It had been months since I had seen an endocrinologist and my scheduled appointment was still two months out. Surely, there had to be another doctor with availability. I went off of a recommendation and left work early, battled half an hour of beach traffic, and admittedly arrived five minutes after the scheduled time. Once inside, I sprinted up the stairs and breathlessly stepped up to the counter where the receptionist was listening to the radio, while tapping her zebra print acrylic nails against the desk. You think I'm kidding. Without so much as a hello, she reamed me for being late. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that everyone has their bad days. I filled out the necessary paperwork and took my seat.
I was led back to a room where I anxiously waited for Dr. Clueless. Once she arrived, she began a series of questions that alerted me to the fact that she hadn't reviewed my chart. It began with, "Wait, you were diagnosed last year?" And was followed up by, "Are you certain that you have type 1 diabetes? I'm not convinced." And then I was advised, "This is a late diagnosis... you might be able to forgo insulin for pills. I'd like to see your test results." Why would I make that up?! To which I replied, "I'm not certain that this is going to be a good fit. I'm in the process of looking for a doctor and I'm not set on that person being you."
To summarize my visit in her words: I don't know "diabetes 101", my long lasting/short-acting insulin ratios are incorrect {which she attempted to prove... by showing that they are in fact correct}, and that I need better control {because my A1C is 6.2%?}. I sat there with my arms crossed. I had reached my threshold and had mentally checked out. By the time I got to my car, tears were streaming down my face. This was not okay. Doctors are supposed to help us-- not attack us.
I called the office the next morning to inform them that I wouldn't be back.
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