One More Bite

“Should I take one more bite?” Cara asked herself. A moment’s hesitation, then, “Okay, I think one more bite won’t hurt.” And she took another bite of the red velvet cheesecake. She looked around the pantry. No one was there. No one was watching. No one heard her, or so she thought.

Unbeknown to her, the millions – or even trillions – of cells and organs in her body were listening. They were communicating. And they were going haywire.

The gastric smooth muscle cells were the first to react. “What did she say? One more bite! We’re already fully stretched to capacity!”

“Oh, how could you say that?” The taste buds asked sweetly. They drooled as Cara chewed. “Food is such heaven! There was the crazy meatball pasta and the garlic bread, then the baked salmon, barbecue wings -”

“Everything just passed me by, but the cool fizz of the soda was worth remembering...” The pharynx interrupted dreamily.

But the taste buds didn’t seem to notice as they continued. “– And now, the red velvet cheesecake! But, of course, before that, we had a little taste of Hershey’s chocolate brownie ice cream! Oh, such delight!”

The digestive enzymes in the stomach glowered. “Hey, buddies! Do you know how many extra hours that’s gonna cost us? We don’t enjoy working overtime as you do!” They shouted angrily.

The taste buds scowled and retorted, “It’s not our fault that our pleasure signals are faster than your stop signals!”

“Oh, but we did send stop signals! Cara just won’t listen to us!” The gastric smooth muscle cells wailed in agony as they remembered how Cara disregarded their warning.

Josh, Cara’s office-mate who was having his birthday party, had offered her more pasta. “Thanks, Josh, but I’m actually quite full.” Cara had said, rubbing her stomach.

“Have some dessert then!” Josh said eagerly. “There’s lots of ice cream and cake!”

And at that moment, the gastric smooth muscle cells knew that they already lost the fight. A light switch turned on in Cara’s brain. Dessert had always been her favourite part of any meal.

“There’s always room for dessert! Thanks, Josh!” Cara said happily, and she reached out for the ice cream.

Now, the gastric smooth muscle cells growled at the brain cells. “Why do you have to turn that switch on every time the word ‘dessert’ comes, Brain?”

“Wh – what? Did we hear… brain? We’re a – little - fuzzy right now...” The brain cells said sluggishly. “Must be… sugar… rush.”

The eyelids fluttered heavily. “Uh-huh…”

“But… it’s not – time to sleep.” The brain cells said.

Back at her desk, Cara turned on Spotify and put on her earphones. She chose the 90s Rock Anthems playlist to fight the drowsiness trying to overcome her. If it were the weekend, she would have gladly succumbed to her siesta time, but it was only Wednesday and she had a lot of work to do. She opened her laptop and bobbed her head as Blink 182’s All the Small Things played on Spotify.

The auditory nerve cells seemed to be doing magic on the brain. “How are we going to use all the sugar?” The brain cells now asked, energised.

“We’d like to help you with that, Brain, but Cara hates moving around as much as she loves food.” The skeletal muscles said sadly.

The liver yawned lazily. “I’m always here for storage.” It said matter-of-factly.

The fat cells, on the other hand, jumped up and down gleefully. “Storage, you say? We’re here to help! We loooove to proliferate!”

The brain cells were now back at their game of problem-solving. They tapped every possible resource. “Insulin! Come out here and help us!” They yelled.

Insulin grumpily got out of its resting place in the pancreas. “Don’t I have time to rest?! I haven’t even recovered from the weekend buffets!” It complained. Nevertheless, insulin did its job for a few more days. Until it heard Cara once again say, “One more bite.”

“Again, and again and again!” Insulin scoffed. “I’m overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated! I quit!!”

The red blood cells gasped in horror. Sugar was particularly clingy to them. How can they manage without insulin? But the brain cells were master troubleshooters. “Nephrons, you are our last resort.” They said resolutely.

The kidney cells were indignant. “But that is not part of our job! We’re not supposed to excrete sugar!”

“Please, Nephrons. We need your help.” The red blood cells pleaded.

“Fine!” The kidney cells acceded with resentment. “Don’t we have enough toxins to excrete!” They huffed.

While the cells and organs argued, the diabetes gene was having a good laugh. It was hiding in chromosome 20 and was eager to express itself. “Keep it up, Cara,” The diabetes gene said. It sat back to watch the events turn in its favor.

At another birthday party, “One more bite...”

At a summer outing, “One more bite…”

At a college reunion, “One more bite…”

Two months later, the diabetes gene anticipated its big break. “Finally! My time has come!” It whispered excitedly. All of the body’s cells were silent – silent enough to hear Cara’s conversation with her doctor.

“Do you have any relatives with diabetes?” The doctor asked.

Cara counted them off with her fingers. “My dad, both of my grandmothers, aunts, uncles…”

“I see.” The doctor nodded. “Your glycosylated hemoglobin test result is borderline at 6.3.”

“Which means?”

“Glycosylated hemoglobin is the amount of glucose or sugar, that clings to the hemoglobin in red blood cells for 2 to 3 months.” The doctor explained. “A value of 6.5 is a marker for diabetes. At this point, I would classify you as pre-diabetic. I suggest some lifestyle modifications, like diet and exercise.”

The diabetes gene dejectedly slumped back in its hiding place at Chromosome 20. “I was almost there!” It cried in frustration.

At 30 years old, Cara was overweight, pre-hypertensive, and pre-diabetic. As she sat in the doctor’s clinic, she remembered all of the “one-more-bites” she took over the years. They didn’t hurt then, but they sure attacked surreptitiously. Could she still reverse their effects?