This time last Friday, I was following blood sugars like I used to track meme stocks. By the second. As if my life depended on it. The sugars in question weren’t my own; they belonged to a cabin of fourteen and fifteen year olds, all of which were my responsibility. My week on diabetes camp medical staff was meaningful, but in different ways than last year. It was also humbling, as always.
“Fightmaster, what’s wrong with your hair?” One camper asked. “Why’s it look like that?”
“Buddy,” I explained. “That’s what you call a receding hairline.”
There were more explanations. One camper asked why I wasn’t practicing medicine now. Because I didn’t want to anymore, I told him. “Makes sense to me,” he said. Conversation complete. Pajama pants. Fleece ones. In August. I asked the cabin to explain why half the camp was wearing them all day, everywhere, in triple-digit temperatures. “Because they’re cool.” But aren’t they hot? I asked. “Yeah but we want to wear them.” Conversation complete. “Makes sense to me,” I said.
At camp’s end, after reviewing thousands of blood sugars and monitoring hundreds of insulin doses, I wanted more. I’d loved camp. Not the diabetes part, no, got plenty of that back home. More the responsibility part.
When we’re working toward something we want, I believe we’re magnetized toward responsibility. Whereas, when we’re avoiding the truth of what we want, we repel responsibility. Ownership is a choice, yes, but it’s also a by-product of authenticity.
Add craving for responsibility to the “good signs we’re on track” list. Even, if to earn it, my hairline lost some prominence. Or, in my younger friends case, a few pounds were lost sweating in pajama pants.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD