Entry 1: It came crashing down

 Generally, humans do not like receiving bad news, but, there they are. They keep coming like a roaring waves slapping against a solitude rock in the beach. Or against the pier. Swallowing you up until you drown. And generally, humans do not want to be a harbinger of trouble. We avoid trouble. We want to be safe, unharmed, cautious. Yet still, there are those who seem so immune to bringing bad news, it is hard for them to empathize. Or ask the right questions.

Walking inside the sterile clinic is not as dreadful as she thought without her father, or someone, beside her. She walks to the window and tells the lady at the other side about her appointment. Three-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon. She comes early. It is still two-fifty-five. No worries. The waiting area, though not as empty as the first time she came last month, still has fewer visitors than most. She can wait. She has time to spare. 

She awaits her turn for almost an hour, yet that does not faze her. She does not know what to expect. It has been two years since she visited a primary care provider. Between COVID-19 disrupting her health maintenance and her previous primary care provider retiring, health-related things are just put aside. When the nurse practitioner calls her, take her temperature, and put hand sanitizer on her hands before rushing her in to take her weight and eye exam, she is as cheerful as a baby deer, like Bambi. 

And like Bambi, her world also crushes down. It starts with the good news, like trying to break her fall, yet still falling in the end. "Your blood works are all good, all normal," then comes the but. It is the 'but' that she dread the most. It is the 'but' that brings bad news. It is the 'but' that brings her back to that time when she does not want to look at her phone to avoid school emails or text messages or anything that reminds her that she fails. And fail. And fail again. It brings her back to those dark times. Yet she cannot stop the words from spilling from his mouth.

"You have diabetes," he says. "You're A1C is around 8. I'll give you three medications. I don't need to give you insulin yet, but if it becomes 9, then I have to." There is a ringing in her ear. Diabetes? Did he just say diabetes? He continues, "But our main focus is on food and lifestyle changes."

"What about my cholesterol?" She asks - though she knows the answer already. 

He looks at the computer. "It's also high. I'll also give you medication for that. So four in total."

He talks more about the medication and having it ordered for her, but he never asks if she still have questions for him. He never asks about her amenorrhea -which she puts in the form she has to fill out. He never asks about her pap smear result, or why she has to do an ultrasound, or about her bigger right thyroid gland - none. And she sits there inside the Room 1 still reeling from the fact that there seems to be no concern. 

She wants to hear, "Is this your first time hearing that you have diabetes? How do you feel? Do you want to take a moment to sink that in? I have resources here that we can look at to help with your food choices and lifestyle changes." None, nada, zilch, wala. There's nothing. 

And then she has to tell her family. She keeps it to herself for awhile. Then she tells her sister because she's the only one whom she can trust not to judge her, who will never tell her "I told you so" or other words that might hurt her more. She eventually tells her parents. Her dad first - because he also has diabetes, but also because he will not say more. Then her mom. Because she's one of those who will say it. Those words.