And truly, it is kind of normal. This has been my normal for seven and a half years now. Those seven and a half years feel acute. I have noticed every moment of them, every second of the presence of Type 1 Diabetes in my life. How could you not? Early on, when I was diagnosed, I used to dream of going through a drive through or eating lunch and just eating. Not stuffing my face eating. I mean, eating without thinking about it. No counting carbs, no stopping to check my blood sugar or give insulin. What would it be like to think of food as just food again? What would it be like to not think twice? For my days to not be filled with practical little math equations and calculations in my head?
I don't remember anymore. I don't remember, and that upsets me. I have to think long and hard about those times now, because it has been so long. I have to try to forget that Diabetes happened to me. Because the truth is, the feeling of normal has been erased from my life. I can hardly remember a time now where I don't think of food in the way that I do now. I could try - and have tried - to salvage that. I've tried to ignore the illness that is there, stop caring for myself in some silly protest that accomplishes nothing except for harming myself. I've had burnout, gotten tired of being a full-time pancreas. But it doesn't erase the loss of normal. Nothing does.
We take for granted the little things in our life that are normal. Working as a physical therapist has taught me that, and so has living with a chronic illness. How many things do you - do I - take for granted each day? Our ability to walk, to talk, to remember, simply to be free to have autonomy over your schedule and when you want to do things that you want to do, or to eat food, or a number of things. I work all day with people who have lost so much autonomy over their lives because of their debility. It makes your heart ache! I cannot be mad at myself or for other people who take these little things for granted that add up to so much. I don't think it's truly possible to fully appreciate them until you miss them. I know that was the case for me. And now that it's happened, I spend every day wishing I could go back to how things were.
That sounds really sad, and it is sad, but it's not supposed to be completely sad. I do appreciate what diabetes has done in my life. I don't mean the stress of paying for it, or the highs and lows, or the needles, the insurance woes. I appreciate that it's changed me, though. Suffering deepens us. I, personally, like the rest of humanity, do not like suffering. But I do know that I am a deeper person for what I have gone through. Someone once close to me told me, "I don't know if I'd know you the same way if I had met you before you were diagnosed with Type 1." This comment upset me a little bit at first. Were they saying they defined me by it? That wasn't the case, though. They had an illness too. Having an illness has helped me to connect with a lot of other people going through their own suffering when it comes to help. Having an illness has helped me to identify with a platform I care deeply about. It's given me a lot of ground to stand on. Do I hate it? Every day. But I am who I am with it. This is my life. I have many things I love about my life, and I'm incredibly blessed, and I have found ways to make peace with the difficulty.
I am reminded as I lay on the floor, feeling too weak to get up, that this isn't normal. I laugh a little bit at that. How many little moments throughout the day do I go through these things and no one sees? I down glucose tabs as I face paint a big gig, not skipping a beat, even when my shaking hand can't keep the paintbrush steady due to a hypoglycemic attack. I'm sweating in between patients, I try to take a quick break in the office, steady my feet, drink some juice to not feel this way. Go back out to treat too soon because I can't let Diabetes get in the way of my job. I lie on the floor of an apartment that isn't mine with friends. They tell me I can eat some of their pizza, but I've already ate to correct the low. If I eat more, my blood sugar will get too high from the over correction. This is hard to explain. It's hard to explain that you don't feel instantly better after eating, either. I just wait until my body cooperates again. Every low is different. How do you explain the difference between a bad low, an okay low, and really bad low? You can't. You can try, but they don't quite understand. And that separates you from people, and you have to learn to be okay with that, and not be bitter about that.
This isn't normal. It's my normal, but it isn't normal. I was once normal. Once, and it's hard to remember now. I will manage. In a few minutes, I'll be fine. But sometimes, I remember that this is an experience I often carry alone, when it comes to the people around me that I know. That's hard, and that's humbling. But I hope that you, the reader, read this - and take a little less for granted today. I hope you know that I feel for you, in the ways that you may suffer that are invisible to the eye. It is not easy to have invisible problems, or an invisible illness. Let's be kind to each other. Let's try to understand a little better. That way, we bear these burdens feeling a little less alone.
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