Friend of Julie: Diabetes and Deviled Eggs

It's funny how a memory just pops up in your mind. Not funny in a laughing out loud kind of way, but in a strange way. One moment you're peeling a hard-boiled egg and the next moment you're mind is a million miles away, remembering something that happened years ago--as if it was happening in the present moment.

That's what happened to me this morning while making deviled eggs. I picked up the first hard-boiled egg, tapped it lightly on the counter top, and then gave it a roll. Right then a memory of peeling hard-boiled eggs with my Uncle Bill popped into my head.

As I peeled the shell from the egg in my own kitchen, I was transported to my twelve or thirteen year old self in the kitchen standing next to Uncle Bill.

"Give it a light tap on the counter" Uncle Bill instructed me, "and then roll it. That's right! Now peel it. See how easily the shell comes off?"

I've peeled a million hard-boiled eggs since I was a teenager. I'm not sure why this memory surfaced this morning, but it was as if Uncle Bill was standing right next to me, instruction me how to peel an egg.

Standing in my own kitchen, I grabbed my iPhone to take photos of today's egg-peeling event. I didn't realize until that moment that I had peeled four eggs and the last egg was in my hand partially peeled.

I had the idea that I could capture my memory and make it into a short video. I was silent as I set up my iPhone camera and recorded a closeup of the fork in my hands breaking up the cooked egg yokes, adding a spoon of mayo and then mustard. I cracked black pepper over the dish and then sprinkled salt on top.

As the camera continued to roll, I stuffed the eggs. That's when I imagined my mother's critical voice.

"They're messy looking--some have more filling than others. And what about the paprika? Where's the paprika?" Mom's deviled eggs always looked perfect. Mine? No paprika. No perfection.

I picked up my iPhone, zoomed in on my finished product and snapped a few stills before popping a deviled eggs into my mouth. 

Messy looking and void of paprika, these deviled eggs were delicious.

Mom and Uncle Bill are brother and sister and, like their father and two of my brothers, they had diabetes. My grandfather and my Uncle Bill were thin men their whole lives. Neither of them ever had weight issues, unlike my mom and my diabetic brothers. Diabetes was just one of several health issues my mother, her father, her brother, and her oldest son (my brother) had going on when they passed away.

Four years ago my nurse practitioner told me, with an authoritative certainty, despite the negative results from my annual diabetes test, "you are going to become a diabetic."

"No!" I told her with my own authoritative certainty.

I always knew I would never become a diabetic, despite my mother's family history of diabetes, because decades ago I decided to claim my father's genes, as there was no diabetes or Alzheimer on his side of the family. As if one can really make such a claim.

When my memory of Uncle Bill and Mom surfaced this morning, I thought of their struggle with diabetes and how neither one of them was willing to give up sugar. 

I remember Uncle Bill checking his blood sugar level, taking his medicine, eating lunch, and then eagerly waiting to bite into a piece of pie. I'm not sure of the exact order of those events, but as I sat beside Uncle Bill at his kitchen table, I would silently stake claim to having my father's family genes.

I don't remember if my mom took medicine for her diabetes, but I vividly recall my grandfather injecting himself daily with a needle. I also remember him using a lot of Saccharin.

I was excited about making this memory into a video this morning, but it seems deviled eggs aren't the only thing in my life that lack perfection. Technology got the better of me. My new iPhone won't speak to my desktop computer, so I can't get edit my video or record my story. Well I know I can figure this out, but I don't have all day to do this, so here I am writing my memory instead.

As I finish writing this piece, I think about my life today and I can't help but ponder a few what if questions. What if I hadn't changed the way I eat? What if I hadn't loss all this weight? What if I was still a size 30/32 instead of a 14/16? Would I have become diabetic? Or do I really have my dad's gene's?

Lucky for me, and it really isn't about luck, I won't ever know if I had stayed on the path I was on before this program, the path where I communed with Ben & Jerry daily, if I would have become diabetic. Family history and statistics have a strong case against my claim.

What I do know is that eating the way I learned on this program, I will never become diabetic. Paprika is still an option, but perfection is debatable.

Mom and Uncle Bill