My First Meal

Somewhat similar to a death row prisoner planning his last meal, I planed what I would eat as my first repast after my transplant. I had enough time to think of it. I had thirty plus years as an insulin dependent diabetic and eleven and a half months on the waiting list waiting for my pager to sound alerting me that a donor had been found.

Of course I had eaten sugary foods in the interim. When I was human, and ate like I was a normal person, I could never truly enjoy what ever guilt ridden goody I was sneaking. And the after math of being nauseous and tired sucked the joy right out of eating it.

There were times, when my blood sugar was to low, that I had to eat sweets. But it was hard to savor or enjoy any decadence when hypoglycemic. A big glass of orange juice laced with extra sugar was the old stand by staple when my blood sugar bottomed out, and I could no longer function enough to chew. The times I would slip into a diabetic shock, often in the middle of the night, I would return to conscious on my bedroom floor soaked in the sugar thicken juice. My husband just didn't have it in him to inject me with the emergency glycogen shot which would enable my body to release it's own sugar stored in my liver to save my life. Instead, he pour the juice, sometimes by the tablespoon in my mouth. Most of it would land on my neck and in my hair if I was in a grand mal seizure. I was always frightened I would choke to death or drown instead of dyeing of insulin overdose. As much and often as I told him I felt nothing at that point, he could just not poke me with a needle. I, on the other hand just couldn't drink orange juice anymore.

When I realized I would be able to eat normal for the first time in my life, I started making lists. I wanted Snickers bars. Then I changed it to ice cream sundays with brownies. Carmel popcorn. Then I wanted all the wonderful deserts my Mum had to stop baking once I was diagnosed. Strawberry Fluff. Poppy Seed Cake. Wild blueberry pie. All good. I wanted them all. My top choice changed daily. It was boggling for me, I just couldn't make up my mind.

At about month eleven, four week before they were going to take me off the waiting list, I finally had my answer of the one supreme taboo victual. I wanted a tall glass of orange juice, no added sugar.

Unfortunately, after my procedure, I felt so bad, I never wanted to eat again. My dinner tray would come and the nurses would try coaxing me to eat. "Come on Munkay, you gotta eat. You need to feed your new cells." For the first two days, I sent my trays back untouched.

Once I stared to come around and was able to look at the food, I realized I was on an even stricter diet that before. I was well versed in the carb counting and exchange meal plans, but now I was low glycemic diet as well. Good by potatoes, breads and rice. When they brought me chocolate ice cream, I thought it was a cruel joke? "Was this a mistake? There's ice cream on here?"

It's ok now. I will always watch what I eat, as not to tax and overload my new cells. I can eat a piece of cheese cake with less negative consequences than a rice ball. I still can't choke down orange juice, spiked with added guilt or not. Oh well.