During this week’s #DSMA chat, a sidebar discussion about diabetes haiku broke out, and in a matter of seventeen syllables, things took a poetic term.
I was reminded of a post from a few years ago about insulin haiku that still rings true because I’m clearly still hooked on the stuff:
Such a small bottle
with such a huge influence
on my whole damn life.
In a carefully orchestrated combination of syllables, what would your diabetes haiku say?
Am I the only one who stops when this number pops up on a glucose meter and thinks, “Damn. That could be on the meter advertisement box. I’ve got this.”
(Ignore the fact that I will surely be low, or high, or somewhere not exactly 104 mg/dL in a matter of hours. But in that moment, I’ve got this. Actually, since writing my post the other day, I’ve been actively working to spend more time in range and I’m seeing better results. Averages are tipping back into my favor, and I’m reminded once again how much of diabetes is a total crap shoot and how much is something I can change … and how much those ratios of crap:change fluctuate.)
“And then Marcus gave me a Valentine and it had SPIDERMAN STICKERS on it and I love Spiderman stickers so that was the best Valentine I got except the one from Maddie that had a pencil and that was ALSO THE BEST ONE,” yelled Birdzone from the backseat as I was buckling myself into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah? So Valentine’s Day at school was awesome?” I asked her, reaching over my left shoulder to grab the belt.
And then I felt that familiar, gentle * pop * of the infusion set coming loose from the back of my arm.
Rarely do I have the chance to use my emergency supplies (which is a plus because that means I rarely have emergencies), but I always carry them. Even though I wear an insulin pump, I keep a back-up pen of Humalog floating around in my purse. Sure, it will eventually expire and I’ll have to swap it out for a new one, but in a pinch, it’s enough.
And even though it’s a bulky little spaceship to keep on hand, I always have a back-up Inset for just-in-case moments, like when I accidentally rip out my infusion set in the parking lot of Birdy’s school.
This is why I don’t ever pack light; when you’re a klutzy PWD, a small purse just isn’t an option.
“Mom, what is that rose?” she asked as colored at the kitchen table.
“It is part of a thing I’m working on that helps kids with diabetes who need insulin.”
“You give them insulin?”
“Kind of. These kids live in countries that are far from here, but they have diabetes like I do. And their fridge doesn’t have insulin in it, so we’re helping to give them insulin.”
“What happens if they don’t get insulin?”
“They can get sick. And feel really bad. So insulin helps keep them from getting sick.”
It’s hard to explain to my daughter why our fridge has insulin in it and why I don’t worry about where my next injection is coming from. It’s hard to explain why insulin is so small, so silent, but so important in keeping her mother alive.
“I want to help. I’m not a doctor but I can help,” she said. “We can take one of your bottles of insulin in the fridge and put it in a FedEx and send it over to those kids.”
“We send a little bit of money that helps do that. Five dollars. It helps.”
“So they can have insulin, too?”
“And so they can not be sick?”
“That sounds like a good idea, mom.”