Nervous

I had an appointment with my endocrinologist yesterday, and I was nervous — sweaty palms and everything. Why do I get so nervous climbing those four flights of stairs every three months?

At this point in my life, I am fortunate to have great control of my diabetes. I’ve been able to bypass burnout, had helping hands for encouragement and had personal support whenever needed. With the help of Ben and Jerry (my CGM and pump), I’ve lowered my A1c to below 7, and it’s remained there since April of last year. So why the nerves?

Four months ago, my A1c was 6.6, the lowest it’s been in years. Yesterday, it was 6.6 again, and I felt disappointed. Again, why? It’s not as if that was a bad number. It’s a great number, one I should be proud of. But for me personally, I want to have a 5.something. I know that sounds greedy or selfish, but I do. I work hard at this, and I want to see the payoff by achieving the personal goals I’ve set for myself.

As I cooked dinner last night, I began to wonder where these insecurities and doubts come from. As a child with diabetes, I was often scolded (not harshly) for not doing what I was supposed to. My doctor would frown when I lied about my numbers, and as a teenager, I lied to my mother about my numbers. When she found out — well, let’s just say it was bad. I vaguely remember my first and middle name being yelled, but I chose to block out the rest.

I know she was angry because I was playing Russian roulette with my life. I’d go weeks without testing and then lie when she asked what my sugar was. And I even understand why the doctor scolded me as a child when I lied to him or didn’t take responsibility for my own health. I was a teenager; I was old enough to know better. (But then again, I was a teenager. I was old enough to be rebellious and stubborn. And we all know teenagers know everything.)

Somewhere along the way though, I became an adult. (Wait, an adult? Really? How’d that happen?) I found my voice and learned how to stand up for myself. I took responsibility for my diabetes because I had to. There came a point in my life where I had to just get over it and do what had to be done. I looked for a doctor who listened to me and my concerns, who heard what I had to say and who knew my name when he passed me on the street. But, I never found that doctor. And while my current endocrinologist doesn’t scold me, I feel inadequate when I’m in his office… like I could be doing better. Sure, everyone can do better, but I had an A1c of 10 when I walked into his office three years ago. Now, I’m at a 6.6. So my sweaty palms and nerves have no justification yet with every step toward his office, I feel the anxiousness setting in.

I’m not wild about my doctor. He doesn’t have the best bedside manner and the education sector is in an entirely different part of the hospital. And to get my labs done, it’s another building three blocks away not even attached to the main hospital. And let’s not talk about feeling like a herded cow as I’m rushed through the appointment because he schedules patients 15 minutes apart.

I want a team. I want my doctor to know who I am and to embrace my taking an active role in my own care and my own health. My doctor does tell me to play around with basals and such because he trusts me, which I appreciate. He doesn’t talk down to me either, which has definitely happened with other doctors. And his staff? They are fantastic!!

To be completely honest, his nurses are the reason I keep coming back. Well, that and his practice is one of only two in town. (And they said Huntsville was booming.) I have been researching doctors in Birmingham and Nashville (both only an hour and a half away), and I’ve found a practice I think I want to try at Vanderbilt. It means eating an entire sick day at work, but it also means a few hours at Bookman/Bookwoman. (Best. Book. Store. Ever.) So what do I do? Should I stay or should I go? (if you say that you are mine… oh wait, digressing here). Seriously, I’m on the fence on this one. But of course, as I was leaving the office yesterday, as if my endo knew I was contemplating a change, he said “Good job Victoria” as I walked out the door (a first.)

And now I’m back to being confused.