It Takes Some Nerve
by Angela Townsend (FIRST PLACE - Creative Nonfiction Contest 2024)
I will never see Dr. Brogan again. He is a capable ophthalmologist. I search in vain for a negative review. The contact lensed and bespectacled are satisfied. They say he has a cracklin’ sense of humor and a kind heart. They tout his state-of-the-art equipment and his insight into the optic nerve. Multiple patients observe that he bears a sprightly resemblance to Captain Kangaroo.
I expected to love Dr. Brogan. This is what I do with people. I am infected with affection the first time I make eye contact. Once I know your birthday, I will send cards until I die, even if you commit war crimes in the interim. On my MRI, you find self-regenerating benefits of the doubt where most mammals have beta cells. I believe this is how I developed Type 1 diabetes at age nine. I believe I made out well in the trade-off.
I enjoy expecting to love people. I expected greatness from Dr. Brogan. An ophthalmologist with one-inch silver bangs and a Winnie the Pooh tie is a front-runner for my Pantheon of Preferred Persons before he speaks a word. There are several thousand people in this amphitheater, ranging from endocrinologists to celebrity chefs, but it is still an honor. I was ready to hang on his words like a gibbon on the monkey bars. Then he spoke, and he did not stop speaking.
I did not retract my default fondness at the first mention of carbohydrates. Dr. Brogan sees a dappled horde of diabetics. He wants us all to thrive. He feels duty-bound to tell us that we should not eat sweets if we want to keep our sight and our toes. Halfway into his glycemic litany, I raised my hand. I appreciated his concern. I have had Type 1 diabetes for thirty-three years. I respect the dark powers of rye and farfalle.
Did I say thirty-three years? Dr. Brogan crossed his arms. He was astounded. I must be unusually lucky to still look so good. Most diabetics are in pretty sorry shape after that much time. I should not expect my microvascular health to hold out.
I communed with the many Winnies the Pooh on Dr. Brogan’s tie. I said, “Oh, bother!” out loud. I was still committed to loving Dr. Brogan. But at this point, the only way to do so was to assume that he had the intellectual capacity of a sea cucumber.
I was about to tell Dr. Brogan that, in the two thousand twenty-fourth year of our Lord, Type 1 diabetics are living past eighty, pole-vaulting and painting frescoes and sitting on the Supreme Court. But he decreed that people get diabetes because they sit around. He handed me a single spaced manifesto about diabetic death rates and the scourge of muffins. He used the word “obesity” six times in three sentences.
I felt hot-pink hives prickling my shoulders. When I reached to scratch them, I realized they were boundaries. Those are as unfamiliar to me as the figs and focaccia I have studiously avoided for three decades. I told my boundaries to hold their fire, but they were already loading the trebuchets.
Once uncaramelized, I could not return to my natural state. Dr. Brogan, have you looked at me? I weigh one hundred pounds. Have you looked at my expletive optic nerve? It is a pearl of great price, a glittering disco ball. Yes, I said expletive. Dr. Brogan, do you know that every Type 1 diabetic comes into their annual eye exam trembling? Do you know that we make deals with God to keep retinopathy off the table? Do you know that we are more scared of losing our eyes than our kidneys?
Dr. Brogan responded that, statistically, I would be on dialysis by age fifty-five. I asked him how many carbohydrates are in a sea cucumber. I took my clean bill of health home and set fire to my clean record of loving every being.
I will never see Dr. Brogan again, although I can’t bring myself to write a negative review. I am suspended like a macula. To my left, blood vessels are livid, urging me to protect other Type 1s from exasperation with a co-pay. To my right, the optic nerve is as round as all forgiveness. This man needs to make a living. This man wore a Winnie the Pooh tie. There is hope for this man.
There is also a second doctor in the practice, and I call four times to confirm that my next appointment will be with Dr. Emerson.
I arrive to find Dr. Brogan attempting to unjam the office printer. I white-knuckle the armrests of my waiting room chair. The Pioneer Woman is on TV. I love the Pioneer Woman. I love her tunics. I love her metaphysical commitment to mayonnaise. She appears to be building an ark from mozzarella and angel-hair. She appears to be on the brink of tears. I keep my back to Dr. Brogan. I do not see him. Let him assume I have lost my vision since last year. I still want to love Dr. Brogan.
“Daisy?”
It is Dr. Emerson, a green turtleneck culminating in eyebrows. I assume they are eyebrows, although each one has its own post office and stoplight. Dr. Emerson congratulates me.
“On what?”
“You have beautiful glasses!” He taps my temple. “Just lovely! What a perfect choice for your face! You look like Audrey Hepburn!”
Dr. Emerson has not been young since before amphibians emerged from the sea. He is the handsomest man I have ever seen. I love Dr. Emerson.
“I have diabetes,” I tell Dr. Emerson. “Type 1.”
“The brave kind!” Dr. Emerson spins in his chair. I expect him to stop. He makes several revolutions. “I read your record!”
“Some people call it the ‘bad kind.’”
“Sad people!” Dr. Emerson shuts the lights and turns the room orange. “Now, let’s not beat around the bush! I know what you’re here for!”
Dr. Emerson has a surplus of exclamation points. This disorder is not curable, but he has learned to manage his condition. He makes finger guns and shoots the light box on the wall. “Those are your retinas, and they are ravishing!”
“You know how to make the girls blush.”
“You have non-diabetic eyes!” He claps. I expect him to stop, but he is giving me an extended round of applause. “More to the point, you have the eyes of a healthy diabetic!”
I am convinced that Dr. Brogan does not actually exist. These two men have never met. “You’ve just made my entire year.”
“I’m the Wizard of Oz!” Dr. Emerson erupts. “I’m Santa Claus!” A few more revolutions. “But you shouldn’t be surprised, Daisy! You should expect to remain in excellent health!”
“I hold my breath every year.” I hesitate. “I think every Type 1 diabetic does, Dr. Emerson.”
His exclamation point has its tail in the air, but he scruffs it for a moment. “I understand that.” I can tell the animal is wriggling. Dr. Emerson soothes it. “From the time you were a child, docs have been telling you to stay ‘in control.’ So, if something goes wrong, you feel like you only have yourself to blame.”
I wonder if Dr. Emerson gets love letters. I wonder if there is a special vault where Valentines from Type 1 diabetics gush from floor to ceiling.
“That’s right.” I tell him what he already knows.
“Well, I call that a bunch of bologna. Do you like bologna, Daisy?”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“Like Gandhi!” Dr. Emerson gives himself the giggles. I have a mystical vision of Dr. Emerson giving Dr. Brogan a noogie.
“If you put Audrey Hepburn and Gandhi together, you get me,” I confirm. “I love them both.”
Dr. Emerson hands me my clean bill of health. “You’re good for another five thousand miles!” I wonder if anyone has ever mailed him an anonymous torte frosted with the words I LOVE DR. EMERSON. I wonder if anyone has ever sent him a diorama of potatoes holding a tiny banner: WE ONLY HAVE EYES FOR DR. EMERSON. “Go home and celebrate your eyeballs! Better yet, go out and get some ice cream!”
“You’re a dangerous man, Dr. Emerson.”
“I am going to be eighty next week! I have the same birthday as dear Dr. Brogan!”
I am never going to see Dr. Brogan again. I will send him birthday cards with Pooh and Piglet every year. But only Dr. Emerson will get Valentines, too.
Nice that your medical challenges didn't wear you down, and that a second opinion didn't cancel your clear-eyed attitude about the first. Keep sending those cards. And keep writing these essays. We need more positive POVs like yours.
An amazing piece of writing from an amazing human being - thank you for this!!!