lessons

It’s now a little over two months since I was released from the ring of hell which is commonly known as a hospital. The florescent light, the comings and going at all hours of the night to poke and prick, plus the silent noisiness of the dead, the entire experience has me bound and determined to do everything I can to stay on this side of the ring for the rest of this life.

I’m doing well, incredibly so. I am managing the diabetes without medication of any kind. This means being acutely aware of what I am eating and how much I am moving my body. I now am an expert on the glycemic index of almost any food, of knowing just how quickly anything I eat turns to sugar. I have managed to stay well within the normal range for the two months I’ve been out, despite some difficult challenges.

For years, especially in witchcamp settings, I had a humorous contempt for all of those with special food needs. Why do lesbians seem to be more lactose intolerant, allergic to gluten, and all around picky around food than the rest of the human race? This was a question I would ask frequently and with some irritation. Wouldn’t you know that now I find myself in these ranks and then some? When you choose to embrace the shamanic lifestyle, you can’t get away with anything. If you find yourself making fun of something, soon enough you become the butt of the joke yourself.

The priestesses of the hearth path were bending over backward to meet my needs, and over and over I found myself shaking my head and saying “no, I can’t eat that”. Who am I and what happened to that self I use to be? Gluten free pasta, rice, potatoes, turnips, carrots, beets, and whole wheat pizza dough are all off the list of what I eat. A vegetarian diet is next to impossible, as beans and rice just don’t cut it for a diabetic and most carriers of cheese involve carbohydrates. At camp, despite some tromping in the wet woods, I was not getting the same level of exercise that I now consider essential to keeping my blood sugar low. I found myself in the bizarre situation of needing food other than that which was being prepared so lovingly for the rest of the camp.

I was not truly alone, as Donald Engstrom had similar issues to mine. We found ourselves being the only ones eating chicken bought on a run to town at the table with others with plates full of vegetarian fare, or alternatively, going off to the pub across the street so we could have a lamb shank or bowl of mussels. Donald kept reminding me that our needs weren’t “special”, that what we needed was normal and regular, but in the context of witchcamp, it felt vulnerable and strange to not be able to adjust for a few days to a vegetarian diet. Especially one that was so integral to the magic being made.

The Sunday after camp I found myself crying in frustration after expending the whole day doing an initiation and then going to a feast for the initiate where all that I could eat was some salad and two pieces of salmon picked off of some sushi. The days of taking it for granted that I can eat whatever is served and that nourishment will be found at any table I sit at are over.

This is harder than I could ever have expected.

Now I am in Barcelona, a city full of dishes I can eat, where tapas of every kind of fresh seafood are readily available and huge platters of spinach, arugula, and asparagus abound. I am walking well over 10,000 steps a day, and my blood sugar is easily staying in the low range of normal. One day, it was so low I braved a cup of hot chocolate and shared some bites of a raspberry tart at the exquisite patisserie Escriba. Now a days, a dessert is truly a treat, something to be had only occasionally. Blessedly, maybe because of all the walking, I stayed within normal range.

There’s no shortage of lessons to be learned in one lifetime.

Thanks to my little glucometer and my handy pedometer, I’m staying an alert and willing student.