Diagnosed type 2 exactly 1 month after my dad died - basically rotting from the outside in - due to not managing his diabetes.
Gangrene - that’s the smell that keeps on giving. As usual, I wasn’t taking care of myself at the time (and ignoring my own symptoms as stress, tiredness, age) because I was literally running around looking after my Dad & then arranging his funeral.
My handy hints. I’m not going to sugar coat it (as a fellow diabetic, I can’t take the sugar) because some of this is going to suck.
I live by my blood glucose monitor. You can’t dick about with your food intake if the figures are there, in real time, in black & white in front of you.
Carbs make me crave more carbs. So I can’t eat carbs. Stinks, but for me, it is what it is. I’ve been given the OK by my diabetes nurse to 20:4 intermittent fast. I don’t have to think about what I can eat if I’m not actually allowed to eat.
Metformin is still making me as sick as a pig (and don’t get me started on the Met shits). But I have to take it because…I’m diabetic! There’s not much getting around it. Ask your nurse for the extended release metformin, that should help. For me, thinking I’m going to spew at any given moment is horrible, but it helps with the fasting.
Drink lots of water. Although that could be applied to anyone.
It’s shit. I love cake & biscuits & sweets & fudge (god, I’d marry fudge if I could).
But I’m sure as hell not going to do fuck all like my Dad, expecting his kids to do everything for him because he couldn’t look after his own health. And then shrugging his shoulders when asked by his doctors why he wasn’t looking after himself or taking responsibility for his diabetes control.
Having seen the damage uncontrolled type 2 can do to the human body, and now being type 2 myself (an unfortunate genetic quirk), I have to be accountable to myself, to my own kids, and I sure as hell don’t want type 2 diabetes in black and white on my death certificate as it was on Dad’s last summer.
Diabetes.org.uk has loads of useful info. I know I sound old & bitter (because fuck it, it’s been a shit 12 months and I am) but this was my reality seeing dad killing himself with no control, and is my reality now I have my diagnosis. I’ve seen the horrors, smelled the horrors, and now see Dad on my sister’s sideboard in a cardboard tube - the diabetes equivalent of ‘got the t-shirt’.
For the record, my HbA1C was 72 on 21st June (my diagnosis date), 58 by August, and is now 46. Daily, my glucose is from 3.9mmol/l to 7.5mmol/l.