Today is D-Day: my 43rd diaversary.
43 years ago, when I was 9 years old, I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. Back in 1979 while I spent 2 weeks in hospital being ‘stabilised’, my mum was told not to worry because there would be a cure within 10 years. I’ve heard they are still telling newly diagnosed patients the same thing. It helps take away the sting of ‘incurable’.
This is me and my insulin pump this morning before I got dressed. Yes, I am wired to it 24/7. Closer than a lover, I sleep with it, eat with it, fight with it sometimes.
I’ve been wired to a box for the past 14 years. It drips insulin into me. I refill it every 3 days.
Sometimes it gets blocked and I get poorly. It’s only a machine.
Previously, I injected myself multiple times per day for almost 30 years. Occasionally I would calculate the wrong amount of insulin and got poorly. I’m only human.
My insulin pump is not automatic. It does not know how much insulin to give me. I have to tell it. We are a team.
After 43 years, I have days when I am fed up of yo-yo-ing blood glucose levels and constant blood glucose testing. Of being tired and losing concentration due to dangerously high blood sugar levels – other times losing consciousness due to dangerously low blood sugar levels. I live alone. I am responsible for all the bills. My cat is highly strung. Everything is so unfair.
When I start feeling like this, I stop and take a good look around me with gratitude:
My life overall is vibrant and full. I have countless adventures. Interesting work. Big dreams. A wonderful daughter. Great friends. A home filled music and laughter. Proof that I can create anything I want.
Except insulin.