The Report Card
When lab results turn to report cards.
The red print on paper says
my HbA1C is high.
My doctor says it means
that my blood sugar is uncontrolled
And somehow he’s also surmised
that I am sedentary
i.e. that I am lazy
that I took an extra donut when I shouldn’t have
that I do not care for my health
that I am killing myself on purpose
As if suffering is something to aspire to
As if death is ever in our control.
How powerful a number must be
To say so much
without ever asking a question.
Since when did the clinic become a classroom
The doctor, a teacher
The patient, a student
The treatment, a punishment
The follow-up, a deadline?
Since when did my lab results
become an exam
that turns red when I fail
and green when I’m good?
Why do these capsules and insulin pens
feel like a punishment for bad behavior
And not a tool to make me well?
Take this, the doctor says.
Do this, I am told.
I feel like a student given homework to do
Before I’m tested again.
No wonder kids don’t like school.
Note: This poem does not intend to generalize or criticize clinicians. I just want to highlight how easily clinic consults can become sterile and punitive rather than humane and understanding.
My mom does this to herself. She feels like failure when her CBG is high. She scolds herself for having too much rice or that teensy slice of cake the night before. I'm thankful her endo (Abi Roxas) is quick to reassure her that she shouldn't stress over the day to day values. "Just eat, Tita, ako bahala sa sugars mo," Abi says.
I remember my panic when my blood sugar went even higher than the borderline number it already was on the previous exam. I got scared of my cardiologist's reaction.
I did have a flimsy excuse.
"Mahirap maging malungkot, dok."
"Nagte-therapy ka ba?"
That went better than I thought.