Everyone knows the joke. Johnny had 20 candy bars and ate 15.
How many does he have left? Diabetes.
Diabetes is the leading cause of blindness and kidney failure, the seventh leading cause of death, and it affects 25.8 million people in the United States. You don’t get diabetes just because you’re fat. No, it's not pink, and we don't have the NFL wearing our colors for a game, but we still are important. However, I deal with Diabetes with a little humor, to make it not seem as bad as it is.
After decades of testing, I could have built a mansion with all of my supplies. I also know that I could not be a criminal, because I tend to leave test strips everywhere I go—home, school, my car, and friends’ places. I would not present much of a challenge to crime scene investigators. All they would have to do is look down for trail of test strips leading right to me.
I have grown familiar with looking like an overzealous preteen heading to a sleepover every time I leave the house. A large bag goes everywhere with me. Meter, test strips, lancets, glucose tablets, ID bracelet, insurance card, extra supplies, syringes, insulin, alcohol pads, money for snacks and water, enough meds to start my own pharmacy, 'in case of emergency' card, cell phone with 911 and my ICE contact automatically programmed in, my current list of medications with another list of medications I am allergic to, and a list of doctors that resembles a “who’s who” of the medical community. Nope, having diabetes is not for the weak. That bag is heavy.
Carrying this bag causes a lot of attention. I take things out during the day to check my blood, and people always look at me peculiarly. Going out to eat is normally a fun experience for people, unless you’re diabetic Mary Poppins. My family frequents Red Robin, because the burgers are too good to resist (yes, I can eat burgers.) I wait respectably to give myself a shot until after the waiter leaves. However, there’s a nosy child in the booth behind us peering over so you can just see his eyes. I inject myself, and the child’s eyes widen like he just saw Donald Trump walk into the restaurant. Then he opens his mouth and screams “are you shooting up?”
I get asked this question thousands of times. Sometimes I want to say yes. I forgot that taking out a syringe means I’m a drug addict shooting up in public. Then it reminds me of all the comments I hear just because I have this magical bag with me at all times. “Oh, so you can’t eat sugar?” I keep my cool and try to calmly explain to them… Until they tell me their grandparents had diabetes and died because of it. That’s definitely something you should tell a diabetic; I’m neither old, nor do I want to hear how they died.
I had one person tell me that “you don’t look diabetic.” What does that even mean? Babies have diabetes, teens get it, and adults get it, should we become purple or something so we stick out to the rest of the world? Then the waiter comes with our delicious, carb-filled, blood sugar-rising burgers. As I look at my burger, I think of all the uneducated people running around telling Type 1s what to do like they are our doctors. I eat every bite with a smirk on my face, feeling so satisfied, and thinking of how I’m proving everyone wrong and enjoying a burger at the same time. Sweet, sweet diabetes.
