Groucho Marx

You know that saying, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member?"  It was running through my head last week when I attended a Type 1 group.  A young woman from the JDRF was filling us in on all the super cool stuff that the Foundation had planned for the upcoming year to raise funds for diabetes research and encourage us all to get together and have fun.

All this super cool stuff, and I couldn't get that saying out of my head.  Couldn't get past the fact that I was sitting in the waiting room of a doctor's office surrounded by young adults with Type 1, all of us with a stake in everything this young woman was saying.

How was it that I became a member of this club?

And why couldn't I hold back the tears?

News

I went in for a routine physical last week and received a call from Dr. B's office this afternoon with my lab results.  The voice on the other end of the line said to me, urgently, "Dr. B wants you to see an endocrinologist.  You have an A1C of 5.9."

She said this as though it were a bad thing.  I, on the other hand, had to swallow back my excitement before replying, "Thank you, but I'm already under the care of an endocrinologist.  I have diabetes."

"Oh."

So funny how her grave news was my great news.