The skin on my thumb is too tough, so I never stick my thumb. I haven’t the heart to use my pinky – it looks far too much like a child for me to sacrifice it. The one time I used my index finger, a bruise bloomed before I lifted the lancet. So my left middle and ring fingers are chosen over and over and over. I wonder if my fingerprint will change from this?
I am afraid to eat, I don’t yet understand the whims of what will spike my blood sugar and what won’t. This diagnosis is a new sweater and I’m not sure I like the way it feels, the yarn is still coated with newness, it hasn’t yet adapted to my form. It doesn’t smell like me.
In statistics class, the professor is using an example of how to determine which of two golfers is better. He blocks them so that they have a random daily draw as to who will golf in the morning and who will golf in the afternoon. This is to ensure that each player is exposed to the same conditions at the course. I raise my hand.
“Why don’t they both play at the same time?”
I understand the concept. But the example is too flawed.
My doctor asks, “Well, did you expect this?”
I shrug, “Probably.”
She’s seen me through the last four years, my life crumbling like bleu cheese. I put it back together again, but she knows that bleu cheese is always a bit moldy and that I do not take care of myself because there are kids, two jobs, a house, a yard, other family, and now classes.
“You’ve got this.”
She said the same thing when she ordered a biopsy of a lymph node in my neck. Everything was fine then, everything will be fine now. It’s just one more thing.
147, two hours post-meal
The ocean hasn’t swallowed my home. My pregnant spouse hasn’t been diagnosed with aggressive cancer. I have all of my teeth. I don’t have a criminal record. My kids delight me even as they stomp all over me making wine for bedtime bacchanalia. I have everything I need, for which I spill gratitude.
I do not deserve the right to cry out to the heavens. This is a situation mainly of my own making. Did I really think I could just eat with impunity when I was hungry and bored and lonely and up all night working? Did I believe that genetics and inertia and needling stress would leave me unscathed? Apparently, I did.
And just like everything on my plate – no, my platter – I’ve got this.