Diabetes Archives: An Open Letter to my Pancreas.
I'm in my last batch of travel for this round - thank goodness - but I've been really short on time lately and it's been tough to post. So I did a quick comb through the SUM archives and I'm revisiting some of my favorite posts from back in the day. This one, An Open Letter to my Pancreas, originally ran on November 15, 2006. (Before my wedding, as you can tell by the old "Morrone" there in the return address!)
I’m not sure what the hell happened to you, but you’ve taken it upon yourself to stop working. You did have that job for about six years, where you got up early every day and produced my insulin, but apparently that was too much for you. You were laid off or fired or something. Don’t blame it on that virus again. I think you just slept through the alarm and were let go and you just don’t want to admit it.
All you do is sit around, hiding out behind my stomach, reading smut novels and watching reruns of The Facts of Life. Sure, you push out the occasional juices and you can sound important when you talk about “trypsinogen” and “chymotrypsinogen,” but you and I both know that you don’t do much. It’s not even like you empty the dishwasher or anything. The least you could do, after I’ve been testing blood sugar levels and bolusing all day long, is have dinner on the table when I come home. Is that too much to ask?
Oh no, you’d rather just sit there like a bump on the duodenum, letting me do all the work. Don’t worry, Pancreas, I’ll make sure I count the carbohydrates in every little scrap of food and bolus accordingly. No, no, don’t get up. God forbid you raise an islet these days to let me have a cup of coffee.
And I don’t care that you’re jealous of The Pump. I’m sick of listening to you whine about it. “She gets all the attention.” “Everyone loves her best.” “You never made me a special pocket in your skirt.” Sigh ... Pancreas, if you would just do your job, I could toss The Pump forever.
Remember what it was like when you were working? How happy we were? I was playing outside and drinking the Bug Juice Kool-Aide that Grammie made and you were secreting insulin and everything was cool. We had fun, didn’t we? Just you and I? A Girl and her Pancreas? No pump, no measuring cups, no medic alert bracelet. Just you and me.
And now this: Unemployed. Lazy. Would it kill you to even just make some glucagon? Or maybe cover a meal or two?
I miss the way things used to be.
That’s it: you need to find a job. I’ve had just about enough of this. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to load your resume onto Monster and see what happens. I know that the Wonkas are always looking for help.