I scoured my insurance company's database for an endocrinologist that was neither too far away, whose primary language wasn't something other than English and who got their medical degree from a school I actually recognized.

Like I said, I scoured. I got frustrated. Extremely frustrated. I'm in the fifth-largest city in the nation whose population consists of the elderly, Hispanics and a number of Indian groups -- all of whom are especially prone to diabetes. Why isn't there an endo on every stinking corner?!

I finally gave up on finding a doctor in network and decided to fork over whatever out-of-network charges my insurance company won't cover for a doctor I'll actually enjoy visiting with.

And then Mom told me there's a Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale, Ariz. It's practically in the backyard of my new, amazing job. I poo-pooed the idea of even considering trying to make an appointment. The Mayo Clinic isn't for someone like me, I thought. It's for people who are really, really sick. Appointments are probably six months out anyway.

But wait a minute. Why shouldn't I seek out the best possible care for myself? Why shouldn't I seek the expert expert? I shouldn't have to be stuck with a doctor and a treatment method that's mediocre. Sure, there are people who need more attention than I do, but shouldn't we all put ourselves out there to get the best for us? Why shouldn't I at least try to take advantage of the premium care that's available to me?

So I called to make an appointment. I was, frankly, a little nervous because I still had that "But I'm not that bad" mentality. I was "pre-screened," given a patient ID number and told that there were no guarantees that the doctors would accept me.

I sit and wait now for three to five business days. Just enough time for me to question my decision repeatedly.