Thirty-Six
Yesterday, my diabetes turned 36 years old.
“You’ll have this forever. You know what forever means, right?” my parents said to me, thirty-six years ago.
“Like until Christmas?”
(I didn’t know what forever meant.)
“Like for all Christmases.”
Hmmm. That’s a long time. I thought about this for a bit. And then we got on with things.
I used to prick my finger with this giant lancing device. We called it “the guillotine” and the prickly part would hurl towards the pad of my finger at an alarming rate. I’d coax out a droplet of blood to put on the chemstrip pad, wait sixty seconds, wipe the blood drop away with a cotton ball, and then stick the color-changing pad into a glucose meter the size of a sandwich. Sixty seconds after that, I’d had a blood glucose result. This was an upgrade from the urinalysis kit I received after diagnosis, where my urine was poured into test tubes, then an analysis tablet was dropped in, changing the color of my pee to show how much sugar it contained.
The insulin I injected every morning and every evening was a mix of Regular and NPH. My mother would roll the bottle of NPH between her hands to mix the cloudy liquid before drawing it back into a syringe. I’d take an injection before breakfast, and the rest of the day would be spent timing my food to the peak pattern of my insulin.
My blood sugars would run high, and I’d take a correction dose of Regular insulin by syringe. It would take 45 – 50 minutes to become active in my system. I’d go for a walk around my childhood neighborhood to get the insulin absorbing faster, or I’d run in place for a bit. But I peed on a ketone test strip first to make sure my body wasn’t breaking down fat stores for energy first.
My mother would move my jaw with the heel of her hands to help me chew when hypoglycemia made me too weak to eat on my own. I could drink a juice box while I was still asleep. I kept needles in my backpack for school. My friends liked walking me to the nurse’s office when I was low. Their support was so simple and so thorough. A few kids made fun of me for having diabetes. Fuck them, though.
I don’t remember much of anything about my life before diabetes. Almost everything has come after. I actually had to do the math between September 1986 to September 2022 because I wasn’t sure if it has been 35 or 36 years – it’s that old. I’m that old. (I’m that crummy at math.) It’s just been around for fucking ever.
I don’t think I’ve ever kept butter in the butter compartment. I have absolutely no concept of just sitting down to eat without doing math first. I do not understand when people leave their house with “just their keys.” I could buy a car with what I’ve spent on fruit snacks. I’ve tasted a little bit of death and it tastes like airplane glue washed over teeth in sweaters.
Diabetes is always there. Always, always, always. Even when I’m not thinking about it. Even when I don’t mind it. Even when it’s easy. Even when I could really use a break from it.
I prick my finger about ten times a year now, instead of ten times a day. Insulin courses through me by way of an insulin pump that is connected to my continuous glucose monitor, and it takes 15 minutes to take action on my blood sugar. I count carbs and use my insulin-to-carb ratio to calculate my insulin dose. I worry constantly about having access to the medications I need. I sleep through the night more often now than I ever did before, thanks to these advancements. But it’s still diabetes.
My kids had friends over to play yesterday. They were laughing so hard. The sound of their joy went into my mouth and down my throat and through the belly of me, coating the ache inside of me that is a little afraid to grow older and a little afraid to admit how hard diabetes is some days.
I savored that salve.
And then we got on with things.
