“You know what they say,” I intoned. “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Margaret snorted. There was no way I could interpret that as agreement. And she’s a professional. I looked up and listened.

“That’s just not true. Or not often. It’s kind of like child abductions – way less common than you’d think. When a kid gets snatched it makes the news. All the kids who are safe at home and school are not interesting to the viewers. So yeah, sometimes a victim survives and triumphs and is stronger and wiser for the experience. But most of the time, especially nowadays, abuse leads to psychological disability. At least.”

“But I…”

“Yeah. You were one of the lucky ones. And then wasn’t now.”

“That sounds negative,” I said. “Are you sure you aren’t falling into Hendersonism?”

Margaret chuckled before responding. “Hendersonism” is our name for the condition that occurs when a specialist has been in her field for so long that she begins to see everyone through the warped lens of her own experience. We named it for Jack Henderson, an OB/Gyn I used to know who was a fertility specialist. He was a business client of mine and he once told me that no woman over 40 should even attempt to conceive a child. He seemed oblivious, even after I mentioned it, to the fact that only women who had trouble conceiving were consulting him.

“I don’t think my perspective is skewed,” Margaret responded. “I’m just saying that most abuse victims don’t develop the strength to, for lack of a better phrase, rise above. The few who do, become noteworthy. And I’m convinced the few are getting farther between. We live in a sick society growing sicker.”

“Wow. Them’s fighting words. Let’s walk.”

Margaret and I grew our friendship out of the therapy room. She was the best and therefore last of my son’s child psychologists; when his therapy was concluded (a radical concept) and we retreated from the regular appointments, the empty space slowly filled with dinners and walks and talks as she and I got to know one another and grew close. We shared an interest in health that made us compatible about exercise, fiber, and certain nonfiction books. In fact, our walk destination yesterday was the nearby bookstore, one of the last independently owned shops in our region.

I worked in a bookstore when I was in college. It was my favorite job ever, although it paid minimum wage and was not a sustainable career. I had to leave it for the financial district, but I never lost my love of bookstore environments. So I mourn the death of the industry. I hold my Kindle with uncramped hands and mixed feelings. In the same way that I was compelled to get a cell phone because telephone booths disappeared, the extinction of bookstores forced me to acquire an e-reader and shop Amazon.

“So what about the heroic stories?” I resumed when we got to the sidewalk. “Just last week I read about an abuse survivor who is scoring big time as a motivational speaker.”

“One in a million.”

“Me, too?” I can’t describe my childhood as abusive exactly, but a combination of circumstances created an environment wherein my needs were not met. My mother had no time or patience for me, and was contending with her own undiagnosed depression, and my father, sometimes an amazing loving guide, was generally too busy with his work and too trusting that Mom knew what she was doing. I’d gotten a deep perspective on my own childhood while peripherally participating in Alex’s therapy, and I’d slowly, miraculously learned that (1) I was blameless and (2) it was too late for Mom to mother me but there was a way I could mother myself.

“You too. I’ve never met anyone like you. People think you’re all about intelligence, and sure you have that, but your strongest qualities are extreme willfulness and kindness.”

I basked. Immodestly, I agreed with her. And I treasured her for noticing the kind part of me.

I found Margaret through my best friend Mellie. I needed a therapist for my little boy, and Mellie has had an (adult) lifetime of it. She’s well connected in the community. I’ve got my doubts about her guy (who doesn’t have critical observations about her best friend’s therapist?), but I can’t forget he connected us to Margaret, who helped Alex thrive (and incidentally me too), and then became a friend.

Mellie also knows endocrinologists. She presented with Type 1 diabetes when we were 35, and I was assigned my customary role (established shortly after we met and became college roommates) of reading the science. So I’m not unfamiliar with the pluses and minuses about insulin, and was therefore conversant, halfway to the bookstore, when Margaret opened the subject.

“Most people don’t realize it’s a hormone,” she began. “Sure it serves a vital purpose, but based on the reading I’ve been doing, I’m convinced that a huge part of our culture’s problem is that we’re all OD’ing on it…”

“But how could that be? I mean, except for people like Mellie, who inject it – did I ever tell you about the time I tried to kill her with it? I’m joking of course, but we were away at a weekend spa, and she didn’t bring her cheaters to the dining room and asked me to draw up three units for her. I wasn’t used to the needle calibration and pulled 30 units instead. Haphazard Mellie plunged the needle into her thigh before she realized what I’d done.

“Talk about an emergency situation! I ran for the orange juice while the staff called the ambulance. Poor woman had to spend the whole day on a glucose drip.”

“Shit,” Margaret commented. “That was probably harder on you than on her.” I nodded. “No: we’re almost all getting too much insulin. Do you realize that average sugar consumption has gone from like 35 pounds per person per year, when we were born, to over 140 pounds per person per year now? All that sugar means huge glucose loads in our bloodstream, which require huge insulin responses. Not to mention the other ingredient in sugar: unmitigated fructose to stress the liver and add fat to the system.”

An invisible lightbulb flared above my brain as I made a connection. “Wow,” I said. “I remember the only and best big long-term study about what causes complications in people with Type I. The conclusion linked all the problems to high insulin levels…”

“Yeaaaa-uh. And guess what? Folks on high-carb, low fat diets (meaning: people with high serum insulin levels) experience notably more depression and suicidal ideation.”

“Which is known to be prevalent among insulin injectors, too!”

“Worse than all that: insulin promotes cell growth, including cancer cells and brain plaque. It tells the body to store everything but glucose as fat, and then makes the brain crave more glucose. I used to subscribe to the standard assumption that obesity is self-induced: a matter of poor choices. Now I see it as broken metabolism. True disability. Reversible, but not easily. Especially when like 98% of food sold to us is laced with added sugars.”

“This is sounding bad.”

“Un huh. You have to check out some of the books I’ve been reading. It started for me with Teicholz’s Big Fat Surprise. All about how “science” has been lying to us since WWII. That wiped most of the knowledge I thought I had out of my head. Then I did Lustig’s Fat Chance. He sent me looking for Yudkin’s Pure, White & Deadly, which was billed as hard-to-find (written and suppressed in the 1970s), but was a one-click purchase on Amazon. Let’s find one or more of those titles today. I’ll soon have you off sugar and refined carbs, too.”

“How is it, off sugar?”

“Easy. I was prepared for an adjustment period of two to four weeks, but after decades of reserving calories for a little fine chocolate every night, it was like I was done with it. Never looked back. Don’t want it. Here we are.”

We turned into the bookstore doorway. It was pleasant in there, with a comfortable small crowd of browsers and good natural light. But we didn’t find any of the books. There was one about gluten and brain disease, but Margaret told me to stay away from it unless I wanted to fill my shelves with supplements.

We were discouraged but not surprised to come up empty. We knew we’d have to turn to Amazon. The deck is stacked so many ways.

I like to think I’m an alert, focused person, but what happened next humbled me. It didn’t kill me, but I don’t think it made me stronger either. As we exited the bookstore, mumbling together about being forced online, an elderly driver accelerated toward us. I saw the SUV angling from the street toward the tile and glass storefront, I understood somehow that the geometry was wrong, but I didn’t react physically. It was Margaret who got it. She yanked me toward the street about two seconds before the front of the car smashed into the store. The impact shattered the glass and even took a big chunk out of the tile.

We’re okay. One pedestrian had a leg broken and two store customers were hit by flying glass. The driver, a man in his 80s, had not had a medical event. We heard that he confused the accelerator for the brake and then panic-reacted by yanking the wheel the wrong way.

The adrenaline dissipation was uncomfortable. But appropriate. And far better than too much insulin.