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the continuous glucose monitor secured to my upper arm that keeps track of my blood sugar. The adhesive itches sometimes, and when it does, I can’t help but scrape my nails around its border.
Diabetes fact #2. Both accurate so far.
Who better than my new roomie to taste test them? The recipe is low sugar and”—he rummages in his pocket and pulls out his phone, eyes on the screen as he taps and scrolls before turning the screen so I can see it—“I calculated the carbs in each serving. That’s helpful, right?” I stare at him, trying to process this, trying to find something to say. I’m being too quiet. I know that, but I don’t know how to respond. This might be the most considerate thing anyone has ever done for me. It’s going to spoil me, make me want things like this, even when I’m gone and this is over. And I’m so scared
...more
I would kill for him.
His eyes search mine. “Your pod?” “It’s the device that sends insulin to my body. So, pretty important.” He swallows nervously. “And . . . it’s okay?”
This is right too.
pull out my PDM—personal diabetes management—device, a little iPhone look-alike that makes diabetic life a bit simpler than it used to be back when I had to manually calculate my insulin needs based on the carbs I’d eat, and enter the carbs in my breakfast bar to bolus the correct amount of insulin. Then I tear off the wrapper and take a big bite.
This is right, but she did not prebolus.
I try to focus on that, not the pinch in my chest, as I think about how much more I want to know about this disease she lives with, how inadequate my initial research feels now. While she lives with me, I want to know more—I should know more.
Brb sobbing
I’ve seen Tallulah’s phone go off, the app on her phone, which she explained is connected to her continuous glucose monitor, beeping to alert her that she’s too low or too high.
Dexcom for sure
“I just get so fucking tired,” she whispers. “Tired of my stupid pod coming off and fucking things up. Tired of waking up low. Tired of going too high when I’m having a perfectly good day and there’s no goddamn reason for it. Tired of trying to do everything right and this stupid disease still manages to pull the rug out from underneath me. It’s claustrophobic, just inescapable. And it’s lonely, so fucking lonely, when I’m the only one who understands, who’s carrying the weight of this disease, the unpredictability of it. I’m so tired—”
Sadly accurate
