Some years ago, an intern decided I was “borderline diabetic.” Eventually, he decided I had crossed the line, and started treating me for Type 2 Diabetes with Metformin.

Some how – don’t ask me how – this information got to the DMV in my state. Now, every year, I have to have a doctor sign a form saying I am fit to drive a car.

This year, my doctor insisted on seeing me before signing the form. Usually, he just signs it and sends it off.

For the better part of a week I have been sacred to death the doctor wasn’t going to sign – effectively stripping me of my driving privilege.

He was almost an hour late for our appointment, so I stewed and stewed in my assigned room. I told the nurse I probably needed an A1c test, so she poked my finger and it came back at 7.5. I passed my first test.

Eventually, he showed up with one broken leg on a scooter. I forgave him immediately for his tardiness! He had broken his leg tripping in his own home!

I was all prepared for all kinds of tests and a complete physical, but he zipped through the interview.

“Do you have any shortness of breath?”

“No. I work out at the gym every day. Every Saturday I play basketball, including a three hour session this most recent Saturday.”

“Does your glucose ever go below 70?”
“No. My average is about 138.”

That was it. Signed. Faxed to the DMV. Go home.


I had fasted, expecting a cholesterol blood test, but none was taken.

So, as I left, I ate a wonderful candy bar my oldest son and his girlfriend gave me last week! It had all the stuff in it I shouldn’t eat!





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