Old School Diabetes: Med ID.
"We bought a new fridge," my dad said to me over lunch.
"Oh yeah?" I said out loud. "We had that thing forever, right?" (Refrigerators are the cockroaches of kitchen appliances. Things just don't die.)
"Just about. But when the guys came to deliver the new fridge and take the old one away, this was somehow wound around bars in the back."
He handed me a medical alert bracelet that I remember wearing, with the red, raised Staff of Asclepius (or, as I called it when i was little, "that snake on a stick") that used to get caught on my pony tail and the pocket of my jeans. The metal links were thick and sturdy, designed for the repeated destruction attempts (and I think I've broken no fewer than seven on the emergency brake in my old car). It was beaten up, from years on my wrist and then a subsequent decade under the old refrigerator.
I brought it home and put it in my jewelry box, alongside my Clara Barton Camp "Bartonian" pin. Twenty-five years with diabetes has given rise to some interesting collections of memories, some that live in my jewelry box, some that hide under the fridge for decades, and some that stay tangled up in my heart.