Yet again, I walk through your double doors, expecting to hear angels singing, while feeling the white, warm light, shining down on my face. It is fitting after all, since I have place you on this pedestal, that sits high enough to be in the heavens. No other doctor, compares to you. You are the only one who can see the true me, the sick me, even though that is not how I feel or look.
I approach, awaiting my judgment day. I get ready to stand before your nurses, with high blood pressure and nerves, hoping you will, sometime soon, grace me with your presence.
I prepare, plan and wait for this moment, each time that I come. Sometimes, just thinking about this moment scares me into submission, and other times, it leads me to rebel.
I am anxious, and eager to hear what you have to say. Each time, I hope that your answers will dramatically change my life in a profound way. Secretly, I know you have the cure to that sick side, that I hide. With each question I ask, I am chipping away slowly to the perfect treatment, or permanent solution that you hold somewhere in that room, that has the damn scale.
Instead, I am brought back down to reality. There is no singing. The only white light is coming from obscenely fluorescent lights. The nurses are dripping in hospital blue and sporting crocs instead of halos. My blood pressure and BG are the only thing rising to the heavens at this moment.
My judgment comes with a new, in house, A1c machine that immediately sucked, after it delivered a number of 11.4 (note to self.. in heaven, it wouldn't have moved from 5.8)
And then you enter my room, slightly shorter than I remember, with a speed and demeanor that said you weren't taking questions. You balk at me, offer no answers, and then request to babysit me and my basals by having me fax my logs daily. You finally entertain my question about the problem behind me, and can tell me little. When I press you about the lipoatrophy, you get annoyed, leave the room and do a consult next door. Your loud voices, carry to my room, and I now know, none of you have actually seen it in practice. After a little referencing, you return with a anecdote of, "It's just a random side effect of the insulin. Let me know if it happens again and we'll change your insulin again"
I leave now realizing (once again) that you are not a god. I care, and know more about MY health than anyone - even you. This disease is mine, and I am responsible for it completely.
I leave today feeling so grateful for all the info and support from my DOC community, that far surpass your "team" that treat my disease. I wonder why I need to see you so often, but I've decided, that you can write my scripts and order my tests. period.