The sugar | | dailyamerican.com - Daily American Online

It was only two years ago that I discovered my maternal grandmother’s full name was not Dora: It was Isadora, Isadora Hagerty Beeson.

We lived in her house until she passed. I was 9. There are dozens, no, hundreds of things that remind me of her: sugar cookies, looking at sunsets, her love of cats and hatred of dogs, the way she demanded respect from those around her with only a look and nary a word.

To me, she was a nice old lady. She wore those absolutely abysmal house dresses and those grandma-orthopedic shoes, never talked much and often ate alone in her little private kitchen because, after raising eight children, the family noises often got to her.

But the thing I remember most was the daily ritual between her and my dad. Dora had become a type 2 diabetic, and she required insulin every night. It was my dad’s job, his assignment, his duty, to be the giver of the shot. She would come into the kitchen. He would get the insulin bottle out of the refrigerator, clean the needle with alcohol, load up the reusable hypodermic needle, push out any air bubbles, use a cotton ball with alcohol to clean her arm and inject her.

Grandma was a little overweight, but not significantly. She was actually just the right overweight for a grandmother in those days. I’ve discovered, however, that just the right amount of overweight on my particular body has periodically taken me to a prediabetic state, and when I drop 20 pounds, I’m right back to normal.

It’s a game I’ve played a dozen times since I turned 40. Yo-Yo Ma, the famous cello virtuoso, has nothing on "Yo-Yo me."

Well, a few weeks ago, my wife commented that her somewhat overweight cat, Isabella, was drinking lots of water. I hadn’t noticed. She took her to the vet’s for her regular immunization shots, and, yep, Izzy has “the sugar.”

That’s what they always said when I was a kid. Grandma has “the sugar.” I didn’t hear diabetes associated with “the sugar” until I was well into adulthood.

Now, Izzy has to have two shots a day, and I’m the designated shooter for the evening shot. I’m gonna be honest with you. I never wanted to be a nurse or a doctor.

Giving shots does not rank high on my bucket list, but it certainly has contributed significantly to my own very personal regime of counting calories, riding my exercise bike for 45 minutes a day and keeping as active as I can.

It’s one thing shooting a cat, but I sure as heck don’t want to spend my last chapter shooting myself. Okay, maybe in the foot once in a while, but I don’t want to get “the sugar.”

Isabella the cat is now limited to a very restrictive ¼ cup of dry cat food twice a day. She’s losing weight.

This morning at around 3 a.m., Izzy did something she hasn’t done for a long, long time. She ran across the bed in circles crazily chasing her own tail. Not bad for a nine-year-old cat.

I’m thinking the insulin and weight loss might be helping. Maybe she’ll get off the insulin someday.

Dora never did. In fact, she developed heart disease and died of a coronary thrombosis.

Isn’t it amazing how we remember things like the phrase coronary thrombosis from more than 60 years ago? Oh, and I still do remember sitting beside Grandma on the couch watching "Superman," Lawrence Welk and Liberace.

Okay, I’m not going to have that bowl of ice cream, the Snickers bar, the 12-ounce can of Coke, those brownies or even the Oreos. I’m gonna watch TV and snack on a piece of sour dough pretzel or maybe have a little popcorn.

Love ya, Dora. 

(Nick Jacobs of Windber is a senior partner with Senior Management Resources and author of the blog healinghospitals.com.)

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