Ahh, Halloween, the bane of my existence … or at least it used to be. It’s days like today that had me cursing my disease or just all out rebelling against it.
I don’t know which gods were in charge of diagnosing me with T-1, and I don’t know how the hell I managed to piss them off so increduously, but I’m thinking it was pretty darn nasty of them to diagnose me at 9 years old – to give me 9 bloody years, 5 of which I could clearly remember eating sweets, before putting a lock with no key on my beloved candy store.
Before diabetes, I loved sugar, oh man, did I ever. Hot lips, jujubes, pop rocks, tootsie rolls, strawberry bon bons, banana marshmallows, lifesavers, fizz, fun dip, pixie sticks, nibs, sweetarts, green apple lollipops, and don’t even get me started on chocolate bars. Oh Henry, oh yes please. But on August 23, 1987, my world of candy came crumbling down, and the cruelest part was, it was in a glass-encased room where I could see it all filling up, but was told no touching.
I was NINE years old!
Halloween was a big thing in my family. We loved dressing up. I can remember my moms spending hours on my costumes, inserting a coat hanger into my pink bunny ears, making sure my clown buttons were perfectly centred, teasing my hair to rockstar heights. And when diabetes came along, my parents, bless their hearts, did not want to deprive me.
I was Raggedy Ann in the back, with my Big Brother, the viking, and my step sister, the good witch, and my step brother, the younger viking.
And who was I to disagree? I assured them I wouldn’t eat the candy, I promised them I wanted to go trick or treating just for the experience not for a measly pillowcase FULL of delectable treats, oh no. And to seal the deal, I told them it would be an entrepreneurial opportunity (although, I’m pretty sure I didn’t use that word) that I would sell my bounty to my older siblings who were too old to go out themselves. It was win-win, really.
I think I lasted maybe a day, if that. I did sell some of it, but I also hid my favourites under my bed, between my mattresses, in my pillowcases, under my mound of stuffed animals, and even in the ripped armpit of my stuffed bunny. (I was NINE years old!)
And for years after, Halloween became a game. We never got too many trick or treaters out our way, but the sweet tooth in my family runs deep and so we inevitably always had a hefty surplus of leftover mini chocolate bars that were stashed in a steel mixing bowl downstairs by the front door. And at all hours of the day and night, with a surefire excuse in hand for just in case (I’m going to watch TV; doing “another” load of laundry; talk on the phone; use the computer) I would navigate a path to the door, sneak my head around the corner to make sure no one else was down there, check back up the stairs to make sure no one was walking by, and once I was sure the coast was clear, I would stuff my over sized jean pockets full of the bars, and then run up to my bedroom, climb under my blankets, and chow down. The empty wrappers were then stuffed between my mattresses to eliminate the evidence, only to be removed months later.
Not exactly my proudest moments.
- 6 p.m. BG before: 8.3
- Temp. basal: -50 per cent (45 minutes)
- Distance: approximately 4 km
- Time: 23 minutes
- 7 p.m. BG after: 8.1
- Temp. basal: +50 per cent (30 minutes)
I dressed up as a runner 😉
Oh how times change. It’s been about seven years of me waking up the first of November not feeling guilty over my Halloween over indulgences. Don’t get me wrong, I still indulge in my sweets (you have seen my office chocolate drawer, which is opened on a regular basis) but now, I’m the one in control, not the candy, and not Diabetes. Happy Halloween!
Be sure to check out tomorrow’s post, I’ve got something up my sleeve for November that I will reveal tomorrow.