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.
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.
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!