Lows, Highs, and Hope

I saw my doctor yesterday for my annual physical. I know I’ve said this before, but he’s the first doctor I’ve ever felt completely comfortable with—and one I actually look forward to seeing. For the most part, all is well. My weight loss continues to progress, my blood pressure has improved enough that he lowered my medication, and my A1C (the test that measures average glucose levels over the past 90 days) came in at 4.3. That’s not bad for a non-diabetic, though he’d prefer mine be closer to 4.7. He also suggested I contact the sleep clinic because I may no longer need my CPAP. When I was in the hospital back in the spring and couldn’t wear a mask, I didn’t snore and my oxygen levels never dropped below 90%.

I’d talk about where I was versus where I am now, but I’ll admit I’m embarrassed about how bad things once were. The truth is, I was very depressed during those first few years after moving to Vermont. Just six weeks after arriving here, a close friend who had always encouraged me died suddenly, and it felt like my whole world collapsed. I was 1,200 miles (or more) away from everyone I’d ever known. I missed my family. I missed the food I’d grown up with. I’d broken up with the only boyfriend I’d ever had because I couldn’t face a long-distance relationship. My health worsened as I turned to food for comfort. Susan helped me through those years, but there were still nights I cried myself to sleep.

Over time, though, I began to find my footing. I eventually made some wonderful friends in Vermont, and I leaned on the recipes my mama and grandmama had taught me, cooking the foods I’d grown up with—sometimes with a healthier twist. Little by little, life started to feel more like home again.

My doctor was one of the first people in Vermont to really help me turn things around. He diagnosed me as diabetic and worked with me until I became a diet-controlled diabetic who no longer needed medication. He kept at me until I finally gave in and went to the sleep clinic to deal with my sleep apnea. He worked with me on my depression, adjusted my diabetic medications until we found one that helped me lose weight, and sent me to the headache clinic at Dartmouth where I finally got relief from the migraines that had controlled my life for so long. They haven’t gone away, but they’re nowhere near as intense as they once were.

It’s been a ten-year journey, and I still have health issues to manage—my liver, my back, my migraines—but my overall health is so much better than it used to be. I owe that progress to the patience, persistence, and genuine care of my doctor. Sometimes, that care goes far beyond prescriptions or test results. They might even cry with you when you break down in their office because your mother has been diagnosed with dementia. My doctor’s mother was facing a similar decline, and in that moment, he truly understood the pain and worry I was carrying.

Through the lows and the highs, what I’ve found most of all is hope—hope that healing is possible, hope that progress continues, and hope that life can feel good again when you have the right care beside you.