We were talking about meeting with Christel and how long she and I have both had diabetes.  Over twenty years for both of us.  Over twenty years for so many of us.

We don’t talk much about diabetes at home.  Sure, there’s plenty of talk about the blog and work and different projects, but the disease itself is usually held at arm’s length.  We understand how serious it is but can’t face life with such a furrowed brow all the time.  It’s just a press release.  It’s just a URL.  It’s just all these people blogging about different lives with the same disease.

There are moments I forget I’m living with it, too. 

“What about clinical trials?”  “What about generic insulin?”  “What about that guy with the thing in that country who cured the mouse?”  “What about helping people understand the differences between type 1 and type 2?”  “What about medical insurance?”  “We should think about a [insert project here] or maybe contacting some people for a [insert another idea here].”

And he’s so excited about the possibilities for making a difference.  His eyes are shining in that way that reflects true hope and effortless love, in that way unfamiliar with what twenty-one years feels like, because he has barely known three.  He wants to make a difference.  And I do, too.  But tonight, I just wanted to make dinner.

We're in this together.  All of us.

He stops.

“I’m sort of preaching to the choir, aren’t I?”

I nod and smile.

“I’m with you, Chris.  I’m just sort of tired of singing.”

My face feels hot.  My eyes tear up.  I’m not done fighting and not done advocating and not done trying to make a difference, but I’m feeling so tired at this moment, and so uninspired. 

“I’m with you, for all of this.  Forever, you know.”

His words reach right into my heart, folding close around the raw parts of me that don’t ever sleep.  I crumble in, held close against the man who will take care of me now, while I’m healthy, and who will care for me should body start to fail.  It feels intense and overwhelming.  And I cry, surprising myself with ragged breaths and burning tears. 

I forget I sometimes feel this way, all lost and tumble-dried.

I have a good cry.  He holds me and I feel better.  I’m grateful for my support system, both in my home, in the folds of my family, and in the wilds of the internet.  Love and support makes every shot less painful, every number less judgmental, every hurdle more surmountable.

I suddenly feel inspired again.

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