I’ve been putting off going to my eye doctor for a couple of years now, even though I really need it. I’m supposed to go annually ever since my diabetes diagnosis. Even though I have to take off my glasses and hold a piece of paper up to my nose to read it, I still procrastinate. Beyond having a ridiculously busy schedule, I have to ask WHY? I keep forgetting the name of the opthamologist. I keep having to ask my endocrinologist, What was her name again? And I write it down. And then I forget again.
Today I remembered something which I think is the clue to my “forgetfulness.”
I remember sitting in the chair with my eyes all dilated and blurred. I think the doctor asked me something about my medical history. I said I did not know because I was adopted. (sigh)
She said, “You were adopted? How CUUUUUUTE!”
I was stunned. For one thing, I was over fifty years old. This was a real trigger for someone who really, really dislikes being seen as an eternal adopted “child.” Even if we are thirty, fifty or ninety years old, some will always see us as “children.”
As I was peering blindly at a printed page this morning, this memory suddenly hit me and I realized why I will never, ever go back to this opthamologist again. This is just one of those microaggressions that has a long lasting internal ripple effect. Even if she meant no harm. (I’m sure she didn’t! She thinks adoption is cute!) I just realize I have no desire to go back to a health professional and use my eye exam time educating her about adoption. I just want to get my damn prescription fixed.
Now I’ve got to start searching through the fine print of the Yellow Pages and find one that might have a clue.