Monday, May 24, 2010

if there was a cure~

I was reading a lot of other way more awesome type 1 blogger's posts a week or so ago and there seemed to be going around a wonderful little topic of "what would you do if there was a cure?" for everybody to post about. The funny thing I noticed was a lot of folks had pretty short posts; which I can relate to. There's so much and so little to say. There's so much heartache and hope. There's so much "oh, we've heard this one before, why even ask?" There's been so much disappointment and despair that I tend to be of the school of thought that you just can't live your type 1 life waiting around for a cure.
However, that being said, we've all had moments where we wonder. Some of us like myself, got diagnosed later in life (me at 27) so I have a lot of reality checks where I'm reminded of how much more planning goes into a backpacking trip than before, let alone a simple dinner party at a friend's. And these are moments where I have that fleeting thought of "god, this is just never gonna be 100% second nature for me, is it?"

But then, what would I do if they told me I could stop?

That all of this: $7500 pump on my hip, the tubing, the sites, the isopropyl alcohol, the adhesive remover, the test strips, the cartridges, the back-up needles, the extra q-tips, the juice boxes in every bag, the neosporin, the butter compartment that never holds butter.....could all just go away.

I'd say holy shit you're lying and I'm not giving back this damn glucose meter,
that's what I'd say.

I'd hold onto it all for so long. I'd hold my breath. I'd check my blood sugar as often as I do now: about 8-10 times a day. I'd eat salad and small pieces of toast in fear of my body rejecting whatever "cure" it was that made my immune system stop attacking my pancreas. I'd laugh at every good number maintaining only double digits. I'd cry myself to sleep a few nights in fear of dying in the middle of the night. I'd wait for the symptoms to start all over again: thirst, peeing, hunger, leg cramps, blurry vision. I'd wait in fear of losing 10% of my already tiny body weight again.
But none of that would come back. Not with a cure, right?
Not with a cure.

But then, you know what?
I'd have a dinner party like the ones we always do. Only this time we'd have a big bowl of spaghetti. For dessert we'd have chocolate cake. I'd even put cherries on it. And then we'd dance and dance to the always hopeful and melancholic Billie Holiday until we became the stars in the nightsky themselves. Because we did become them; oh, but we always were.

Oh, I wouldn't overdo it, no. Not with everything I've learned about food and living healthy just from having this disease. I'd not take it for granted. But I'd celebrate, oh god would I celebrate! I'd not just celebrate the cure. I'd celebrate a life well-lived in the face of something so often so unforgiving, something that often laughed in our faces and we had to learn to laugh back, something so distant and bizarre and yet always so damn close. We could never get away. I'd celebrate the enemy-disease turned friend-who-taught-me-so-much.
I'd live the biggest, loudest thank you for the rest of my life.