Dear Doctor: You’re Fired
I’ve been trying to figure out how to have this conversation, but I think it’s probably best to be direct. I’m breaking up with you, Doctor. I’ve already taken steps to see someone new. And let me assure you, it’s not me, it’s you.
Part of it is the new “concierge service” you’re instituting, whereby I’ll be expected to fork over $1,800 out of pocket in order to just see you. (Your care is definitely not worth that kind of premium.)
Part of it is, no matter how specific I was with my prescription requests, you called in the wrong kind of test strips for me again.
Part of it is because your instructions on your prescriptions were so poor, the evil conglomerate pharmacy felt they had reason to restrict the number of test strips I was getting each month. (I’m also looking to break up with you, Evil Conglomerate Pharmacy whose name rhymes with Shmee Vee Shmess. But you can just wait your turn.)
Part of it is because, after six years, I still don’t think you know my name. You don’t know anything about me, and that’s just unacceptable.
And I’ll be honest, part of the problem is with me. I decided to keep seeing you, even though I don’t particularly like or respect you. It was just easy. I know that was wrong. I know I shouldn’t keep providing you the opportunity to give me poor service when that’s all I ever seemed to get.
So, I’ve decided to see someone else. Our first appointment is tomorrow. Don’t make this difficult; just accept it. Maybe your next patient will accept poor service partnered with a high premium in order to be able to access this service.
Not me. I’m done. Don’t let the metaphorical door hit you on your metaphorical ass on the way out of my life.
Type 1 Philly 