I might as well tell you now because it’s bound to crop up later. I have type 2 diabetes. I could have a lot worse things like the oesophagul cancer I thought I had a few weeks ago. So if you’re going to get something, which we surely are, then, yes, diabetes isn’t bad. OK the odd set of statistics like 75% of diabetics die of a heart attack can dent the confidence a little but mostly I’m OK. Except that is for those 6 monthly visits to be ‘reviewed’ by my diabetic nurse. These are not so great.
The last one was fairly typical. I made it worse for myself by allowing myself to lull myself into a false sense of security. As I had lost a bit of weight I expected quite a positive session. I should have known I suppose that my nurse does not like positive sessions, but hey, a guy can dream.
So what I actually got was “8.8. Oh dear, oh dear. That’s a huge leap Mr G.” Why don’t you fuck off and take a huge leap I thought somewhat unkindly I suppose. After all she’s only doing her job. But then again does she have to enjoy it so much? She’s off again and I mean again because we’ve been here before.
“Exercise, Mr G, exercise, that’s the key. We’ve discussed this before haven’t we?” she smiles, call it a leer. I stare at the carpet and say something pathetic like I haven’t got the time. Even to me it sounds weak and I know what’s coming. And sure enough.
“It’s easy, park further away from the supermarket, say, and walk. That’s all it takes”
I go to one of my favourite places at times like this. I enter the world of Walter Mitty and mentally compose a series of excuses as to why this is a poor idea on her part. It goes like this :
Monday, didn’t do it because it was raining.
Tuesday, I was in a hurry.
Wednesday, I had a big shop to do.
Thursday, I wasn’t feeling very well.
Friday, I had somebody with me and I didn’t want to embarrass myself.
Saturday, there were too many choices of parking spaces and I got confused and ended by the door.
Sunday, I was desperate for a pee or the car cleaners won’t walk that far and the car needed a wash or the car might get broken into or I might get mugged. You get the idea. I smile to myself, I’m quite pleased with my ingenuity. Then I look at sister. Would she enjoy me sharing my ideas with her. I glance (I cannot hold her gaze for long) into those coal black eyes, hovering malignantly above her crisp, blue uniform which in turn, hangs above those sensible black shoes. Back, briefly, to her face and her ‘smile’. No chance. I am indeed a dead man on the excuse front.
My last diabetic nurse was called Sister Cross and the funny thing was she wasn’t at all. She had sad eyes that a person could look into for a long time. A person could be lulled into looking at her eyes. She used to shake her head with great sorrow rather than anger and say “you’re not doing very well, are you?” Sorry, I would say, I’ve let you down and myself and the whole world of diabetics and probably my country as well. And that would be it. I left her office feeling lower than a snake’s arsehole as they say. Soon wore off though.
But this one is not letting go until she has my (admittedly disingenuous) commitment to a healthier lifestyle. Let’s discuss this again, she gloats.
Discuss this I say to myself rubbing the isolated index finger of my left hand along the bridge of my nose. To her a thoughtful gesture, to me a ‘swivel on this’ concept. As you’ve gathered I can be quite crude when under pressure. And off we go – again, drone, drone, blah, blah, yackety yack. We finish with her saying I’ll ring you in a couple of weeks to see how you’re going (and give you a couple more results). You can ring who you fucking like I think I never answer the land line. Yes, I know what you’re thinking – why don’t you act more like a grown man. Well, I really don’t care what you’re thinking. Problem is she has my mobile and calls me a week later.
“Bad news, Mr G” she chirps.