Today we’re going to share our most memorable diabetes day. You can take this anywhere.... your or your loved one's diagnosis, a bad low, a bad high, a big success, any day that you’d like to share.
Nervous. Sweaty. Scared. My hands are numb, and not from the temperature, despite how cold it is. The object is placed before me. I don't move. The object is nudged closer to me. I pick it up, feeling the smooth curve all around. A clear-blue hard-plastic casing that houses all my dreams. I tentatively rip the brittle outer casing off. My fingers find the ridges on either side, and I squeeze gently. Nothing happens. I am encouraged to try harder, and apply more pressure. I am taken aback when the top springs off and clatters onto the floor beneath me, bouncing. The sound is shocking to my nervous ears.
I hesitate, and unwind the long, clear tube. Around and around and around I pull it, almost hypnotic. Too fast, it snags and I am jilted back to reality. I am fearful of breaking it, it seems so fragile.
The next step, I am reminded, is to remove the outer tube protecting the point and the 'snail' as she calls it. I do. I hold the entire object, squat in my palm. It is almost time now.
I pull back on the bottom of the hard blue case. *click*
My stomach retracts at the cold air as I lift my shirt. I get even more goosebumps as my skin is roughly swathed in a cold lotion that smells so sterile. This is it.
I hold the rounded object, much like a half a pokeball to my stomach. I distract myself with thoughts of how awesome it would be if it really were a pokeball. My partner and I have already decided we're going to name our future son, should we have one, squirtle.
Back to reality. I breathe in, *pop*. Hang on, I was supposed to be able to breathe out first. I look down, shocked. It didn't hurt. I withdraw the sharp, dull steel from within my body. Inspect it, twirl it around and scrutinise every angle of this thing, this thing that in other forms had caused me pain. But not now. Not this way.
Victorious and ecstatic, I toss the now-useless blue inserter aside and jump around. My educator raises her eyebrows. I can't feel a thing. The stark white cannula is obvious against my pink skin, but I don't care what it looks like. I just care that for the first time in 4 months, I feel like I can face this, face my disease. I'm not afraid of this like I was the needles. I realise, I can have a life again.
Just to clarify, this is when I first put a pump cannula in, because I had already covered my diagnosis here.
I did some dancing after my first insertion, also!
ReplyDelete