As a teen, I’d never have thought that in middle-age I’d be taking prescription meds each day to manage my health. (For all I knew back in my teens, even middle-age was like an impossible dream. Sometimes you fear that where you are is all there is and all you’ll ever have.)
Growing up, I never saw my Dad even take an aspirin. With him, I’m convinced he would never even admit to being sick. I don’t remember him ever taking a sick day.
My Mum should probably have been taking Lithium or something to manage her manic-depression, but she hadn’t gone to see a Doctor since before we’d come to Vancouver in 1975. In the half-dozen years since then, the only substance either of my parents ever medicated themselves with was alcohol – way too much alcohol.
My Dad only paid attention to his Doctor when he was given the ultimatum “If you don’t stop drinking, you’re going to die!”. That dramatic advice impressed my old man. It probably made him feel central to a big drama (his own survival), and gave him yet another great story to tell.
By 1984, Dad had a heart attack, multiple strokes, and would relapse into alcoholism and break his hip in a hospital shower. He had survived with his mind and personality intact and had succeeded with the hard work of stroke rehabilitation, but was broken physically and partially paralysed for the remainder of his life.
In contrast, by 1977 my Mother was too far gone into depression and alcoholism to even leave her bed. She’d completely withdrawn from all of us and the outside world, preferring to stay drunk or to appear to be sleeping all the time. She was unreachable, and we probably stopped trying over the course of the year.
Medical intervention for my Mother came with a last-minute ambulance ride to Burnaby General Hospital. She survived, but alcohol poisoning had given her permanent brain damage. She detoxed after a full blood transfusion, and was not the same person afterwards. She’d wanted to escape her life through alcohol, and had almost died and been “remade” with a slightly different mind and personality. She’d had a painful almost-death and kind of rebirth into a new life as a long-term resident in Riverview Psychiatric Hospital.
So I guess I never had good role models for taking care of myself, or staying healthy. At the age of 46, my mum almost died from alcohol. At the age of 62, my Dad almost died from a heart attack and multiple strokes.
Now, at the age of 59, I’m kind of in the middle of those two ages, and managing diabetes and high blood pressure. I’m taking Metformin and Jardiance for my Type 2 Diabetes, and Ramipiril to manage blood pressure. I do blood tests and talk with my Doc every 3 months, eat way more healthy than my folks ever did, and do 5000 to 10000 steps a day.
I guess the point of recounting all this is to show myself that I’m taking better care of myself, in both physical and mental terms. In fact, I’ve learned how each of those aspects can affect the other.
By 2014, my diabetes had been largely unmanaged for about four years. I was pretty large and overweight by that time – maybe weighing 205 or more. I also would experience some very dark feelings at least one morning each week. Other times, tears would come unexpectedly. I felt like my emotions were actually working against me. In the last ten years since that time, my diabetes has stayed in control through meds and some of my attempts at improving my diet and daily exercise.
Today, I weight about 177 pounds and am on-track to lose a few more and to get my blood pressure solidly inside the normal range. I try to get at least 5-6 hours of sleep each night and often walk more than 8000 steps each day. I feel no anxiety, and those black mornings have become very rare occurrences. I feel more calm, more confident, and more happy.
Better physical health can make it easier to improve mental health, and vice versa. I had to learn that lesson myself, but I also had to take my parents’ health struggles to heart as real warnings.
