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My long sickness of health and living now begins to mend

If there’s one thing I like about getting old it is that if you hang around long enough, you discover answers to questions you never thought to ask; questions which, if you ever did decide to compare notes, would seem odd to others. Sometimes, it’s best to keep certain questions to yourself.

Of course, they may not start out as questions: some stuff is just the way it is. Period. But I’ve learned to listen between the lines when I’m talking to people: give nothing away -especially if I don’t know them very well. I mean there’s no sense in early alienation; early pity. You should earn respect, not have it heaped on you like an extra helping of scalloped potatoes at a United Church dinner to entice you to return to the fold.

But sometimes it’s distressing to find out that I’m not like everybody else. I suppose we all cherish our individuality -none of us see ourselves as carbon copies- and yet, although there are many things I’m proud I share with those around me, some things are best left as secrets: embarrassing anomalies.

Things I have considered mere idiosyncrasies over the years and are too minor to question, have occasionally bubbled to the surface when I least expect them -my feelings of guilt after a large meal for example. Or maybe not even a large one -maybe just the satiety that follows an afternoon snack which takes the edge off the expected reward from an evening meal.

I suppose being retired and living alone have elevated the status of some activities into missions, requiring a pilgrimage to finally attain the coveted dinner; converted the mere anticipation of an expected meal into something more: something sacred, unblemished -an atonement not to be desecrated or polluted beforehand.

I’m not sure if I’ve always felt this way about food, although as a child, I suppose there was usually a reward attending the hallowed evening meal: dessert. If I pretended I actually liked the meat fritters my mother always seemed to make to use up the scraps of overdone beef left over from yesterday’s meal, there was always dessert. Childhood experiences never really disappear, do they? Fortunately, they often tend to metamorphose like the unsightly larva of a butterfly turning into something more acceptable.

In my case, I have to ask whether the transformation has succeeded, however. Although I have learned to deal with it, I have begun to wonder whether my post-prandial guilt actually serves any purpose since it is no longer hunger-driven. But, although it seems truly anomalous, I have never had the courage to ask around to find out if I am actually a patient X. Anyway, I can’t describe my feelings with sufficient accuracy to dispel any notions of hypochondriasis, let alone disavow suggestions of an unusual position on the spectrum everyone seems to fear.

I suppose this feeble jeremiad is merely a way of showing my relief at finally discovering an article which may offer an answer to a condition I was on the verge of accepting as my unique lot in Life.  It also introduced me to the glycemic index: a system that ranks foods and diets in their ability to influence blood sugar: ‘blood sugar fluctuations affect mood, high glycemic index diets that produce drastic spikes in blood sugar have been associated with  increased risk for depression and to some extent anxiety.’[i]

‘When we eat too much sugar, too many carbs, or high glycemic index carbs, the rapid increase in blood sugar prompts a drastic rise in insulin. This can result in blood sugar levels that dip below where they started’ sparking the release of adrenaline and noradrenaline to send glucose into the bloodstream and restore blood sugar to the appropriate level.

‘However, adrenaline influences more than just blood sugar levels. It also affects how we feel, and its release can manifest as anxiety, fear, or aggression. Hence, diet affects mood through its effect on blood sugar levels, which trigger the hormones that dictate how we feel…’ But the rise in adrenaline that follows sugar and carbohydrate consumption doesn’t usually happen until four or five hours after eating. Thus, ‘dopamine makes us feel good in the short term after eating sugar and carbohydrates; but in the long term, adrenaline can make us feel bad.’ Yup, that’s me alright…

Discovering that it was not a spectral disorder was encouraging enough to make me confide my symptoms to Teddy. He seemed the sole occupant of the Wednesday morning coffee klatch table at the Food Court. To tell the truth, I had to tell somebody…

It seemed a monumental confession for me, though, and I was hoping he would listen intensely to what I had been going through for so many years. Admittedly he wouldn’t have been my first choice to confide in: he didn’t even slow down as he chewed one of the selection of doughnuts on his plate between slurps of his coffee.

I know he heard me because he nodded his head at the right places in my monologue, and even blinked once or twice when I mentioned the idea of the role of the glycemic index. “Never happens to me,” he mumbled between bites.

Discouraged not only by his seeming indifference but also by his focus on obsessively chewing his sugared doughnut into paste, I decided to change tack. “Do you snack at all during the day?”

He nodded as he reached for the second of the three doughnuts on his plate. “Sometimes, eh?”

“What about your main meal? Don’t you look forward to that?”

He nodded, contentedly chewing on his new doughnut. “Wife makes sure I have a great dinner,” he managed to say between bites.

“So…” I hesitated for a moment; he seemed so intent on his doughnut. “So do you feel guilty that you might not be very hungry for the meal she cooked?”

He looked at me for a moment, obviously puzzled, and then reached for his coffee to wash down the doughnut remnants clinging to his teeth. “She usually orders pizza, and if I don’t eat it then, I can always find some in the fridge.” He swished a bit more coffee at an obviously finicky remnant of doughnut caught between two back teeth. “Nothin’ to feel guilty about, eh?”

He picked up the last doughnut on his plate and took a large bite. “Maybe you should go for counselling, G,” he managed to garble through a full mouth. “Sounds serious the way you tell it…”

He slurped the dregs of coffee from the paper cup, abruptly pushed his chair back from the table, and stood up. “Gonna get another cup and maybe a cookie at the counter.  Don’t wanna make you feel guilty or anything, but d’you want something else…?”

I smiled and shook my head as I gathered my stuff for the garbage and stood. “I’ve got a few things to do this morning, but thanks for listening, eh?”

Teddy smiled, obviously pleased with the way he’d handled my confession. “You can talk to me anytime, G; wife always says I’m a good listener.”

I nodded my head politely, but I think I’m done with confessions…

[i] https://theconversation.com/blood-sugar-fluctuations-after-eating-play-an-important-role-in-anxiety-and-depression-235008

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