Here's Some Advice...

I look for advice when I feel myself sinking - I seek it out. When my mom was dying, and then after she died, I read a LOT online in cancer support forums and in books about prayer during grief (ironically enough, books I inherited from Mom's bookshelves). I read hymns. I read Luther and the Bible and the Creeds.

Mostly, though, I just leaned. I leaned heavily on those around me. I leaned into writing about the pain and how my faith was struggling to survive. I leaned into food - LOTS of food. I eventually leaned back into prayer as I somehow figured out how to trust God again.

Many who knew me then didn't try to offer advice on how to grieve. They know I've had lots of loss in my life and so grief is something that feels almost like that old friend that I don't want to see ever again - and yet - there it is, showing its face again. Many who knew me then were simply present - they simply walked with me: holding me when I cried, listening when I screamed, offering prayers beyond number and comfort beyond measure.

It was powerful.

So, now I have diabetes, and suddenly, it feels like many in my life are Experts. Advice comes from every direction: well-meaning ones - all sharing what they either know to be true from their own experience (including those with diabetes themselves), or what they've read about diabetes in some hack magazine, or what their cousin Joe's experience with diabetes was in 1947, and everything. in. between.

People. I love you. Notice the words "well-meaning" above. Please notice those words. I know you mean well. 

But really, I've been overweight since I was ten years old. I've been on and off diets, eating plans, and exercise plans for many years of my life. There's an old saying: "I've lost hundreds of pounds in my life!" I have. Some have come back. Others have stayed away. But really, I know what it takes.

And this struggle - just like someone's grief - is not one you will be able to fix for me. It isn't one you'll be able to advise away, like some kind of problem at work or an issue with a boyfriend. It's one I must simply accept, and then care for in the best ways I know how.

I do not walk alone. I absolutely do not. And what has been most helpful in the almost-two-months since my diagnosis is the presence of those who simply have listened and prayed. Those who have laughed with me, or have cried with me. Those who have asked questions, in order to learn how to be helpful. Those who have offered loving words and support.

So, here's some advice for you...

Just listen.

Just be there.

Laugh or cry with me.

Ask questions, if you have them.

Offer answers or advice when I ask.

Pray for me.

Love me.

And loving me may mean watching me make some mistakes. Loving me may mean that I'm going to do some things that don't seem right in your eyes. Loving me may take more energy than simply giving me advice.

But love me anyway.

Because - here's the thing:

I. love. you.

The Road to Finding a Doctor

I was diagnosed last month with Type 2 Diabetes. I'm relatively new to the area in which we now live, and so one of the tasks they gave me when I was released from the hospital was to find a new PCP. Wanting to stay nearby, I requested from the hospital referrals nearby. Problem is, in asking for a referral from someone who didn't really know me, I was ignoring my gut instinct to throw out convenience and listen to those who know me really well, and were suggesting their own doctors.

Dutifully, I began the meds they prescribed me out the door of the hospital. Dutifully, I took a full week off of work to recuperate. Dutifully, I began monitoring every bite, and checking my blood sugar several times a day.

Hubby journeyed with me as I fought my roller coastering blood sugar to get all the supplies I needed to take care of myself. Alcohol swabs? Check. Glucose monitor? Check. Test strips (HOLY CRAP THEY ARE EXPENSIVE)? Check. It all was new, and yet I attacked it like I attack lots of new things: methodically, step-by-step, with lots of reading and consulting with others.

The next thing I dutifully accomplished was to call the doctor's office referred by the hospital to establish a relationship with a PCP. I wanted to - I'd been ignoring symptoms too long and wanted to control this newly-diagnosed disease. I needed to - the scripts from the hospital were short-term. And so, to my new doctor I went, tra-la, tra-la.

I was still weary. I was still absorbing this diagnosis and all it means. Hell, I was still trying to put together that the 35-pound weight loss I'd experienced over a year's time was largely because of the diabetes, which is ironic since one of the first things they tell you is...to. lose. weight.

I'll note here that my weight has been a struggle for almost my whole life. I am so aware of watching what I eat that I do it without even thinking anymore because so much of my life, I've been on this diet or that plan. If you think overweight people don't think about what they eat - you are mistaken. We spend lots of time thinking about it, guilting over it, wanting to "do the right thing" and "failing."

I just turned 40, and I had finally reached a point in my life where I had silenced almost all those voices in my head. The funny thing is, I actually had started eating better quality food than ever before, and monitoring my portions more - actually stopping before I felt full, for instance. I was happier with my body image, especially when I started losing weight last year (which we attributed to certain lifestyle changes).

So, into the doctor I went, and she pretty firmly pooped all over all my mental progress. She was pretty condescending, assuming that I didn't know anything about diabetes or dieting or watching carbs. She assumed that because I'm in a helping career, I don't know how to take care of myself. She rolled her eyes when I told her what meds the hospital had prescribed, calling into question everything they had even told me about diabetes.

It was so discouraging.

I determined pretty quickly that I didn't think this relationship was going to work, but I made a follow-up appointment for six weeks later. I was trying to be generous - maybe she was having a particularly pissy day. Maybe I was. Maybe the next time would be better.

Except the next time was this morning, and instead of being better, it was much, much worse.

I had pretty dutifully followed her instructions and had logged 98% of every bite I had consumed over six weeks. Every good choice, every slip-up. I logged every blood glucose reading, even the scary high ones. How can she help if I'm not honest?

She spent time reading, and her first comment was to question a breakfast sandwich I order at Starbucks. The thing is, I've looked up the nutritional info. I've compared the fat vs. carbs of their menu, and have come down on this one sandwich as a good compromise when I need more protein. The other thing is that I used to eat one of their sandwiches that was much worse, both in terms of fat AND carbs. So, I've made some progress.

She continued reading. We discussed that sushi throws my numbers up like crazy. I told her I was going to work that out - I am working it out, actually. I've totally changed what I order, and will keep trying until I figure out what works. I used to eat something tempura fried (WHOA CARBS) and now I don't. So, I've made some progress.

I told her that I don't sit down and eat huge bowls of ice cream anymore. In fact, I've quit ice cream almost cold turkey (haha). When I want something cold and sweet, I eat a frozen yogurt bar or similar, and feel satisfied. The fact that I haven't eaten a huge bowl of ice cream in six weeks is HUGE for me. So, I've made some progress.

Unfortunately for me, she was unable to see my progress. She was unable to comment on my progress at all. She pretty firmed pooped all over my progress once again today, so much so that I left the office in tears and cried all the way to Starbucks. I had been fasting, after all, and coffee and food were needed, and yes, I ordered that damn breakfast sandwich, so THERE. I then cried all the way home.

I cried until Hubby, standing in our kitchen, about to leave for work, insisted that I tell him about the appointment. He listened, appalled, and then left the room. When he came back, he put down his PCP's business card in front of me. And then he gave me a hug and a sympathetic noise before heading out the door to work.

It was exactly what I needed.

I called his doctor's office today, but not before I had called my insurance company to make sure I could change PCPs and visit the new one without a bunch of hassle. (To be honest, even if they had said, "Yes, there will be colossal hassle," I still would be changing...because of all. the. drama.) I called his doctor's office, suffered through horrid hold music and a canned voice telling me how important my call was to them, and made an appointment for next week.

Because - here's the deal: diabetes is not to be screwed around with. It just isn't. I'm not scared of it, but I want to manage it as best I can. And I cannot manage it if I feel as though my doctor is fighting me.

So, the road to finding a doctor is a long one, it seems, but it'll lead somewhere good. I know it.