You want to know what went wrong during my annual eye doctor’s appointment last week? Just about everything, that’s what went wrong!
Okay, that’s being over-the-top dramatic. Nothing life altering happened, thank goodness. But the appointment started out on the wrong foot when I had to wait more than an hour to be seen by the doctor. Let me tell you, there is nothing pleasant about waiting in a room that hasn’t been updated since about 1982, with ancient stacks of National Geographic as the sole source of entertainment.
Anyways, after an agonizingly long hour and change, I was finally called in to see the doctor. He started the appointment asking the usual slew of questions: How are you? How are your eyes? (My answer to both was a short, but still polite, “good”.) Then he asked the annoying question: Is your diabetes under control?
I hate that – the “under control”. It makes it seem as though diabetes can be tamed 100% of the time, like it’s a savage beast that just requires domesticating in order to live a normal life. But I answered it anyways, knowing he wouldn’t care to hear why his word choice was bothersome. “I’m doing well,” I said, my eyes wandering over to the doorway. I couldn’t understand why he’d chosen to leave the door open – the hallway to the waiting room was very short, and based on what I’d heard when other patients went in to see the doctor, everyone in the waiting room would be able to hear the entire doctor-patient interaction. Definitely not cool in my book, but instead of confronting the doctor about it, I opted to speak in a much quieter tone of voice than normal. At this point, I just wanted the appointment to be over.
He spent 15 minutes running the standard eye tests (read the chart in front of you, does this setting make it better or worse, etc.), then dilated my eyes. I was sent back to that horrid waiting room for another 20 minute while the dilation took effect. When he called me back in to give my dilated pupils a final inspection, the following exchange happened:
Doctor: You know, I saw a patient the other day who was diagnosed with diabetes at birth.
Me: Yeah, I know a couple of people who were diagnosed as babies. It’s awful.
Doctor: Even though he’s had it his entire life, he doesn’t take very good care of it. He’s got diabetic retinopathy now. *shuffles paperwork*
Me: *Fidgeting uncomfortably in the chair, waiting for him to add to that. A long 20 seconds elapses before he finally says…*
Doctor: Fortunately, that’s not the case for you.
Um, WTF, Doc?! What’s up with that weird dramatic pause? Were you TRYING to freak me out? Mission accomplished, dude. But my oh my, such a sweet relief to hear that there is no diabetes in my eyes.
As I walked out of the building a few moments later, I couldn’t help but think about how this was a textbook example of how an appointment shouldn’t go. I left feeling an odd mix of emotions: disappointment with my doctor’s behavior as well as relief with his assessment that my eyes, at least, were proof of my well-managed (NOT under control) diabetes.