A1c

 A1c is...everything when it comes to determining how managed a person's diabetes is. It's a measurement of the average amount of blood glucose (sugar in your blood) over a 90-day period. Anything from about 2.0 to 5.6 or 5.7 (depending on who you ask) is "normal." 

When I was originally diagnosed as a Type 2 diabetic about seven years ago, my inaugural A1c was 11. When I was admitted to the hospital on December 12 for acute cellulitis in my left foot, it was 9. 

Over the last 100 days or so I've been working hard to get that number down. My daily fasting sugars were very good. A personal best of 81 on Christmas Day, they'd be in the 90s and low 100s most days. A few days would creep over the 110 mark, and I'd review what I'd eaten the day before to make changes to my diet. I added exercise six days a week. Sure, I missed a day here or there, and on some of the days I didn't give what the coaches like to call "the ultimate devotion," but on average, I moved around a lot more, and a lot more often than I ever have in my adult life.

Last Friday was...test day. Blood test, that is. I woke up around 7, no coffee, no shower, nothing. Jumped into my truck and drove to the lab (which is conveniently right around the corner from the new house) and gave them like seven test tubes worth of my blood. 

It started off well. The phlebotomist recognized me. She remembered my name and took a long up-and-down glance at me and said those words I've absolutely come to love: "You've lost a significant amount of weight!" 

I was about 365-375 in the hospital in December. On Sunday, I weighed myself at the gym on one of those old doctor's office-type scales with the big heavy counterweight on the bottom and the little one on the top that you keep inching to the right until the scale balances. On Sunday, I was 336lbs. 

I've lost six inches off my waist, and gone down two shirt sizes, from a 5x to a 3x. 

Usually, when the vampires take my blood, I get stuck like four times before they can find a vein. This time it was the first stick! She didn't have to chase a vein through the fat, like trying to stab a needle into a wet piece of spaghetti. 

My labs usually come back in about 12 hours, and I get texts/emails telling me my results. Late Friday evening, I got the email I'd been waiting all day for -- hell, waiting the last three months for.

My A1c reading was 5.9. 

When I told Annie, she literally burst into tears of joy. This morning, I had an appointment with my endocrinologist. Before that, his medical assistant took my vital signs and I told her my A1c number and she literally high-fived me. The doctor hadn't reviewed my lab results, and I watched him carefully as he signed into the PC in the treatment room and looked me up. His eyes widened a lot when he saw my number. 

I can't explain how much this means to me. It's such a confirmation of what I've been doing, the journey that I'm on and represents such an absolute rejection of my previous lifestyle, a lifestyle that was robbing me of so much and might have even robbed me of my life. 

I'm in a better mood all the time, my cognition has improved, my self-confidence has sky-rocketed. Taking control of my diet and exercise and making diabetes my little bitch has been an amazing experience. 

And trust me, Dear Reader, if I can do this, anyone can. I know it sounds trite and easy, but you just have to decide to do it. 

One little trick, I might have mentioned this before. But when I look at food I used to abuse, like fast food or pizza, or even cupcakes, I don't say "I can't eat that." That sounds like I'm being prevented from doing it, like an external force is denying me something. I say instead, "I don't eat that way anymore." I'm in charge. It's my decision. I'm in control. 

And that makes all the difference.