This week, in my quest to become a Lady of Suburbia, I went to Marshall’s to pick up a lamp. (I also bought pumpkin coffee beans. Whilst wearing yoga pants yet not doing yoga. In the middle of the day. Forgive me.)
The cashier was a nice lady who wanted to chat. As she was ringing my purchases up, we both overheard the cashier next to her ask a patron if they’d like to donate to the JDRF. “No, not today.”
“I hope some people say yes about donating to JDRF,” I said quietly to my cashier.
She nodded as she put my things into a bag. “Yeah, most people say no. I haven’t had a single donation yet today, but I had a few yesterday. I always ask, though. It means a lot to me.”
“Oh yeah? Do you have a personal connection to diabetes?”
“I do. My dad has diabetes. Type 1, since he was about eight years old.”
“Really? Me, too. I was diagnosed when I was seven.”
She looked at my face, then her eyes drifted to my hip, where my insulin pump was visibly clipped. “No kidding? Is that your pump?”
“It is. I’ve been pumping for about ten years. I use a continuous glucose monitor, too.”
“My dad is old school. He does the injections with syringes. He’s had it my whole life. He’s had some low blood sugars that I remember.”
“My daughter is five. I bet she’ll have stories about my diabetes when she’s our age, too.” I smiled at this woman who was the fast-forward of my own little Bird, a child without diabetes raised by a person with diabetes. This woman’s understanding of my own day-to-day was intimate, and we had yet to exchange names.
As I paid for my purchases, she raised an eyebrow. “Do I even have to ask if you’re donating?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Count me in for a sneaker or two. One for me, one for your dad.”
— Kerri / Diabetes (@sixuntilme) September 22, 2015