There's a time and place for every conversation. I know this sounds weird coming from the girl from the funeral family who routinely talks about all things death at the dinner table and who isn't squeamish about much. But seriously, there are some things I just don't want to focus on, say, during my annual well woman exam.

Maybe I was just set off a bit when E. gave me the diabetes look of pity when, in response to her asking how things were with my diabetes, I told her that I found out I am type 1 and not type 2. I think I zoned out right then as she began telling me her history with diabetes.

As you know, I like to have lively diabetes discussions, I like to educate, I like to debunk myths; there were plenty of opportunities for me to interject during E.'s oral history. One particularly good chance for me to slap her in the face came when she said, "Thank God I'm not type 1." But I couldn't seem to bring myself to do anything under the circumstances. I mean, when you're getting felt up by someone you see once a year, the only thing you want to think about are the number of ceiling tiles you can count.

And then there was the Splenda topic. Yes, it gets worse! Since her husband was diagnosed with diabetes a month ago, they just don't keep sweets or sugar in the house anymore. They always have Splenda or Equal, she told me. While I managed to mutter that I preferred Splenda, I was mostly left out of the conversation between E. and her nurse about how good it tastes, whether they cook with it, and how much of it to use when cooking with it. It was like I wasn't even there.

I suppose there are worse, more inappropriate topics to discuss in this situation, and I guess it's better to have some small talk versus complete silence, but this one-sided discussion left a bitter taste in my mouth.