Taking Care
I am no stranger to health care appointments. As a person with diabetes, I’m accustomed to making a bunch of important doctor appointments and then keeping them, mostly out of the fear of what will happen if I don’t go. Will my legs fall off if I don’t see my endocrinologist? Will my teeth fall out if I don’t visit my dentist? Will my hair fall out if I don’t keep my appointment with the hair stylist?
Clearly I have some high-octane concerns about things just falling off my body.
This morning, I had to follow through on an appointment for a breast ultrasound. I go regularly for mammograms, but every time I receive a letter in the mail stating that my breast tissue is dense and I need to follow up with an ultrasound. This, in combination with the lymph node lump I found two years ago (was ultimately nothing to worry about but I still worried) makes me very on top of my breast health.
(Note: The “dense tissue” notification always causes Chris and I to make jokes about my not-very-smart breasts. Dense. “Duuuuuuh.”)
I went into my appointment at the hospital on time, wearing my black N95 mask and not wearing any deodorant. The ultrasound technician asked me to undress from the waist down, leaving the gown open in the front. When she returned for the exam, I lay down on the table and went through the necessary patient motions.
“Can you remove your arm from the gown sleeve, please?”
“Sure thing. Does it matter if I have an insulin pump attached to this arm? Do you need me to disconnect for this exam?”
“No, that’s fine. It’s fine for you to wear it.” She began the exam. “My father has type 1 diabetes. He’s 71 years old. He was diagnosed when he was 12.”
“No kidding? How’s he doing now?”
She moved the ultrasound wand around as she talked, and I could feel her choosing her words carefully. “He’s doing really well. He’s had some heart issues, but he didn’t take care of himself very well when he was younger,” she said.
The blame assigned to diabetes complications is a heavy weight, and even heavier when you hear someone’s daughter telling you about it.
“He smoked. As a kid,” she continued. “He started when he was around 15 and he didn’t stop until after he was 40, once he needed open heart surgery. So he should have been better to his body in that way. Smoking is terrible for you.”
She wiped the wand off and asked me to cover up again, as the examination was over. “He goes to the Joslin Clinic for his care. He tries really hard to stay healthy. They gave him a medal when he hit 50 years with diabetes. He’s part of a study there, looking at long timers with diabetes.” Her voice sounded proud. “He’s also donating his body for research after he dies, because he wants to continue to help.”
“Also, your ultrasound is clear. Everything looks good!”
“Thanks. My best to your dad,” I said.
She smiled warmly. “And to your kids.”
She sounded really proud of her father. Proud of what he’s dealt with and overcome and worked through, as a father and a man with diabetes. I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, picturing my kids when they’re older, hoping they know I always kept trying.