It's appropriate that this post would be set to post on the same day that I am going to be in New York meeting up with many other fellow diabetics.
A cure. That illusive word that's been floating around in my world for 24 years. When I was diagnosed, they said "within 10 years". Yet, here I sit, sipping a juice box from another low blood sugar.
I know most of us have thought about it. About how wonderful it would be to not have to test, bolus, count carbs, etc. I would like to think that I would love that freedom. And I know I would love the fact that this disease would no longer be wearing on my body.
Life would be free from fear of highs and lows. Free from the fear of never waking up because of a nightime low. Free from fear of pizza and cereal. Free of the fear of loosing my eye sight or a limb to this vicious disease.
Wow. All of that sounds like heaven!
But I've also been very, very honest with myself. I have had diabetes since I was 4 years old. My memories of life before diabetes are vague at best. To me, diabetes is like being adopted, or having brown hair, or being short: it's part of who I am. How can it not be when it's with me all the time? I may not think about the fact that I'm short all the time, but I am never not short. I may not think about or notice the fact that my hair is brown. But it is. Every second of the day. And just like those things, I am a person with diabetes all the time. I don't know (and haven't known) life without diabetes.
So truth be told, I would take that pill, happily. And immediately go into therapy. Because I have a very distinct impression that figuring out who I am without diabetes would be a rough road. Complete with lots of visits to a mental health professional to help me sort out who I am without this part of me that's been here for practically my whole life.
(Oh, and on my way to therapy, I'd stop and get a pizza. And eat it. And not worry about a blood sugar spike.)