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.