, you get the picture.
I got hungry at a pit stop. I thought I’d pull out my remaining meal. Well, while it remained in it’s little paper bag, it didn’t remain in it’s original form. As Ma proceeded down the highway, here I am trying to put back together and imbibe this feast. It soon became clear this was a pointless endeavor. So, since it had decided to impersonate a bag of chips, I decided to eat them as such.
And Mama just smiled.
And then when I was finished, she stated in a voice I could not possibly ignore that I was going to eat breakfast the next morning, and bloody like it, even if it meant I was going to be sucking it through a straw after she relieved me of my teeth. And I knew she meant every word.
And I wasn’t smiling.
Well, the next morning came, and wasn’t I surprised to smell bacon and eggs splattering about her stove. Gawd, I was going to have to eat. My stomach was doing somersaults. My mind started to shut down as I knew there was no escape. She asked me to set the table, then shot me a look that warned me that shiny plate bottoms had better be all she saw of my breakky when I finished eating. OK. Got the order clearly. And during my time at her table, I dreamed of the day I’d be able to feed her blender mixed chocolate casserole.
Boy, I can’t wait to put her in a home! Gonna make damned sure they serve green eggs and ham every morning. Gonna go to the place dressed up like Baby Jane Hudson and lament about how she didn’t eat her “din din”. I’ll serve it up beautifully for her. Silver service, sliced tomatoes, hold the parakeet!
Someday I’ll learn to enjoy food prepared in the morning. Someday. But til then, it’s going to be one thing I’ll struggle with if I want to keep on top of the game. It may take a football team to force feed me daily, but sooner or later, I’m sure I’ll get with the program, and eat my Wheaties like a good little boy. In the meantime, it’s coffee and lies for breakfast from now on if anybody asks.