When I was diagnosed with type II diabetes four years ago, it was a shock. I hadn’t been feeling well for almost a year, had been gaining weight like it was my second job (constant hunger is one of the symptoms), and couldn’t walk once around the block without needing a nap. When I received the diagnosis in my doctor’s office, I broke down in tears and immediately went into grief stage number one: denial. The tests were wrong. They mixed my lab work up with someone else’s. My doctor was kidding. I spent five minutes on stage one before moving into stage two: anger. And I stayed there for a long time.

I was angry at myself, angry at anyone who weighed more than I did (which at the time was upwards of 230 pounds), angry at Burger King television commercials, angry at modern science for not figuring out 20 years ago that high fructose corn syrup and trans fats were bad. And I was angry at my family.

The latter stemmed primarily from the fact that my family seemed incapable of organizing gatherings or celebrations that didn’t involve food. I made a decision after my diagnosis to postpone insulin treatment, make lifestyle changes, and do everything in my power not to have to inject myself several times a day. I had to change my entire relationship with food. It could no longer be reward, comfort, celebration, or anything other than fuel for my body. I ate six small meals a day, eliminated empty carbs, fast food, trans fats, corn syrup, prepared foods, and alcohol—the most difficult change, considering how much I loved a good post-work happy hour dirty martini or two (or three).

When it comes to the stages of grief (according to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross), I should have moved to the next stage: bargaining. But I didn’t. Instead, I stayed angry. I blew up at a diabetic nutritionist who probably had her last training update in 1993, considering that the materials she shoved at me were geared toward type I diabetes and that she looked at me blankly when I told her there was research that defined type I and II as very different diseases and they should be treated as such.
Being hungry constantly didn’t do a lot for my anger, but I lost 50 pounds in six months—enough to bring my blood sugar within normal range and for my doctor to agree to let me manage my diabetes with diet and exercise. I was in “why me?” mode almost constantly, and the people who bore the brunt of it were the ones closest to me—my friends and family. Especially my family.

When my mother called before my first post-diabetes birthday to suggest the family meet “somewhere nice for dinner,” just like we had for many birthdays past, I went into a rage, ranting about why anyone would be surprised that the women in my family have a tendency to gain weight, considering that it seemed impossible to get together under circumstances where food was not the focus. Thankfully, my (very patient) mother ignored most of what I said and asked me to decide what I wanted to do for my birthday. We ended up going to the movies to see “Walk the Line” and I brought a bag of carrots so I wouldn’t be tempted by greasy, buttery movie theater popcorn.

A few months later, on my way to my sister’s house for my nephew’s birthday, my mother called to ask me to pick up his cake. “Sure,” I said. “Ask the only person in the family who can’t eat the cake to pick it up.” After a few harsh words, I picked up the damn cake and pouted for the rest of the day.

Holiday time: Everyone was walking on eggshells around me and I knew it. We have a longtime tradition that everyone brings a few dishes to Thanksgiving dinner and whoever hosts does the turkey. I was supposed to bring sweet potatoes (lots of butter, sugar, and marshmallows), vegetable casserole (yes, vegetables, but also cream and a ton of cheese), and spinach dip. Rather than renegotiate, I decided to make fat-free versions of all three, using orange zest to flavor the sweet potatoes instead of brown sugar, leaving out the butter, using lowfat cheese and skim milk in the casserole, and fat-free sour cream for the spinach dip. No one said a word, but I could tell by the leftovers that my healthy alternatives hadn’t gone over well. My mother skipped the honey baked ham that year and set aside healthy slices of turkey breast for me. She even made steamed Brussels sprouts (something no one else in my family will eat), got wheat rolls in addition to the usual yeast rolls, and basically tiptoed around me along with the rest of the family waiting for my smug meter to set off a tantrum.

I hated being that person—that judgmental, suspicious, sick-to-death of sticking my finger to test my blood sugar person. With three sisters, five nieces, a nephew, and some married-in family members, we have birthday gatherings almost every month. I went to restaurants where I had to order off the menu in order to have a healthy meal, and watched everyone else eat cake. They wanted to know how to fix it and how to make our time together revolve less around food than the time we spent with each other, but we were entrenched in the same thing millions of families were: food equals love.

It’s taken almost four years for me to move out of the anger stage and through to acceptance, but I’m there now. I’ve kept the 50 pounds off. This past Christmas, we had a brown sugar encrusted ham and I didn’t mind watching everyone else partake while I picked at my plate of skinless turkey breast and vegetables sans butter. I brought board games for after dinner and anyone who wasn’t in a food coma was allowed to participate. What struck me the most is not the food I couldn’t have, not the guilt I felt for making other people adapt to my dietary needs, not the brief twinge of self pity I felt when I couldn’t eat my sister’s amazing chocolate pecan pie; what I remember most about the holiday is sitting around the dining table with my sisters and nieces playing Cranium and laughing our heads off. And the realization that the food wasn’t love: they were. •

Kelly Love Johnson is a freelance writer, editor, author, and media consultant in Charleston, SC. More about her at kellylovejohnson.com.