I’ve noticed something recently. (Which is a bit startling, considering the physical trials and travails my body has come up with in the last few weeks and the lack of sleep I’m working on. But I digress.) As I try to picture our new life in the Big Apple, various fantasies of how it, and other adventures, will play out intrude upon my waking hours (I use “waking” in the loosest sense of the term).
My fantasies tend to encompass a wide range of possibilities, as evidenced by my “To-Do List” written at the age of 12 or so. This list included (but was by no means limited to): have a cabin in the wilderness with a garden, be a princess, be a hermit, and be President. ‘Cuz you know, hermit princesses are often elected president.
All that is to say, that like Anne of Green Gables, I have a pretty healthy imagination. (I realize that so far there isn’t much noticing of things going on; I’m getting there). If you remember, Anne could imagine away her freckles and give herself an alabaster brow; she could make herself have beautiful violet eyes, answer to the name Cordelia, and be dripping diamonds. What she could never imagine away though, was her red hair. Red it was, and red it remained in all her fantasies, even though she longed for raven black tresses.
The thing I cannot imagine away? no matter what flight of fancy I am indulging in? my diabetes. Stranded on a desert island like Robinson Crusoe? dead in a week because I run out of insulin. Hiking to Everest Base Camp? constantly worried that my insulin is getting too cold. Swimming in a tropical lagoon (with no sharks)? wondering if I bolused enough to make up for the missed basal delivery and noticing all the white scars on my stomach from infusion sites. Dancing the night away at a fancy dress ball? wondering where the pump can be hidden and if the champagne is messing with my sugars. Before my gentle readers protest that these are *fictitious events* and I therefore don’t have to have diabetes in them, rest assured I tried that. I tried the, oh, stranded on a desert island but I don’t *have* diabetes anymore. I always get to that statement in the fantasy and it just stops. I can’t see past it.
For the most part I do not let diabetes stop my from living my life the way I want to. I travel, I have a healthy happy baby, I’m married (and don’t worry about being a burden on B *very* often), etc. But diabetes has certainly tainted my imaginary life–almost beyond repair. Stupid diabetes, I hate you. Why can’t you go be stranded on a desert island (without me)?