This blog seems to be my avenue at times for sharing things that a lot of folks don't know about me ... some of them serious and gut-wrenching admissions, such as when I opened up and revealed that I had been diagnosed with diabetes and depression ... some of them funny and lighthearted, such as when I talked about my itchy armpits or my obsession with my Cool Whip always being scooped from the side rather than the middle (though I still maintain that the whole Cool Whip thing is perfectly normal). So tonight's post contains another confession ... there are times in my life when I rebel and refuse to do what I'm either told to do or what I know is best for me to do. There are times when I tire of doing the right thing ... times when I just don't want to be "good." There ... I've said it ... sometimes, I simply have a plain old rebellious heart.
I've been seeing my general practice doctor for over 10 years; in fact, she is the one who discovered that I have diabetes. She's seen me through some tough things during those years, both physically and emotionally. She really is a great doctor ... she cares, she listens, she talks ... but perhaps most important of all, she knows me ... really knows me. And because she knows me, she knows when to be firm with me and insist that I follow her directions precisely and immediately, and when to give me some space to think over what she's told me I need to do and hope that I eventually follow her instructions.
All the doctors whom I've seen over the last couple of years (and believe me, there have been plenty) have praised me for being so diligent in tackling diabetes head-on and changing my lifestyle so drastically. Within the first year after my diagnosis, the changes I had made along with the medication I take each day had effectively lowered all the levels that were so dangerously high to well within normal range. For those of you familiar with diabetes, my A1C dropped from 14.8 to 5.5 ... and for those of you who don't know what that means, suffice it to say that the drop in that one test is a really big deal.
And then in May, I decided that other than dealing with my aching shoulder, I wasn't going back to the doctors for a while. Even though I've been watching my blood sugar climb for the last couple of months and was beginning to experience the return of some of the symptoms I had before I was diagnosed, I didn't answer or return my doctor's phone calls asking me to get in to see her. I knew what the shift in my numbers and the returning symptoms meant ... diabetes is a progressive disease that will mean changes in medication for as long as I'm alive to keep it under control. My plan to just ignore the doctor, my climbing numbers and my symptoms was going along just fine, until I got a rash on my leg that wouldn't go away, started to spread and itched like crazy. Nothing I put on it was helping, so I had to cave in today and go to the doctor.
I knew that it probably wouldn't be a pleasant visit, and I steeled myself to be chewed out as I sat in the examination room waiting for my doctor to come in. And she eventually did fuss at me a great deal but when she first entered the room, she hugged me tightly and said, "I've been worried about you ... I'm glad to know you're still alive." She then talked to me about my medications, my blood sugar and my state of mind, and gave me some ointment for my leg. She instructed me to double my nightly diabetes meds and insisted that I come in for fasting blood work within the next week or so. She was adamant that someone drive me for the test, saying that the dosage change of my meds would cause my blood sugar to be too low after a nightlong fast for me to chance driving myself. And by the way, I argued heartily with her on that count until she threatened to take my keys away and call someone to come and get me should I show up alone for the test.
She concluded our visit by checking my shoulder, and in doing so saw my new tattoo on my upper arm. Tears filled her eyes when she looked at my newest inking ... J.R.'s pawprint and his name ... and she reminded me that I often used to say, "I don't understand why that little dog has gotten under my skin the way he has." After inspecting it to make sure that it was healing properly, she said, "I think it's wonderful, Terrie ... now he's under your skin forever." I stood to leave and she hugged me again and said, "You need to look at that tattoo every day and tell yourself that J.R. spent his final days rescuing the only human he ever truly loved ... he helped you get your second chance at life. Make the little guy's journey worth what he endured to save you, Terrie ... honor his memory, and make his journey worth it."
I've thought a lot about her words today, and I've thought a lot about J.R. today. I've thought a lot about God today and how He sent that little dog to me at just the right time ... just the right time ... Just Right indeed.
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