Atlanta whispers softly to me throughout my days here.
I see it when I leave Kroger and walk back to my car - the skyscrapers of Buckhead surround me, glimmering in the sunlight.
Just now, the evening sun sets and the clouds take on a dreamy glow, providing a backdrop to the famous Bank of America tower.
The brick walls hold stories, the graffiti on the bridges a colorful mural that claim the city as their own.
And I - I am in the midst of it all. Of the hustle and bustle that used to seem so foreign to me; of the crowds and the noise that I once feared to live in.
But I don't fear it anymore - I embrace it, and I couldn't imagine life anywhere else right now. This is, wholeheartedly, the place I desire to be. Atlanta keeps me inside of its skyscraper palace, the walls of the perimeter encircle me in a bubble that I don't even have to leave if I don't want to.
And Atlanta has changed me. I feel myself becoming more confident, more mature and sure of the things I want. Full of greater understanding of responsibility and what it is to work hard and get things done. I'm learning, slowly, I'm growing.
Almost a year here, and I've never lived in a place that feels more like home. I see my friends as I go to school each day, the hallway with our lockers now familiar, the green walls, the plinths that serve as our desks and the endless class jokes. It feels like family.
I drive with confidence through the traffic, streaming to the other side of the interstate like a pro as I sing along to new songs, music that I might go hear at Eddie's Attic or The Masquerade or The Vinyl. I rarely go to chains to eat or get coffee; there's so many new and unique places here, and too little time with too many things to try. I feel at home when I come home and place my backpack down in my little room with the sloped walls and the paintings hanging just above me.
Life is a hectic, busy mess. Grad school takes up so much time. But I love it here, and for the first time in a long time, I know exactly who I am and who I want to be.
I think 17 year old me would be proud. Unsure, scared, upset and just-diagnosed with Diabetes 17 year old me, mad at the world and worried about everything to come, grasping for comfort at every outcropping of life I could find.
I started a great adventure 4 years ago the day I left home for Georgia, and the adventure has never stopped since.
I can't help but be thankful, because my learning to be me, to be at peace with this life I live, has been a long time coming.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Retinopathy, Neuropathy, Diabetes, Oh my
Retinopathy.
Neuropathy. Decreased healing. Increased risk of infection. Slowed healing times. Adhesive Capsulitis. Immune System changes. PVD. Alzheimer's. Skin changes.
It's another day in class, and we are talking about Diabetes and its rainbow of complications. It's a favourite topic of the health field, and I'm fairly used to it by now. Even the part where the professor says "Raise your hand if you know someone with Diabetes" and everyone in class raises their hand - or, "raise your hand if you know someone with Diabetes aside from Lacy" (and still nearly all of the hands go up).
Diabetes is a big deal. The rates are increasing year by year, in both the younger and older population. I hate having Diabetes, and as much as I would like to say that managing it has become vastly easier over these past 4 years, it seems like it's still as much of a daily struggle as always.
But sometimes I am thankful because it helps me to relate to a lot of people that struggle with this disease also. I remember back a couple of weeks ago, one of my first times volunteering with a group of geriatric individuals with my class to provide an exercise program.
One of the patients I was taking vitals for was mentioning her Diabetes, and how she didn't like getting low, especially after eating Dinner. "I'm already full," she's saying to me. "I don't want to eat again right after!"
"Well, have you tried glucose tabs?" I asked her. She responded with a "Well, yes... but I don't think they really work for me. I take one and it doesn't do anything!"
I thought for a second. "You're eating just one when you're low? You have to eat 4! They're 4g/carbs each. You need about 15g/carbs to raise yourself up from a low."
"Oooooooh. Really?! My Doctor never told me that... ugh, how frustrating!" The patient explained. "It's ok," I told her. "I have Diabetes too. I know it's frustrating. But you should try 4 instead. It helps!"
We had a long conversation about Diabetes from then on, and like many times before it was almost a bonding experience. I've had this before; working with patients, I always wonder if it's ok to bring up my Diabetes, especially if they're struggling with it, too. Sometimes I feel self conscious. I want my interactions with patients to be all about them and the last thing I want to do is turn it around to myself. But I feel it helps me to relate with a patient if I mention that I am Diabetic and they are, too. Suddenly I'm not just a health care professional; I'm someone who lives and breathes and understands the same kind of struggle, even just a little of a fraction of that piece of struggling, with someone. Personally, I feel as though it helps me relate to patients. I remember sitting sad in the hospital, casually and bitterly throwing aside all of the advice that people decided to throw my way. No one had Diabetes, they didn't understand.
But then Marie walked in, calm and cool and beautiful and collected. She pulled out an insulin pen, flashing her stylish and personally engraved medical ID bracelet and showed me how much better it was than syringes and vials. Told me I had an endocrinologist appointment with her across the street when I got out of the hospital. And more importantly, gave me a sliver of hope; hope that my life could be normal, hope that I could be like her. Even with Diabetes. If she could be like that, so could I.
In that case, having someone relate to me made all the difference in the world. It makes me feel better: makes me feel that I was diagnosed with this disease for a purpose. Maybe that's silly; maybe it's just a twisted coping mechanism for trying to justify why I live this life with this disease every day.
But regardless, I know this:
When we're sitting in integumentary class and I'm up on the table, shoes off and about to have a diabetic neuropathy/foot screen exam because that's what we're practicing every day, and my heart has a slight twinge of fear; there's the slim chance, what if? What would I do?
And the talking about losing feet sensation really gets to me; it makes it worth it. I'm not in this struggle for nothing.
And having a foot screen that comes up as "low/no risk" for foot loss sensation makes me feel even better, that I'll be able to stay healthy to someday better help other people like me. Maybe one day I'll be the one going into the hospital room, and there will be a girl just diagnosed with Diabetes there, feeling quite alone and upset and angry at the world; maybe she'll feel like no one understands. Maybe I can help. Who knows?
Neuropathy. Decreased healing. Increased risk of infection. Slowed healing times. Adhesive Capsulitis. Immune System changes. PVD. Alzheimer's. Skin changes.
It's another day in class, and we are talking about Diabetes and its rainbow of complications. It's a favourite topic of the health field, and I'm fairly used to it by now. Even the part where the professor says "Raise your hand if you know someone with Diabetes" and everyone in class raises their hand - or, "raise your hand if you know someone with Diabetes aside from Lacy" (and still nearly all of the hands go up).
Diabetes is a big deal. The rates are increasing year by year, in both the younger and older population. I hate having Diabetes, and as much as I would like to say that managing it has become vastly easier over these past 4 years, it seems like it's still as much of a daily struggle as always.
But sometimes I am thankful because it helps me to relate to a lot of people that struggle with this disease also. I remember back a couple of weeks ago, one of my first times volunteering with a group of geriatric individuals with my class to provide an exercise program.
One of the patients I was taking vitals for was mentioning her Diabetes, and how she didn't like getting low, especially after eating Dinner. "I'm already full," she's saying to me. "I don't want to eat again right after!"
"Well, have you tried glucose tabs?" I asked her. She responded with a "Well, yes... but I don't think they really work for me. I take one and it doesn't do anything!"
I thought for a second. "You're eating just one when you're low? You have to eat 4! They're 4g/carbs each. You need about 15g/carbs to raise yourself up from a low."
"Oooooooh. Really?! My Doctor never told me that... ugh, how frustrating!" The patient explained. "It's ok," I told her. "I have Diabetes too. I know it's frustrating. But you should try 4 instead. It helps!"
We had a long conversation about Diabetes from then on, and like many times before it was almost a bonding experience. I've had this before; working with patients, I always wonder if it's ok to bring up my Diabetes, especially if they're struggling with it, too. Sometimes I feel self conscious. I want my interactions with patients to be all about them and the last thing I want to do is turn it around to myself. But I feel it helps me to relate with a patient if I mention that I am Diabetic and they are, too. Suddenly I'm not just a health care professional; I'm someone who lives and breathes and understands the same kind of struggle, even just a little of a fraction of that piece of struggling, with someone. Personally, I feel as though it helps me relate to patients. I remember sitting sad in the hospital, casually and bitterly throwing aside all of the advice that people decided to throw my way. No one had Diabetes, they didn't understand.
But then Marie walked in, calm and cool and beautiful and collected. She pulled out an insulin pen, flashing her stylish and personally engraved medical ID bracelet and showed me how much better it was than syringes and vials. Told me I had an endocrinologist appointment with her across the street when I got out of the hospital. And more importantly, gave me a sliver of hope; hope that my life could be normal, hope that I could be like her. Even with Diabetes. If she could be like that, so could I.
In that case, having someone relate to me made all the difference in the world. It makes me feel better: makes me feel that I was diagnosed with this disease for a purpose. Maybe that's silly; maybe it's just a twisted coping mechanism for trying to justify why I live this life with this disease every day.
But regardless, I know this:
When we're sitting in integumentary class and I'm up on the table, shoes off and about to have a diabetic neuropathy/foot screen exam because that's what we're practicing every day, and my heart has a slight twinge of fear; there's the slim chance, what if? What would I do?
And the talking about losing feet sensation really gets to me; it makes it worth it. I'm not in this struggle for nothing.
And having a foot screen that comes up as "low/no risk" for foot loss sensation makes me feel even better, that I'll be able to stay healthy to someday better help other people like me. Maybe one day I'll be the one going into the hospital room, and there will be a girl just diagnosed with Diabetes there, feeling quite alone and upset and angry at the world; maybe she'll feel like no one understands. Maybe I can help. Who knows?
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Full Circle.
As my journey in Atlanta has nearly come full circle now; August is nearly here; I can't help but start to feel sentimental. I think about last year and how different life was, how worried I was to leave the life I had built for so long behind. I remember one night in July before I had moved into my new place in Atlanta, taking an exit off the interstate to what would be my future neighborhood and just driving around. I stopped and exhaled as one particularly pretty view came into my sight: the city lights, big and bright and beautiful, sparkling like stars in the soft glow of the summer evening.
For the first time that July night, I felt excitement for the life that I would have. I felt excitement for the change, for the big city that would grow to be my home. Atlanta was so full of mysteries and secrets. So full of life and colour. I remembered being just a 17 year old girl, excited for Wesleyan and my big move to Georgia. It was my first move away from home, and it was out of state. I would be on my own, free to make my choices and my own mistakes.
And one August day I woke up, the life I had lived for 4 years packed around me in my now-empty apartment, filled with boxes and rolls of tape and bubble wrap. I had slept for the last night on the silver daybed that I had had since 4th grade, that was going to a woman whom I had sold the bed to on Craigslist just the day before.
Over 3 back and forth trips to Atlanta later over the course of the next two days, everything was settled and all that remained was unpacking. The first thing I did, as always, was hang my collection of acrylic paintings - paintings I had made over the years, and pictures, of all of my friends and families and past events. I laid on my newly made bed and stared at the high, white sloped ceiling illuminated by the glow of my tall paper Ikea lamp. There were no glow in the dark stars, no Christmas lights, no pillows on the floor; I guess I was an adult now, with adult decorations and adult things and a pile of textbooks for school in August almost to my knees (that had cost as much as my first month's rent).
And just like that, Atlanta changed from just a place that I drove to on the weekend for work to home.
The city skyscrapers become comforting. The lights as I drove down 85/75 at night were as picturesque as canvas. Piedmont Park became a refuge from the busy cars and miles of sidewalks and pavement stretched before me. Little coffee shops became my secret places; made Atlanta feel more like home. I marveled as even the grocery store customers seemed to walk faster; the pace here wasn't southern mosey-ing, but rather, go, go, go. The graffiti plastered buildings walls and bridges like my own personal museum. The sounds of the city and the cars rushing by and the sirens sung me to sleep at night. I found my special places, favourite restaurants - Argosy, the Vortex, Bound to Be Read, the Beltline, Inman Park (and Perk).
As the year progressed, I watched the list grow even longer. I picked up Swing Dancing for the first time as I attended my first Georgia Tech Dance Association Dance. Discovered swing's weekly Monday dance - Hot Jam - as well as Friday night Contra in Clarkston. Sweet Hut and Lee's Bakery in the Asian section of Doraville (pho!) Rock climbing at Stone Summit's incredible gym. The Vortex's The Bone Garden, countless coffee shops: Dancing Goats, Dr. Bombay's, Octane. I actually went to the Westside (and liked it).
And more importantly, the reason I came here, I've grown since starting Mercer. It's been a whirlwind year of sleepless nights and endless struggles and working until I could work no more. From being up sunup to sundown at the same building in the same classroom with the green walls and two pillars as we studiously learned new skills, dissected cadavers, tried to slow the flow of the firehose of information to make it more manageable (and usually failing). Growth is hard. I learned about sacrifice and how much harder I had to work than I ever had in undergrad.
This next year will be ever more filled with changes. As my class and I complete the last two semesters of the academic portion of our PT program and go to clinic starting next Summer, I will be one step closer to my goal of becoming a PT. It's been a hard academic year, but an amazing one of fellowship and glorious new friendships and relationships. My heart is so full of all the incredible new things I have experienced in just one year, the richness and the colour of the city around me.
The fear of moving to a new place is all but a distant memory now. God had had everything for this year planned all along - all I had had to do was make the leap.
For the first time that July night, I felt excitement for the life that I would have. I felt excitement for the change, for the big city that would grow to be my home. Atlanta was so full of mysteries and secrets. So full of life and colour. I remembered being just a 17 year old girl, excited for Wesleyan and my big move to Georgia. It was my first move away from home, and it was out of state. I would be on my own, free to make my choices and my own mistakes.
And one August day I woke up, the life I had lived for 4 years packed around me in my now-empty apartment, filled with boxes and rolls of tape and bubble wrap. I had slept for the last night on the silver daybed that I had had since 4th grade, that was going to a woman whom I had sold the bed to on Craigslist just the day before.
Over 3 back and forth trips to Atlanta later over the course of the next two days, everything was settled and all that remained was unpacking. The first thing I did, as always, was hang my collection of acrylic paintings - paintings I had made over the years, and pictures, of all of my friends and families and past events. I laid on my newly made bed and stared at the high, white sloped ceiling illuminated by the glow of my tall paper Ikea lamp. There were no glow in the dark stars, no Christmas lights, no pillows on the floor; I guess I was an adult now, with adult decorations and adult things and a pile of textbooks for school in August almost to my knees (that had cost as much as my first month's rent).
And just like that, Atlanta changed from just a place that I drove to on the weekend for work to home.
The city skyscrapers become comforting. The lights as I drove down 85/75 at night were as picturesque as canvas. Piedmont Park became a refuge from the busy cars and miles of sidewalks and pavement stretched before me. Little coffee shops became my secret places; made Atlanta feel more like home. I marveled as even the grocery store customers seemed to walk faster; the pace here wasn't southern mosey-ing, but rather, go, go, go. The graffiti plastered buildings walls and bridges like my own personal museum. The sounds of the city and the cars rushing by and the sirens sung me to sleep at night. I found my special places, favourite restaurants - Argosy, the Vortex, Bound to Be Read, the Beltline, Inman Park (and Perk).
As the year progressed, I watched the list grow even longer. I picked up Swing Dancing for the first time as I attended my first Georgia Tech Dance Association Dance. Discovered swing's weekly Monday dance - Hot Jam - as well as Friday night Contra in Clarkston. Sweet Hut and Lee's Bakery in the Asian section of Doraville (pho!) Rock climbing at Stone Summit's incredible gym. The Vortex's The Bone Garden, countless coffee shops: Dancing Goats, Dr. Bombay's, Octane. I actually went to the Westside (and liked it).
And more importantly, the reason I came here, I've grown since starting Mercer. It's been a whirlwind year of sleepless nights and endless struggles and working until I could work no more. From being up sunup to sundown at the same building in the same classroom with the green walls and two pillars as we studiously learned new skills, dissected cadavers, tried to slow the flow of the firehose of information to make it more manageable (and usually failing). Growth is hard. I learned about sacrifice and how much harder I had to work than I ever had in undergrad.
This next year will be ever more filled with changes. As my class and I complete the last two semesters of the academic portion of our PT program and go to clinic starting next Summer, I will be one step closer to my goal of becoming a PT. It's been a hard academic year, but an amazing one of fellowship and glorious new friendships and relationships. My heart is so full of all the incredible new things I have experienced in just one year, the richness and the colour of the city around me.
The fear of moving to a new place is all but a distant memory now. God had had everything for this year planned all along - all I had had to do was make the leap.
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