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I stare at the rack of magazines. The latest stars, the latest trends, the latest everything all stare back at me from glossy pages.
As a college student, I want to be in style. I want to have the latest fads and know the latest "body secrets." As a self proclaimed "fashionista", I want these magazines to tell me all that I need to dress with the world. As a diabetic, I just want a glossy paged magazine for diabetics!
A magazine that shows the latest gadgets, the latest research, the latest success stories. But I want all that to be catered towards me: the college student, the fashionista. I want hot trends in meters, new diet tips and expert advice on all my questions.
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I got to the office at 8:00 AM. My appointment was for 8:30 so I figured I would read some magazines in the waiting room for a while before I met with my new endocrinologist.
After walking down a very long, narrow, and deserted hallway I found the room number. I took a deep breath and grabbed the door knob. It was locked.
Down the hallway and down the elevator I went and found a bench to park on for a while. As time ticked away I started thinking about what my doctor should look like or act like. I took out my Blackberry to check my email and to post some
Tweets.
8:20 rolled around and I headed back upstairs to the long, narrow, deserted hallway that I am sure I have seen in a movie. The door was still locked. I leaned up against the wall and waited.
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Remember that silly/sarcastic quote that people were spouting off some time ago? The one about stress? Stress: The confusion created when one's mind overrides the body's basic desire to choke the living daylights out of some jerk who desperately deserves it. I like it better when there are some choice words replaced, but this is a family place!
Stress comes in many forms, though, not just from anger and frustration, as the quote above demonstrates. Stress comes from having too much to do and not enough time to do it in; from lack of sleep; from poor blood sugar management; and a myriad other situations. All of which can wreak havoc on every part of your diabetes management.
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I met with a new endocrinologist last week. I decided as part of my pre-pregnancy planning to find a new diabetes care team. The maternal fetal medicine specialist I dealt with last pregnancy, who is also a diabetic, recommend this office. They aren't on my insurance plan, but we have a POS, so I can see whomever I want and get reimbursed 70 percent.
My old endo and I had a falling out earlier this year. I had problems with him throughout our year and a half long relationship and decided I needed to cut ties. I cannot believe what a difference a new office makes.
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Tidbit number one: I almost deleted the message because it sounded like a salesman. We get those calls sometimes--you know, people who leave messages for products or services. I really wonder if they really think they'll get calls back. Anyway, so it actually was a salesman and I still almost deleted it, but then I heard the keywords: Dr. C asked me to give you a call. Then I realized he said he was from Medtronic. So the three "I really hope you're having a good day" comments were part of his sales pitch. Ugh. This is how it starts. I hate being sold to. I mean, if you mask it well, then I guess I'm OK with it, but if you're going to sell me something and you're going to kiss my ass the whole time then I, frankly, don't want to hear it. I'm seriously thinking about telling him upfront, "Dude, don't talk to me like a customer. Talk to me like you're trying to convince your brother to buy your brand of pump.
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Getting dressed Monday morning I thought to myself that today was the day when my office-mates would finally ask me about diabetes. Over the weekend workers moved our entire 120ish-person workforce from one not-yet-renovated building into temporary quarters in the newly renovated building.
As I unpacked my box, I gingerly tacked my "cure diabetes" pin from Beth onto my cube wall near my computer screen, my bag of emergency Jelly Belly's went onto the open shelf above my computer along with popcorn, granola bars, juice boxes and sugar-free cough drops. Something is bound to tip them off, I thought.
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We were walking back to the condo from the community pool where my grandfather was undoubtedly presenting us to his bingo buddies as if we were royalty.
He'd stand between my brother and me and place a gentle hand on our freshly sunburned shoulders.
"These , are my boys."
I was 10, my brother 12.
"Here for a week," he'd boast to a gruff group of cigar-smoking 70-year-olds playing billiards in white loafers, plaid pants and large gold
Chai medallions resting in nests of grey chest hair.
Pop-pop was comfortable in the background. He was star quality amongst his friends, but preferred a minor role. He was a thinker; a quiet observer who'd yield a modest smile when his presence caused schools of synchronized swimmers to stop and shout his name. He was a man of few words. But, not when we were in town.
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I often wonder what the "best" age is to be diagnosed with diabetes. (I'm not saying there is a "best" but I wonder when it's "easiest" persay.)
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