The word “Diabetic” and having the gumption to call it out.

The word diabetic is often used to describe a person that has diabetes.

Diabetic is used in print and is spoken out loud by a range of people, but it isn’t exactly a compliment.

Not everyone is sensitive to how they are generally described.

However, the word diabetic is a label that puts the disease

before the person. 

Question: do any of these statements have a slightly more offensive ring to them?

You are congestive heart failure.

You are cancer.

You are a celiac. 

You are gout. 

You are thyroiditis. 

People are not often identified as a disease, but somehow, diabetes has an identity.

Not everyone minds being called a Diabetic although, using it as a label matters for a number of reasons. And it starts at the top. The people who identify as diabetes professionals must use optimistic and empowering language. They also must know when to adjust their tone to address the emotional needs of patients.

Sadly, in a clinic that is pressed for time, patients exist on a revolving wheel of prescriptions. Language and emotional health may not be priorities.

Here’s the story:

I schooled an ophthalmologist last week. He’s a good guy but I was provoked by a medical assistant (MA) who worked way too fast and rough for my liking. Nobody likes to feel impatience oozing from someone with the power to drop stinging liquid into their eye balls. Also, I was the only one in the lobby and somehow I had to wait 20 minutes.

How in the heck does this happen every time? I hate waiting.

MA and I are both wearing masks, which puts a barrier on reading facial expressions and I need to show mine to communicate. If I had a song to my name it might be called My Face Don’t Lie. 

Splash! The first round of stinging liquid bombs my eye sockets.

MA rolls into the keyboard and attacks with verifying questions, or were they judgements? And what do you think the leading question was?

An accusation in question form: “you’re a Diabetic?” 

“I am.”

Then the quick fire began: 

MA: “controlled?”

“Yep.” 

MA: “testing multiple times daily.” (not a question)

“No, I’m on a continuous glucose monitor.” 

MA: “Pump.” (not a question) 

“No pump.” 

MA: “you’re a diabetic, type 1... How long?” 

“26 and a half years and I’m a diabetes educator.”

I had to say it. It’s not my place to state my rank when I’m not working but I reckon it was necessary this time. I remained tight lipped, while an electrical fuzz of anger started creeping up my spine. The same anger I’ve managed to keep under control by teaching indoor cycling classes.

MA: “Aww, really? (Sympathetic sigh) Did you mean for that to happen?” 

Pausing… I wasn’t thinking about this career path when I was a teenager with a double-digit A1C.

How I kept my composure after this question was an inconceivable miracle.

“Yeah, I did. I’m a national educator on nutrition and exercise for people with type 1, hoping to change the way we view diabetes as positive rather than negative.” Eat that, lady.

I was entering what I call “the red zone” while feeling like I was trapped in an exam chair that I last saw in a slasher film.

I wanted to shake MA awake. I remember thinking why me, why here? This crap never ends, does it?

Regardless, my manifesto flew over MA’s head faster than a gnat in the wind. 

Splash! Second round of stinging liquid eye bombs. 

MA sits back at the keyboard and runs through a medications list, eye care history, and some other repetitive stuff as I blotted my eyes.

Splash! Final round of stinging liquid eye bombs.

I was directed to read letters off a screen to test my sight before having the room to dilate by myself. Alone, finally.

I fidgeted and anxiously bounced my feet pondering what to say. I searched all corners of the tiny torture room, looking for ideas like a cat following a laser dot. As the ophthalmologist knocks on the door, I instantly settle on the words I’m going to use next.

Okay… Bring it on. 

It’s my first time meeting this young, friendly doctor. We chat and I get called a Diabetic a few more times. Once he rolls up close to my face to check my vision I have him right where I want him.

“Hey doc, Anybody ever tell you that this MA isn’t their favorite?”

Doc: “No-no, everything okay?”

“Well, I’d like to send you something about language use and diabetes.”

Doc: “I’m sorry, I can talk to you much more high-level since you’re in the field.”

“Oh no, I don’t mean that. You can talk to me like a little kid especially when it’s about my eyes. I’m talking about how medical professionals talk to people with diabetes. Can I send you a paper?” 

Doc listened attentively as I explained why I’m sensitive to being called “a Diabetic” and why people with diabetes can feel ashamed by labels. We talked about patients with type 2 diabetes who might feel like being a Diabetic is their identity and the more they hear themselves referred to as a disease rather than living with one, the less likely they are to feel motivated to change.

Being called “a Diabetic” has an undertone that can mean sadness, depression, shame, or failure, for some of us. 

It was a good talk. I walked out with doc’s email address in heroic stride. 

I thought more deeply on my actions once I got to the car. Did I go too far? Was I a jerk for telling on the MA? Honestly, I can’t help it anymore. 

I think we can all agree that calling people by a label isn’t very nice. Even if intentions are harmless, we should know better. Especially those working in chronic care who see what disease does to a person. 

And this makes me think of one very special character who can teach us a few things about identity and Language.… Forrest Gump.

Gump was very clear about one thing:

He did not like to be called stupid.

He was a complex and misunderstood character. His best qualities were overlooked by people who only saw his disability. If Forrest let people call him stupid he may have started to believe them. His story would’ve been much different if he decided that being stupid was a reason to stop trying. 

Instead, Forrest let his challenges motivate him to show the world that he wasn’t stupid. See Captain Dan for the opposite example until he realizes that people calling him a cripple was not his identity. Then he went on to live a whole new life.

Diseases could be talked about in a way that motivates people to tap into their inner Forrest and use their challenges to find strength. All it takes is intentional language to help someone think differently about diabetes.

1) It is critical for health experts to use positive language; practicing this skill may begin with the way they talk to themselves.

2) To the person with diabetes, be bold enough to correct an authority figure. They need our insight to get better at their craft.

I pass the language baton to you, from one person using diabetes as a strength to another.