Nineteen years ago yesterday, I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. Friday, August 13th, 1993.
Last year, I wrote about the memories of my diagnosis. I also wrote about getting cupcakes with my family to celebrate. And my mom shared her thoughts and memories.
This year, I planned on celebrating as well. But then Friday looked like this:
And Saturday looked like this:
It didn't matter how much I bolused, with multiple sets, syringes, and new insulin, those blood sugars would not budge for hours.
Saturday night, I had a bit of a meltdown. Enough already! I balled my eyes out, and called my mom. I hate this stupid disease! I don't want it anymore. I'm done!
My sugars are back down to earth now, but I was still dreading yesterday. I didn't want to celebrate, I didn't want to acknowledge my diaversary at all.
I was so very angry at diabetes, and wanted to ignore it. But someone (ahem, Sara) tweeted that it was my diaversary. And my twitter stream was flooded with well wishes and congratulations.
And you know what? It helped. It helped a lot. Because I knew these weren't empty wishes. They were sincere, from people who know exactly what it feels like. Who've felt the anger and frustration that I was feeling. People who get it. And that means a lot.
My mom also got me a diaversary card. Well, a congratulations card, since they don't make "happy diaversary" cards. And I went to dinner with Scott, Babs, Bob, and Charli. More people who get it.
So thank you, DOC, for reminding me what's important. That I am never alone. And that diabetes doesn't get to steal my joy.