Plan of “Oh Crap”

“I’m looking for a pattern here,” the doctor says as she shuffles my papers.  “You don’t have a pattern.”

Not news I want to hear from my doctor.  Nor the frustrated breathing as she tries to decipher my blood sugar numbers to formulate a plan of attack.

No luck today.  There’s never any.  There’s never going to be.

“Plan of attack” isn’t a very good description.  “Stalling plan” would be more appropriate.  Finding a way to allow this disease to destroy me slower.  That way they can get a few more visits out of my wallet. 

“I’ll close the door for you this time,” says the angry nurse.

Sorry honey, I’m paying a hundred and thirty bucks to be here.  You can close the door that you fucking opened.  I’m paying to be here; I’m here as a client, a patient, not as a gentleman.

It’s not that I can’t be, it’s just that I hate you.

My flustered doctor wouldn’t even give me a donation for the Diabetes Walk.  What kind of shit is that?  I understand that curing this disease would effectively put her out of a job, but, c’mon, you’re supposed to at least feign interest.  Some pretend goodwill is all I ask.

My mother once said she had a choice when I was diagnosed.  The doctors told her she could give me numerous daily injections or let me die.  She said that since I was too young at the time (I was four) to choose for myself, she made the choice she thought I’d want.

I always feel bad when I remember this conversation.  Not because I question or disagree with her decision.  I love my life and am glad she did what she did.

Yet whenever I think about the choice I would make if I was in her place, I know it wouldn’t be the same.  I’d happily explain to a judge that I let my child die naturally, rather than trap him with my life.

I hate this disease that much.

People always tell me, “but you’re doing fine!”  No, I’m working really hard at making it appear fine.  There’s nothing “fine” about being a human pincushion. 

Sometimes I suspect I make it look too damn easy.  Leave it to me, the one talent I have is making dying look pleasurable. 

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