A Jamaican Experience: Living with Diabetes

By: Baron Stewart

For most of my young life, I was healthy. The only incident that ever hinted at trouble was when I fainted during my speech at RCDS graduation. My mother, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. She struggled with many health issues, the most significant being diabetes. I watched her wrestle with it for years, but I gave little thought to the idea that I might inherit the same condition.

I was skinny my entire life, no matter how much I ate. When I first came to live with my mother, she smiled at me and said, “I’m going to put some meat on those bones.” That was her plan, but my body had other ideas.

Fast forward to my mid-forties. I didn’t have a family doctor—I never thought I needed one. But then I started noticing I was urinating all the time and feeling unusually tired. I decided to go to the local clinic in Whittier, California, where I lived. I told them about my symptoms, and they checked my blood sugar.

“600,” the healthcare attendant said.

I blinked. “Is that high?”

He looked at me like I had just asked whether the water was wet. “Yes. It’s high. I’ve never seen it higher.”

I had no clue back then that regular fasting blood sugar should be between 70 and 99 mg/dL. The attendant rushed to get the doctor, and a few minutes later, the doctor came running in, face tight with panic. “Go directly to the hospital,” he said. “Don’t go home. Go now!”

I knew something was off, but I didn’t feel sick—just tired. So, I drove myself to the hospital about a mile away. As soon as I walked into the ER, an attendant barked at me, “Get in!” pointing to a wheelchair.

That was the first sign I might be in real trouble. They whisked me into a room, and suddenly, I was surrounded—by needles, monitors, and blood pressure cuffs. Everyone was quiet, focused, urgent.

Then they told me my blood sugar wasn’t 600. That was just the limit of the clinic’s meter. My actual blood sugar was 750 mg/dL. I was on the verge of a major diabetic crisis.

They gave me insulin, and my body responded immediately. My blood sugar started dropping, and I realized, for the first time, that diabetes had found me too.

That was the first emergency. It wasn’t the last.

Years later, I was in Jamaica on New Year’s Eve, showing a friend around Negril Beach and reminiscing about my life there. We passed a beach bar, and I said, “Ahh! I want some Jamaican Rum Punch.” It’s a delightful drink—but I wouldn’t recommend it to diabetics. I drank it anyway.

We continued our walk along the beach. My friend spotted someone braiding hair and decided to get hers done. I sat down in a lounge chair to relax. That was the last thing I remembered.

I heard my name being screamed from somewhere far away. I opened my eyes to see my friend’s panicked face hovering over me. She had been shaking me, but I wouldn’t wake up. I mumbled, “Give me some insulin.” She did. I became more alert, but I couldn’t walk. She called a taxi, and the driver and my friend took an arm and half-carried me to the cab.

By the time we got back to the house, I was a little better—just in time to vomit all over the back seat of the taxi. But at least I could walk inside. It was a rough night, but I lived to tell the tale.

The next episode happened in Clifton Park, New York, where I lived for a while. There was a Japanese restaurant I loved. The owner would pour me a bottle of sake on the house whenever I came in. It became our ritual, and I always looked forward to it.

One afternoon, I sat at the bar, hungry and waiting for my meal. I took a sip of sake and suddenly felt a buzzing sound. Yes, I felt it, not heard it. I remember thinking, “What was that?” And then—nothing.

I fell headfirst off the barstool. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I have no idea how long I was in that state, but the next thing I remember was being loaded into an ambulance. While driving, I woke up and asked the attendant what was happening.

“You’re having a heart attack,” he said.

I didn’t panic. I felt fine. It wasn’t a heart attack. It was a low blood sugar crash, but I guess to them, all the signs pointed in another direction. I just hoped they’d figure it out soon enough. Spoiler alert: they did.

The most recent episode was last year in Cascais, Portugal. I was out with my friend Polina, enjoying wine, music, and laughter in a crowded bar. Polina went to the bathroom, and I sat in my chair, feeling perfectly fine.

And then I didn’t.

I suddenly felt drunk—way too intoxicated for the little I had—and slowly passed out. Polina returned, saw me slumped in the chair, and called an ambulance. I woke up in the hospital.

And now, for a bit of comic relief.

I woke in the emergency room and saw a nurse taking my vitals. Polina was there, and she asked if I was okay. I told her I was fine, and she headed home. I drifted back to sleep.

Sometime later, I felt someone moving my leg around. I figured it was a nurse doing nurse things. But then this person started tickling my leg—something I didn’t think was part of any standard medical procedure.

I opened my eyes. Sitting in my hospital bed was an attractive older white woman, playing with my legs like we were old friends.

A doctor happened to walk by at that exact moment. I said, completely deadpan, “Doctor, there seems to be an unscheduled nurse in my bed.”

He did a double take, realized what was happening, and barked, “Get back in your bed!”
Two nurses rushed over and escorted the mystery woman—it turns out she was another patient—back to her room. I lay back in bed, shaking my head, thinking, only me.

These moments—some scary, some strange, some downright funny—are all part of my life with diabetes. It’s a constant balancing act, and while I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, I’ve learned to navigate it with patience, a lot of humor, and the knowledge that you never really know what will happen next.

What I’ve Learned

I was 45 years old when I was first diagnosed with diabetes. In the beginning, I managed it by running five miles a day. That exercise was enough to keep me healthy—for a while. But as I aged, I realized that running alone wasn’t cutting it. My body had changed, and I had to change with it.

Looking back at each episode I’ve experienced, there’s one common theme: alcohol. Every single time I had a major diabetic crisis, alcohol was involved. As a direct response, I no longer drink any alcohol. That’s been the most significant change I’ve made. I don’t miss it. The trade-off is worth it.

For some unknown reason, I’ve always handled these situations calmly. I never panicked, not once. But I’ve also come to understand something critical: I woke up the three previous times. I may not wake up the next time. That realization changed me. Now, I am vigilant in how I manage my diabetes.

I wear a continuous glucose monitor—the FreeStyle Libre—to monitor my blood sugar levels at any time. If I feel something is off, I check. I act quickly. And I no longer take unnecessary risks. The days of assuming I’m invincible are over.

After the first incident, I was weak and confused. I didn’t understand what diabetes was or how to manage it. Today, I know exactly what to do, and I do it. My family was shocked when they first heard about my diagnosis, but their biggest concern wasn’t just for me. It was whether this would happen to them. That’s how diabetes works—it runs in families, quietly waiting for the next person who’s not paying attention.

My biggest lesson is this: diabetes can be managed, but you have to take the responsibility to manage it. It won’t manage itself. You can’t hand it off to someone else.

Most diabetic emergencies revolve around low blood sugar. More often than not, the person doesn’t need complicated treatment; they need a glass of orange juice. Simple. But people don’t know this. Most people know very little about diabetes. And I believe they should—especially the children of people with diabetes. They need to understand what they might face and how to prevent it.

Oh—and that woman in my hospital bed? I think she was curious. Maybe she had never been that close to a Black man and wanted to touch me. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. But as I watched her sitting there, playing with my legs, I also realized something else: if the tables were turned, if I were in her bed, touching her legs, I’d probably be in handcuffs. That’s a fact.

Final Thought

Diabetes is unpredictable. One day, you’re okay, sipping wine with friends in Cascais. The next, you wake up in a hospital bed with a stranger tickling your feet.

But life goes on. You learn. You adapt. You survive—and if you’re lucky, you find some humor.