…February 22nd, 1972 when I was diagnosed. My doctor, during my four day hospital stay, made very clear to me all the complications I was going to get. One was certainly going to kill me; the others just degrade my small life along the way. I know the feeling I harbored looking around the grey walls of that hospital room: life was beginning, at the ripe age of eighteen, and ending at the same time.
Yet, this Monday night, 2020, I celebrated with my loving partner, the husband, almost five decades of a darn good life with diabetes. Of course, 48 years ago I didn’t dare think there’d be a husband. Who would possibly take diabetes on with me, let alone understand the constant micro-management of a disease no one sees? But he has, does and always will.
Ironically perhaps, we celebrated over one of the hardest foods for people with diabetes to manage – yes, pizza! Our favorite arugula, artichoke thin crust pizza at Whole Foods’ pizza bar. And we involved Krystle, our server from behind the counter, in the fun.
These days I’m pretty sure I’m going to last about as long as anybody else. Something will get me and it may or may not have anything to do with diabetes. I don’t think about it much.
I’m much more interested in enjoying the moment. Maybe that’s age, or maybe it’s truly knowing that it’s the simple pleasures, and the moments of connection with friends and strangers, that make a life worth living. I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to know that.