Note

Don’t minimize it, don’t minimize it, don’t minimize it. Did I mention don’t minimize it?

I am so sad. Deeply, deeply sad. Sadder than when I was diagnosed with type 1. Then, I think that the shock outweighed the sadness.

Last week my brother called me at work. He had bloodwork done, and it looks like he could be type 1 as well. Luckily, it seems to be in the early stages.

I’ve been having trouble breathing all week, I’m so stressed. I was supposed to be the only one. I was supposed to be the one who had this. Not my brother, not my sister. I am not at all worried about how he is going to manage this. He’ll do what he does, and he’ll do fine. But I should be the last one. I should take the bullet. It should be me – me – me – not anyone else.

My parents are on vacation for another 10 days, and they won’t know until they get back. My dad’s sister died of this bloody disease, and my parents prayed that we would not get it. We didn’t, as children. That is a blessing to be sure. But we are getting it as adults. So our genes come back to bite us.

Why can’t I cry about this?

It seems like such a non-event. Unless I tell people, most people don’t know that I have diabetes. Some days, I don’t think about it that much either. But some days it runs my life, makes me feel terrible, ruins my sleep, makes me afraid.

Now, I am not asking for a parade here, but stop looking on the bright side. Tell me that you’re sorry. Tell me that it’s hard. Tell me that it sucks when kids get this and when adults get this and when four members of a family over three generations have had it. Tell me that you are appalled that two of them are dead because of it. Tell me that you wish that no one else would ever get this disease because it is so bad and so hard and you’re sorry. Or just give me a hug. That would help.

Lately I’ve been telling people that without insulin I would die. Ms Melodrama. But, there’s insulin, so I am not dead. However, injections are a crude instrument, and your life with diabetes is still not normal, however much it may appear to be so.

I know that I carry it well. But if I were crippled by this disease, if I made it obvious that it is so hard and stressful and physically challenging sometimes, would you understand? I think not. I think that you would say that it was my fault for not managing it correctly. I am sure that there are other diseases that carry such a weight of blame, but I can’t think of them at the moment.

Anyway, I want to cry, and I can’t. I am sure that six months from now, I will feel positive and life will be good. We will all manage. But right now I want to cry. And I almost never cry, perhaps once a year. So doesn’t that tell you how bad this is?