I think there can be no more difficult task in the life of a woman than to assume responsibility, resulting from care and concern, for a man's health. None so thankless either. My husband ignores that he's had a heart attack and functions with a stent in his heart that keeps him alive. It's no surprise that he over-looks that fact because self-delusion is his primary line of defense when approached about his eating habits. “I don't eat lunch.” He says when I mention he might need a platter to accommodate his dinner portions. It'd be more efficient if he just ate with a fork from the pan. I suppose though, it is better exercise to make three trips to the kitchen rather than taking it all at once.
I wouldn't mind so much, but when he says he doesn't eat lunch to justify mammoth portions at dinner, it's not exactly true. “No lunch” to me, means no food enters the mouth between breakfast and the time he attends the trough at dinner. To him, it means he didn't stop at Kentucky for a four piece with all the fixin's and a sit-down with the Colonel. “I only had a small potato,” translated from husband-speak to regular people means “I got an order of deep fried potato quarters in batter with a tasty flurry of salt. They only come with six pieces but I told the girl to give me the biggest ones and she did!”But in his mind, that doesn't count and the Cheez product that I imagine swirled over the top of said potatoes doesn't count either. When I mention this to him he reminds me that this doesn't happen every day. No, and I suppose the empty can of Pringles, cracker wrappers or juice bottles I find in my trash don'tcount either.
“I've done good.” He says and notes that the bologna and cheese, he's not supposed to have at all, lasted a day or two longer than usual had he not such willpower as to snack on only three pieces of each rather than five or six. When I see him sitting on the couch with a box of reduced fat Cheez-its, his hand digging into the box and automatically shoveling them into his mouth, I delicately ask, “Are you going to eat all of those?” He, rightly becomes indignant and puts me in my place with a snappy retort, “I don't eat these that much. I don't really like them.” As he pulls out another few fistfuls just to show me who is boss. Then, as though suffering a fool, (that would be me) stuffs the bag down into the box and hands it in my direction, “Here take them, I'm finished.” I do and I notice the full box I put in the cabinet just yesterday is empty but for three or four orphans at the bottom. Reduced fat was my strategic choice because he doesn't like them. He seems to have gotten past that.
Did I mention that he has a history of diabetes in his family to match the heart disease like bookends? Or his painful feet could be a sign of diabetes? Did I mention his blood sugar is high? Isn't a chronic thirst a sign of diabetes? But not to worry, he kills that thirst with plenty of fruit juice.
“I don't eat sweets.” He announces in his defense. It's true. Just the other day he came home with a gift of chocolate for me…not for him. But it would be selfish of me not to share. I think I had two pieces when I found the empty box in the trash.
I may be overreacting because, he reminds me, it's only borderline high blood sugar, and only borderline high blood pressure. No problem. And his cholesterol is just fine - with the ever-increasing dose of Lipitor.
When I pick my moments to bring all of this to his attention his standard answer is “I'm way better than I used to be.” Or just lately, “I've lost seven pounds. I must be doing something right.” He schools me in how far off base I am to suggest that a super-platter of Italian cold cuts is not be the best choice of hors d'oeuvres for a family get together.
This is a man who will not stop eating as long as food is in supply so in this game of gustatory warfare I keep my new strategy, not the food under lock and key. My secret weapon? I don't buy food any more. Ha. I'll win this battle on the home front. I can't control his rations while he's in the field but at home, boxes are strategically missing. Bologna for my son's lunches is kept behind the carrots where he'll never find it. No Cheez-its fat or no fat. No food, no more. But so he won't notice, I've replaced old favorites with sneaky look-alikes like peanuts with soy nuts. Hee! I see my plan working. He's on the couch now, downing a box of Grape Nut Flakes in the absence of anything else crunchy. But in spite of that 7 pounds lost, he retaliates for the maneuver with abominable gas that trumpeted all night heralding that he would not go down without a fight.
“I won't live on lettuce leaves. That's not my way. I'd rather eat what I want and die a few years early.” His war cry: A credo to live by…or to die by. Forget that he aches all over and that he puffs from extra weight. His logic won't hold water or juice or beer.
Both his parents died of heart disease. Mom with a hole in her heart and Dad, in the end, could barely walk due to lack of breath. Quality of life was poor for both. I wonder would they make the same health choices if given a do-over? His uncle lost both his legs to diabetes before his battleship went down. Would he have made different choices had he known he'd die piece-by-piece? My husband commented on how he “just wouldn't want to live like that.” But the real possibility is that people with diabetes or heart disease that don't do what their doctors advise, often end up debilitated. They don't go out in a blaze of healthy glory a few years early; they linger in misery depending on someone to give up their own life and financial stability to care for them.
But I have gotten some help in slapping my husband into reality. The test results are in and they are not bad, but potentially bad. His doctor told him to get off the carbs, cut the fat, salt, and the trips to the chow line. Forget the cold cuts and sausages, and replace the juice with water. So, although the doctor has stolen my chant and gotten, not grief but paid for it, my husband has for three days now been paying attention.
I didn't say, “I told you so,” or give a righteous “Aha!” with a triumphant finger poked in the air. I asked if he'd like a turkey sandwich on lite bread for lunch and he said,
“That'll be good.”
Today, I enjoy a quiet victory for his heart, eyes and kidneys.
So, did I mention his prostate?
