It slipped out of my hand and smacked against the tile floor, making a thick, heavy sound that went silent and caused guilt almost immediately, like dropping your mom’s favorite Christmas tree ornament and watching it smash into a dozen pieces.

Brand new bottle of insulin, used previously for one, single pump cartridge filling.  I had just taken it out of the insulin bottle protector I use to keep it safe.  The insulin escaped from the bottle via a small crack at the bottom, created a small, bandaid-scented puddle on the blue bathroom tile.

“Shit.  SHIT,” I muttered angrily, the pump cartridge needle held uselessly in my other hand.  (I thought briefly about taking a syringe and drawing back as much of the puddle as I could, and then reminded myself that whatever I earned was going to be injected into my body, and also, gross.)

Loopy wandered in and stuck her fuzzy, gray nose towards the puddle, intrigued.

“Ew, no, Loopster.  Hang on,” and I reached over to grab a wad of toilet paper to mop up $140 dollars worth of insulin spreading uselessly onto the bathroom floor.

I thought about insurance coverage, and the pharmacy down the road that would allow me to pick up a new bottle in a pinch, and the insulin pen at the bottom of my purse, and my job, and my support system and I felt guilty and blessed and lucky and grateful that, downstairs in the fridge, two full, pristine bottles of life-sustaining Humalog waited in the butter compartment.

 

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