Unfortunately, Nora wasn’t in the mood for grocery shopping either, since she could no longer linger over the selection of biscuits or creamy desserts such as chocolate mousse. But it had to be done if she wanted to eat, which she most certainly did. She was starving: two hard-boiled eggs had been all she’d managed to force down today, and to be fair, even if she’d been hungry at breakfast, there hadn’t been much to choose from since she’d thrown almost everything else away. Wasteful, she knew, but considering she couldn’t eat it, what else was she supposed to do with it? Besides, she typically did her weekly food shop on a Saturday anyway, so her kitchen wasn’t as well stocked as it otherwise might have been.
Nora eyed the contents of her trolley with dismay. So far, it contained an abundance of leafy green vegetables, salad stuff, and berries. Oh, and two sets of weighing scales: one for the kitchen and one for the bathroom, becauseapparentlyshe was going to become one of those people who weighed herself and her food. Oh, and she was also going to be studying the back of everything she bought to check the carb content.
Deep joy.
She was going to be a bundle of laughs on a night out, wasn’t she?
Nora gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Would she be able to have adrink?She loved a glass of wine or a cocktail, but how would alcohol affect her blood glucose? In fact, how wouldanythingshe ate or drank affect it? Because she wasn’t on medication (not yet anyway, and hopefully she wouldn’t be), she hadn’t been provided a way to monitor her glucose levels. Apparently, that’s what some diabetics, especially those on insulin, had to do.
Oh, heck, there was so much she didn’t know and such a lot of conflicting advice out there, that she had no idea which way to turn. There were a few things everyone seemed to agree on though, and the main one was losing weight, but regular exercise and reducing carbs also featured heavily.
Suddenly Nora felt like crying, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears and her chin wobbled.
‘Are you alright, lovie?’ an elderly lady asked, peering at her with concern.
Nora pressed her lips together and sniffed loudly before she gained enough control to say, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it a man?’
That made Nora smile in a wobbly, watery way as she shook her head. ‘I’ve never cried over a man in my life. Well, not since Barney Giles in Year Eleven, but I was only fifteen at the time.’
‘Had some bad news?’ the woman persisted.
It really wasn’t any of her business and Nora had no idea why she told her, but she found herself blurting, ‘I’ve just been told I’ve got diabetes.’
‘Type 1 or Type 2?’
‘Uh, Type 2, I believe.’
‘What are your numbers?’
‘My what?’
‘Your HbA1c, your blood glucose level.’
‘Er, sixty-six, I think the doctor said.’
‘That’s not too bad. Forty-one and under is considered normal, but you can get it down.’
‘So I believe.’ She glanced at the trolley and pulled a face. ‘I’m not looking forward to it. It’s a complete change of lifestyle.’
‘It is, but you can do it. Look at me, I’m seventy-six. I’ve been diabetic for over thirty years and I’m still here. Watching what you eat becomes second nature after a while. I’ve got one word of advice for you – distraction. Whenever you feel like raiding the biscuit tin or shoving the contents of the fridge in your mouth, drink a large glass of water and godosomething. Clean the oven, paint the bathroom, do twenty laps of the living room, take the dog for a walk.’ The woman patted her on the arm. ‘Heed my advice and you’ll be in remission in no time. Good luck, dearie.’
Nora, mouth open in bemusement, watched her toddle off down the dairy aisle. Clean the oven, indeed? Huh! And neither was she going to paint the bathroom (she didn’t do DIY), do laps of the living room (it was a decent sized room, but not big enough to dolapsaround), or take the dog for a walk, because she didn’t have one.
There must besomethingshe could do, she mused as she followed the old woman towards the cheese selection, but right now, she had no idea what.
Nora was currently eating a late lunch whilst trying to think what form of exercise she could do. Swimming? Uh, no. It would ruin her hair.
Go to the gym? she grimaced. She’d never been one for pounding away on a treadmill or getting a sore backside from sitting on a pedal machine.
Staring into space, her eyes narrowed as she went through her options, she tried not to think about the chicken salad she was ploughing her way through. The chicken part was quite nice – she’d grilled it with some seasoning out of a jar that she’d sprinkled over it. It was the salad part she was struggling with. Talk about uninspiring! And her jaw ached from all the chewing and crunching she was having to do. It was worse than eating nut brittle toffee.
Oh, don’t,she groaned silently. It was best not to think about forbidden delights such astoffee.
Depressed, she shovelled another forkful of mixed salad leaves into her mouth and munched despondently as her thoughts returned to the problem of exercise.
How about outdoor cycling as opposed to cycling in the gym, she debated, then wrinkled her nose. Not only would she have to buy a bike, she’d have to be prepared to go out in all weathers, and she knew what she was like. She was lazy when it came to exercise. If she lived far enough away from the salon to warrant cycling to it, that might be an incentive, but it only took her seven minutes to walk to work.
