Boston traffic sucks.
Especially in the summertime.
To save myself some unnecessary frustration, I did something that I do not normally do: booked a few local medical appointments here in Rhode Island.
Don’t get me wrong: In my graduate studies I met many nurses and healthcare folks who work in our small state and do a darn good job making patients well. But, having begun my care in Boston at a young age, I historically stuck with the endearingly-nicknamed “Mecca of Healthcare” for my treatment.
An hour commute is a small price to pay for the best healthcare on earth. I grew up in the Joslin waiting room, watching families fly in from all over the world to seek help for their kids. I accompanied my #MedX bestie, Danielle Edges, and her brave daughter, Alex, when they traveled to Boston Children’s Hospital from Phoenix, AZ, earlier this year. Trust me: Boston has it going on, and I am always cognizant of how blessed I am to live relatively close to these topnotch facilities.
The problem, though, is that my trips have not been an hour commute for as long as I can remember lately. Between traffic coming from and going to Boston, as well as time with the provider, I am usually gone for 6 to 8 hours per appointment. The bags underneath my eyes were growing larger by the day, and my attitude was strained. I needed a break.
So, I made a pact with myself: For reasons of self-care, I would book some “non-essential” appointments back home in Lil Rhody. While every medical appointment is certainly important, the urgency is not necessarily there for this local stuff, versus the “essential” diabetes tune-ups that I receive in Boston.
One hot afternoon in July, I gulped down my coffee and headed inside a RI dermatologist’s office. I have experienced itchy-then-painful blisters on my hands since childhood, and no doctor has ever been able to crack the code. If the best providers in Boston specializing in autoimmune disorders don’t know, how will anyone else? I naively wondered. But, with the commute being a mere 15 minutes, it was worth a shot.
I arrived early to fill out new patient paperwork as instructed. Parking had been easy- no expensive, overfilled parking garages. The receptionist and intake nurse were both friendly. And finally, it was time to see the doctor. She was kind and concise.
“Do you have a blister right now?”
“Yes. It’s healing,” I replied, extending my hand for further inspection.
“Oh, I know exactly what this is. It’s dyshidrotic eczema- common in diabetics. I’m actually shocked that you went through decades of your life with no diagnosis for this; how awful! I’ll prescribe you some hydrocortisone creams which should help,” RI Doctor advised.
+1 for the local expert!
I am a little miffed that Boston dropped the ball on this for so long, considering I looked like a burn victim who couldn’t hold a pencil in third grade due to the severity of the blisters. However, I am SO grateful to finally have an answer and effective treatment options!
Then it was time for the mole check. Melanoma does not discriminate between right arm or left arm, right butt cheek or left butt cheek. Almost every inch of the body is observed to ensure safety. Smart, yet still kind of awkward…
“Just so you know, I’m wearing a…” I began.
“A thong?” RI Doctor replied.
We’ve seen it all, honey, the observing nurse thought.
“Actually, it’s a continuous glucose monitor for my type 1 diabetes. It’s on my…”
*Ten seconds later*
“Oh! Good thing you warned me!” RI Doctor exclaimed, having located the sensor where the sun doesn’t often shine.
As odd as it was to have a conversation while naked in a room among new acquaintances, the professionalism and thoroughness of the doctor made the experience more bearable. I felt at ease knowing that the eczema- which has for years induced a stress response in my body, and, therefore, my BGs- would finally be tamed, and that the funky mole on my ribs was nothing dangerous.
“When were you diagnosed with type 1?” RI Doctor asked.
“Just before my third birthday.”
“And your parents caught it early?”
“Early enough that I survived. But I was in DKA.”
And then I thought again about the little boy whose name I still do not know, who passed away from complications of T1D diagnosed too late, just a few days before my arrival in the same ER.
“Wow. That must have been so hard,” RI Doctor wondered aloud.
“That must have been so hard. It is so hard,” she pushed.
“It is…” I admitted.
And there it was: the truth, exposed. Diabetes is hard. But we’re still fighting.
Sometimes localized empathy makes all the difference.