Saving My Life!

To control my diabetes, I had to achieve a little self-improvement and lose weight—a lot of weight! Here's how I did it.

By Pat Pathkiller, Salina, Oklahoma

In this article:

As appeared in

"This is serious," my doctor said, putting his hands on my shoulders and looking at me gravely. "The tests confirm what I'd suspected. You have diabetes. You are also overweight and out of shape. Pat, you've got to get control of your life—now!"

I sat there in shocked silence. He might just as well have handed me a death sentence. I had come to him with exhausting flu symptoms. My body ached. A persistent cough had hung on for weeks. But I was not prepared for his diagnosis. And worse, I was not prepared, perhaps not even able, to undertake his treatment program: a lifelong regimen of diet and exercise. I'd never been able to stick with a diet! And exercise? I could hardly walk!

Earlier I had been astonished when I stepped on the scale at the Salina Community Clinic while the nurse moved the weight along the bar as it passed 220, 230...and went up, up...until it came to rest at 255 pounds! I had no idea I'd become so heavy. And then the doctor told me my blood-sugar level was so high that, if unchecked, it could lead to stroke, blindness, kidney failure, circulatory problems, even loss of limb.

By the time I got home, I was thoroughly depressed. As I entered the door, I could smell the roast beef cooking in the oven. And I thought of the sour-cream raisin pie waiting in the refrigerator. What was I to do?

I dropped onto the sofa, wincing at the ache in my knees and ankles. I was only 45 years old but gimping around as though I were ancient. I stared at my reflection in a mirror from my purse. My Cherokee heritage had always been a source of pride to me, but now my black eyes and high cheekbones were sunk into puffy, soft skin.

I pulled out the menu plan Dr. Mobley had given me. Everything I loved to eat was either forbidden or allowed only in limited amounts. Notes on the menu explained how much fat lurked in butter, cheese and sour cream, and in red meat and canned goods such as soups and sauces. I read how the starches in bread and potatoes break down into sugar. And even the foods I was allowed were measured out in quantities that were a fraction of what I usually ate! In addition, Dr. Mobley had made it clear: This wasn't a temporary diet meant for quick weight loss. I was supposed to eat like this for the rest of my life!

I knew the rest of my life might not be long, and it definitely would not be pleasant, if something didn't change. But the truth was I couldn't change. I wanted a piece of that sour-cream raisin pie! I headed for the kitchen—and ran right into my husband.

He could tell something was up. "So what did the doctor say?" he asked.

"He said"—and now I really was on the verge of tears—"no more pie."

Jerry gathered our sons, Travis, 9, and Shawn, 19, and my parents, who lived nearby, to hear the news and rally to support me. "I need help and big hugs from everybody," I said. But Travis's face puckered as he tried to stretch his arms around me. "Gosh, Mom," he said in frustration. "I'm doing the best I can but I'm just a little kid."

"You can handle this, Patsy," my mother announced with a forced brightness in her voice. She knew my weakness for food better than anyone.

My family did their best to help. They too cut down on fried foods. They went along with low-fat substitutes for butter, sour cream and cheese. They drank low-fat milk and tried not to eat their desserts and other high-calorie foods in front of me. Bless their hearts, they agreed to keep empty-calorie snacks and soft drinks out of the house. Raw vegetables were always cut and ready in the refrigerator. My mother came over and kept popping popcorn, adding no butter or salt, so that I'd have something to eat when I was desperate.