Guana Island

As a mother, I tend to hermitize (my word) myself; it’s easier to stay close to home, I tell the in-laws at holiday planning time. We live close to my mom, step-dad, sister and her family so other than our annual summer trek to Maine to visit my dad, we rarely need to travel. We live on a limited income so a “get-away” means a sleep-over at my mom’s house in the country. Gone are the days (before I was a wife and mother) of living abroad, sleeping under the stars, hitch-hiking along the Amalfi Coast, and camping out in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It was simple, I carried a bag of GORP (Granola, Oatmeal, Raisins, Peanuts), my shots and meter in my backpack. When I got low canoeing in the Gulf of Mexico, my friend paddled while I ate peanut butter crackers. No big deal. Now, my days are mostly spent at home, so close to home that I rarely even drive on the highway, because everything we need is right here. But not for long. I’m about to be thrown from my comfort zone. Next week, sixteen of us will travel to Guana Island for a week to celebrate my mom’s 60^th birthday and I’m starting to panic.

I don’t know if I would be such a creature of habit if it wasn’t for diabetes. Maybe I would be the kind of mother that would go camping with her children and cook dinner over a fire if I wasn’t diabetic. Maybe I use my disease as a crutch (like my high school nurse long ago accused me) and maybe I should push myself out of my comfort zone. Maybe I’m just stuck in a rut. Maybe I’m teaching my kids that taking risks, changing schedules is hard or bad. That idea scares me. So I am looking forward to our trip because I know it will force me out of my habits.

My son asks me if they have toy stores in Guana and I say I don’t think so which is like a domino effect- making me wonder about food. The airlines charge extra for each bag but what if I get low? (I always get low when I travel because of the change in schedule, change in eating habits etc.etc.) Will I be able to run, what if I can’t run? I don’t want my blood sugar to be low but I also don’t want to be high because I can’t exercise…..I’ll need to pack enough bags of Skittles, syringes, blood strips and insulin so I don’t run out because what if there are no stores on Guana?

This is why I never travel! Ugh. I don’t want to think about packing food. All I want to think about is spending time on a beautiful island with my family, so why can’t I turn off these nagging questions in my head? It’s easier to live inside my bubble where I eat the same thing every day, exercise at the same time, run the same trails, have the same snacks and can always find sugar when I get low. It’s easier, less scary, more manageable, predictable, safe and dull. So here I go, off the diving-board, into the deep-end. I’ll write back when I re-surface.

Tillie Olsen

James Mckean, My professor at Queens suggested I read Tillie Olsen’s, “I Stand Ironing,” after he read a story I’m working on about my son’s anxiety and my own. I just got the book, “Tell Me a Riddle” in the mail yesterday and when I sat down to read last night after a loooong day, a day where I worried about finances and my not working and my mounting education debt and the fact that I’m not making any money for my writing and maybe I should be putting this love aside…….here is what I read,

“How much it takes to become a writer. Bent…, circumstances, time, development of craft-but beyond that: how much conviction as to the importance of what one has to say, one’s right to say it. And the will, the measureless store of belief in oneself to be able to come to, cleave to, find the form for one’s own life comprehensions. Difficult for any male not born into a class that breeds such confidence. Almost impossible for a girl, a woman.” Tillie Olsen, Silences.

Flax seed reality check..

In case you can’t read this, it says, “My favorite thing about my dad is when he takes me to the candy store.” This was sent home with Miles along with other art projects on his last day of school. It was wrapped for Father’s Day and has been sitting on top of our dresser for the last month. Dale finally opened it this morning and I had to laugh … 4 year old Miles said, “You know why I wrote it?” and we all had to ask why. He answered, “because I love candy.” So, here I am, in an effort to arm my kids against diabetes with visions of ground flax seed… and my son loves candy. Reality.

Eating with my father….

On this Father’s Day I wanted to write about how my dad taught me to find pleasure in food when I was a child. Diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at fourteen-years-old, I had two strikes against me when it came to food. Strike one= as women, we are not supposed to love food. Instead, we eat salads, skip breakfast, and say no to desserts. As a young, woman with diabetes, I was the only girl in my dorm (I went to a private boarding school) who woke up early and went to the dining hall for breakfast while my friends skipped breakfast and went on “Grapefruit diets.” Strike two=as diabetics, food is a science and we are taught how to count carbs, measure insulin ratios to carbohydrate intake, and use language like “food exchanges,” “sugar-free” and “moderation.” So, as a young woman with diabetes, I learned to say no when it came to food. But even before I was diagnosed, my father laid a foundation of food appreciation.

I was a child of the seventies and my parents were hippies. We lived on one hundred acres in Vermont where we raised chickens, pulled our vegetables from the garden and composted the remains (the browned bananas, the hardened tips of green beans and the moldy tomatoes) were tossed on top of the pile in the back yard. Dad said that when we were hungry, all we needed to do was go outside. Every spring, he drove me to the bottom of our dirt road to visit Hazen Clay in his sugaring shack. We walked through the crusty snow across the cow field to the small, wooden shack with smoke pouring out of a chimney on the roof. In my moon boots, I could almost walk the whole way without falling through the snow. Even though it was March, it was still cold, and my breath came out in puffs. Dad opened the door, and we entered a thick wall of heat. I unzipped my parka. In the middle of the small space was a giant tub where the syrup was cooking, and I had to stand on a bench to see. Hazen stirred the syrup with a long, metal spoon and the sugar water bubbled, light brown and thick. Finally Dad motioned me outside and Hazen passed us each a small silver bowl from his shelf. We scooped up crusty snow and Hazen poured the thick liquid over the top. The first bite was always a surprise, a strange mixture of textures and sensations-the crunchy, cold snow and the still hot, too sweet syrup. I shivered, and ate another bite.

I used to think of that maple syrup after I was diagnosed and wanted Dad’s famous animal pancakes for breakfast. My sister also had type 1 diabetes and so Mom replaced Hazen’s maple syrup with the sugar-free kind that tasted like water. I hated the sugar-free kind. So I stopped eating pancakes. But I missed the animal pancakes. I missed the special trips to Dunkin’ Doughnuts with Dad when I would order the kind with pink icing. I missed holding marsh-mellows over the campfire until they burned, and I had to blow out the flames and then put the melted, gooey, white fluff onto a graham-cracker with a thick chunk of chocolate. I missed Dad’s home-made lasagna with the melting cheese and his crusty garlic bread for dinner. I missed stopping for ice cream on our annual drives to Keoka Lake. I missed saying yes to my dad’s outstretched hand when he was offering a bite. I missed saying yes to food. Dad never stopped offering me bites but it wasn’t the same when only a bite was allowed. I was angry, and resentful and tired of saying no.

It has been twenty three years since I was diagnosed and only recently that I have begun saying yes to food again. Yes to raw green beans from the farmer’s market, yes to bell peppers, plums, cherries, cheese, avocado, turkey bacon, peanuts and dark chocolates are some of my favorites. Now that I am a mother, I want to reach my hand holding a spoon and offer my children a bite. I want to watch Will and Miles’ eyes close in pleasure-whether it be over the peanut butter we’ve ground in the machine at the local health food store, or the strawberries we’ve picked off the vine or even candy; Air Heads, Candy Corn, Pez and Reese Peanut Butter Cups. I want to teach them a love of food like my dad taught me, whether I take a bite or not.