It’s all the salad’s fault.

I think I’m a terrible daughter. I think I scared my mum and made her worry for an entire day just because I didn’t think of the impact my words would have on her.

I know we’ve all made our mums angry or worried at some point. I’m going to run away with another man! I don’t need you, I’m all grown up and can take care of myself. Or just insert whatever guilty flashback you just had.

So anyway the story goes like this. I’m undergoing training by my company because we have had some smashing data about cardiovascular risks and such. Yesterday, our medical doctor talked about how many folds increase a diabetic person (me) is at risk of cardiovascular events compared to a healthy individual (you). And he talked about hypoglycemia.

I’m on insulin, so hypoglycemia happens as often to me as how often you need to shave. It’s just a common adverse event of insulin. Other than the inconvenience it brings me, and how annoying it is to have to wake up at 3am (when it most frequently occurs), I always thought it was not a big, hairy deal. Until yesterday.

So according to our good medical advisor, he says the more a person gets hypoglycemic events, the shorter the lifespan of that poor soul, i.e me. Because each time it happens, parts of the heart tissue dies and it is an irreparable effect. Jeng jeng jeng.

Mathematics has never been a strong suit of mine, but I also do not need to be Einstein to work things out. I’ve been diabetic for 14 years, and plus minus a little, I get hypos roughly about two to three times a week. Sometimes I get an episode twice in the same day. Though my vital signs are all good, I honestly don’t know how much more my heart can tolerate.

Being half in shock and the other half in (morbid) wonder, I came back yesterday and shared this nugget of information with my family. Immediately, mum told me to stop eating just salads for dinner because my hypos are happening with an increasing frequency because I don’t ingest enough carbs/give myself too much insulin. Then we left it at that.

She just returned home from dinner with my younger sister not too long ago and when I was dawdling in the kitchen, she again asked me to stop. She also asked if I rather be fat but happy, or slim with a shorter lifespan. I chose the latter. Which must have added to her frustration because she made an unreasonable request. She demanded that I outlive her. I gently pointed out that this decision is not mine to make and she attributed my salad-eating to potentially making me die earlier.

Mothers. You just can’t win them. On hindsight, she must have been thinking about it all of yesterday and today for her to keep broaching the subject. And that in turn made me feel like the biggest prick who ever lived.


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