I get it. I see you for 10 minutes every year. Or, I’ve seen you for 10 minutes every year since I moved to Boston. You’re always very nice and ask about my job, my activities and my A1C (which I don’t get because you have access to it). You’ve always been at the top of my list for personality as far as doctors go.
And then it happened. Normally your speech goes like this: How long have you had diabetes? That’s amazing; your eyes are still perfect. This is how it went this year: How long have you had diabetes? I can see some retinopathy.
The tears instantly started falling, but you had already turned your back to write this diagnosis in my file and order images of my eyes. You had me go there and the elderly medical professional made me completely and utterly uncomfortable, forcing my head into this machine, no matter how many times I told her that just by pushing harder, didn’t mean I could see the light. When I saw you again, you told me that the retinopathy was minimal, and that you’d see me again in one year. Why is the timeline for perfect eyes and starting retinopathy the same? It doesn’t make any sense. And to lower my A1C. Don’t you realize that I’m trying desperately to do that, but just because I’m working on it doesn’t mean everything else in life is making that an “easy” task. I was sniffling and probably used your entire box of tissues, but you never asked how I was feeling, just if I had any questions. I don’t even know what questions to ask!!
You work in a diabetes eye clinic where retinopathy is probably an everyday occurrence. But I’m a person with diabetes who has never had a complication of any kind before. I’ve been taught to freak out about my eyes, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m scared out of my mind.