A Diaversary.

All of us have days we celebrate — card companies thrive on it. But for most people, there are also dates that we silently choose to acknowledge. Dates that represent a before and after; a past and present; a life that you can never go back to. For me, that date came 12 years ago today.

When I was first diagnosed with diabetes, my whole world flipped upside down. Doctors were suddenly throwing around foreign terms like “boluses” and “basals.” I had to learn how to count carbohydrates, measure up a hypodermic needle with insulin, and pray that my math was accurate. Food suddenly became a life-or-death algebra problem. And I will be the first to admit, algebra was never my style.

I spent one very intense week at Yale’s 7-4 unit — filled with doctor’s trying to erase 15 years of habits and introduce a lifetime’s worth of new ones. At that time, I could only think about what my life was like an hour ago, twenty-four hours ago, a week ago. My mind was so immeshed in what I had lost that all I could do was dwell on what my life was before.

Now, 12 years later, that “before” seems like such a small blip in my life. I find it hard to remember life without this incessant companion. I can’t recall the taste of a sip of regular soda. I’ve lost the impulse to have orange juice with every breakfast. Carrying around extra pump supplies is second nature.  The bionic technology trying to replicate my pancreas no longers feels like an intrusion.

12 years of perspective.

 

That is almost a year’s worth of sleep lost. Ain’t no rest for the wicked.

 

As I sit here and write this I realize I have an adolescent-aged disease. Next year, my disease will be a teenager (a grumpy, petulant teenager seems like an accurate description). I hoped after 12 years with this disease I’d have a better grip on it. And yet I sit here, still hoping someone will revoke my diabetes card.

Diabetes has never and will never be an easy road. The amount of hours of sleep I’ve lost from highs, lows, and the fear of both is innumerable. As both my disease and I have aged, I now worry about things like adequate insurance, and the rising costs of insulin. I often find my mind wondering what ill-effects my blood sugar or a1c will mean in the future.

Perspective doesn’t make the difficult times disappear. I still wish I never had diabetes. It definitely crosses my mind when I’ve been woken up for the sixth time in one night by my continuous glucose monitor’s alarm. It surely pops up on those days when I’ve done everything right and I still can’t keep my numbers in-range. And always during the winter, when I’m usually nursing away my third infection of the season.

But perspective has been an incredible educator. No one is immune to hardships and tragedy in this life. But through mine, I’ve cultivated a strong sense of empathy. I now celebrate small victories like when my a1c decreases by a point. I’ve learned what my breaking point is after a few years of trying to handle this disease on my own. I own that it truly takes a village: endocrinologists, nurse practitioners, a therapist, understanding friends, and caring family. It’s given me a unique sense of humor that’s accompanied me through life’s many peaks and valleys.

You know you’ve got a good crew when they steal signs for your group photo. (2012)

I love my Diaversary; maybe even more than my own birthday. My birthday is arbitrary, I had no choice in the date. But I choose to celebrate and acknowledge my Diaversary. The day represents a re-birth. A start of a new life, a new journey. Stuck in 7-4,  I couldn’t even begin to imagine having this disease for a year. Then it was five years and later a decade. Now 12 years have gone by.

Diabetes was a reckoning in my life. And as my diabetes ages — going from adolescence to puberty — I hope that I never stop learning from it. I hope to keep lowering my a1c, giving myself the best chance for the future. I hope to one day not live in fear of the night. And deep down, some part of me still holds onto that hope for a cure. But for now, I am lucky enough that I get to live, survive, and thrive.

Cheers to many, many more.