I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my dad this week. He would have turned 72 earlier this week.

My dad was a diabetic, just like me; the big difference (well, me and my dad had a huge amount of differences, but this one just regarding our disease) is that he never knew he was.

My dad was 65 when he had a massive stroke early Christmas Morning 2002. My mother woke me up to say they were going to take the ambulance to the emergency room because he wasn’t feeling well.

I never saw my dad conscious again. He died within three weeks.

One of the things we learned about dad when he was sick was that he had diabetes. We never knew because he would never go to the doctor. He considered himself healthy, and the reality is he almost never missed a day of work before he retired. He was, among many things, a workaholic. But that dedication to work didn’t mean he was healthy, it just meant he kept going to work.

It also brought forth one of the truths about diabetics (as well as hypertensives): a lot of times, they feel fine; in fact, treating them may make them feel worse, since their bodies are used to high blood sugar or high blood pressure and lowering those makes them feel weak. My dad probably felt fine.

In a way, my diabetes is a gift from dad. That doesn’t sound flattering, but it is: my guess is that having diabetes helped me turn my health around. If I didn’t get diagnosed, I’d probably still be obese and not doing a whole lot for my health.

Happy birthday, dad.