For the Wego Health Challenge, the idea today is to: Write a letter to your condition – what do you want to get off your chest?
Stop stalking me.
It’s been thirty years. Do you not get it by now? You creep me out, always lurking in the background, waving from the corner, letting me know you’re always here.
I see you. Believe me, I do. In every blood sugar check. In every lab result. In every glance in the mirror, looking like the Seven of Nine I am (without the boobs or the tight suit). There are days that you’re all I see, especially when I’m sick. I never know if I’m just “normal person sick” or “diabetes sick” or “normal person sick but diabetes gave you an extra somethin’ somethin’ just because…”.
I hear you. Beeping with my pump. Shrieking with my CGM. Hiccuping. (Yeah, that was an interesting low blood sugar symptom for a while. Nice touch.) Getting through meetings with you can be a total pain in the ass when you’ve decided to speak up unannounced. Making me cry has been a popular trick for you throughout the years. It’s no wonder why people don’t like you. You’re mean.
I feel you. In the middle of the night, shaking and shivering until a tepid juice box sends you slinking off into the darkness. Tattooing yourself in tiny pockmarked patterns on my fingers with pricks that still sting after all this time. Every needle inserted into my skin is a reminder that you are always there.
I taste you. That cloying dry Juicy Fruit sweetness of a long high. That rich coppery slickness of blood on my tongue after I check. That unwanted food that must be eaten when I’m not hungry. In all of these, I still taste the bitterness of you, diabetes.
Sending you on a vacation didn’t work. Ignoring you failed. You were still there, but brought friends over to party. Some friends, dude. Trigger finger? Frozen shoulder? Clinically significant macular edema? (Nice laser light show for the party when you showed up with him in tow.)
So, here’s the deal. While I’d love to tell you to meet other people, I wouldn’t want to burden anyone else with the remora-like behavior that you exhibit.
This is what I have to offer:
You can chill here a little while longer, but no funny business.
See, there are new friends I want you to meet and they’re going to eventually become my new bodyguards. Meet JDRF’s Artifical Pancreas Project and Beacon Hill’s Bionic Pancreas. They’ll keep me safe until the big guns arrive to kick your ass to the curb. I’m not quite sure who it will be at this point. Could be someone out of Dr. Denise Faustman’s Lab or Diabetes Research Institute. Hell, maybe even someone I haven’t met yet.
I don’t like you. Never have, never will. You’re a leech, trying to suck the life out of everyone who is unfortunate enough to be in your presence. This has to stop. You can’t have my life. It’s not yours to take. We can agree to disagree on how my pancreas should treat me, but I won’t waver on one thing…
You will stop stalking me soon.
Bet on it.