Crying in the doctor's Office

It's something that I really don't want to do...ever. I don't want to stare at the sterile walls, the corner where the nightshift cleaner missed a clump of dirt, the $9.99 framed poster of some famous painter's work-reproduced so the colors bleed, and the brush strokes are lost, and cry. I don't want to do this in a doctor's office. Ever. But then, in a way, it is kind of comforting to cry to someone who knows the disease well-the numbers, and letters of it, the intricacies, even if they have only studied it and read about it in books, they have taken that interest, and the tears are a part of it.
I went to get my new pump hooked up and sat there, arms crossed. The nurse was running late-an emergency at the hospital.
"Will I ever become an 'emergency' at the hospital," I thought. "Will I ever get to work on time?" "Will I ever get a chance to feel normal and healthy again?"
I can't help but remember the days when I looked forward to going to the doctor's, because it was a reassurance of my health. All was well. I looked good, felt good, and my body was healthy. It is not like that any more. It is concern, and numbers, and directions, and pokes, and blood- letting, and anxiety, and reminders of what I will be if I make it to 65.
Ugh.
So I sat on the tissue-papered table, and looked at a Golf magazine, sunny skies, green grass, striped shirts, and I thought about whether or not I wanted to cry in front of this nurse, who knows my name only when she is looking at my chart.
I start to talk to the secretary of the office , who is also a diabetic, and says she understands, and tries to be there."I know, I know," she says. I am trying, swalloing hard, so I don't burst into tears. I have always been an honest to the core kind of person. Tell the truth, say how you are feeling, get it out. This is the first time I hold back my tears. What will it do for me here? It will make the nurse even later for the next appointment.
I ask for a name of a counselor-I get a piece of paper with "psychotherapist, name, phone" written on it. Psychotherapist. I am scared. I have tears welling in my eyes. My new pump is on, and I have no one to just cry to, to bury my head in someone's soft shoulder and cry for me. It is a selfish moment, but I just need that, and someone to hand me a tissue and tell me it's going to be alright. But I am in this office with fake plants, no windows, no fresh air, no flowers, no warm sun or swimming pool. I try to imagine all that until the appointment is over -and finally it is. I have to go back in a week, write down all my sugars-before meals, post perandeum-bedtime, middle of the night, exercise.
I will try my hardest, and I will go home and shed some tears. I wanted to in the car-but I had to head to work.