Yes, there are more eloquent ways to express my frustration, but that one, simple phrase really sums it up for me today. I could talk about how I was up before the sun, battling the ridiculous Boston commuter traffic to make it to my 8:30 am Joslin Clinic appointment on time, just so that you could be checked on. (“Checked on,” as if you are going anywhere.) I could mention how the nurse chastised me for being eight minutes late – “You’re on me for eight minutes? I’ve waited multiple hours to see the doctor in the past, and you’re on me for eight minutes.” I could bring up the fact that I ran like hell from the garage over on Pilgrim Street in efforts to be as on-time as possible for my appointment. By the time the took my blood pressure, I was through the roof with anxiety.
Today’s endocrinologist appointment was a disappointment, diabetes. Because you suck. I hate how my A1C hasn’t come down nearly enough to reflect the work I’ve put into managing you. I’m back at the gym with frightening regularity. I’m back up to testing at least ten times per day, and also wearing the Dexcom every day. I change out my infusion sets every three days. I am LOGGING blood sugars, you stupid fool. I’ve lost a little more of that pesky baby weight since my last appointment (down four more pounds). I eat well. I try. I try and try and freaking try, and my A1C is 7.8%.
“This is better than December, when you were at 8.6%,” my endo said. “And since you aren’t having nearly as many lows as you were in the past, this is a truer result. I much prefer you to be more even than to have those sharp spikes and lows. This is going in the right direction.”
Her words soothed me a little bit, but not enough. I want a more solid A1C, one that reflects the work I’ve put into my health. I feel so angry at you, diabetes, for being such a pain in the ass. And a scary one, at that. I want good health. I want a good quality of life. And right now, I’m having a hard time lining those two ideologies up.
Diabetes, you make everything just sticky enough to catch guilt and fear in your fly tape. An early morning drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic for two and a half hours is stressful and frustrating, but you have to go and throw my blood sugar from 106 mg/dl up to 178 mg/dl. For what – for fun? Last night’s workout ended at 111 mg/dl, but then crashed into the 50’s for kicks? Why do you complicate every little moment? Why do you suck so much?
… Wah wah wah much, Kerri? Yes, I’m in wicked wah-wah mode. But I am so mad that my efforts in managing this disease don’t always reflect on paper. I am angry that it’s never truly “good,” but only “good enough.” And I hate being in this state of mind because it contributes to more chaos than calm. For me, being in control of you means being in decent emotional health, and it’s hard to feel emotionally capable of controlling a chronic illness when you can’t quite control your tears. Or your anger. … or both.
Diabetes, you are stupid. You are annoying. You’re a thorn in my side. You frustrate me. You make me create brand-new curse words because the ones that already exist don’t do you justice. You make me cry. You make me pound on the steering wheel of my car like Donkey Kong. You royally piss me off.
But you don’t define me. And you won’t own my whole day. I just want you to know that despite your efforts to screw with me, I’m still here. I’m still trying. And I will kick your ass.