Diabetic Heroes
Nearly my entire life, type one diabetes and I have been attached at the hip. My insulin pump has been my right-hand man ever since we met in fourth grade. He sits on my hip, a constant companion demanding constant attention. A small black box with clear tubing, he stays on my waistband, in plain sight, yet my middle school friends still always asked if I was part robot and adults wondered why I needed a pager.
Last year, though, a professor walked up to me and asked if he could take a picture of my t:slim X2 insulin pump. He knew exactly what he was talking about, who he was talking to, where he wanted this conversation to go. A day later, I found myself face-to-face with his bright-eyed daughter, who made more eye contact with my t:slim X2 insulin pump than with me, as she interrogated me about a life with diabetes that didn’t depend on shots.
In an instant, I realized that lying to this girl, who had been giving insulin shots for less than a year, was my best option. Eleven years of my insulin pump making the decisions, calling the shots, controlling my life, would simply be too much for her. We stood on the University of Alabama Quad, her sister at her side, her dad a few feet away, and her mom at home but with her daughter’s blood sugar monitored on her phone. The two girls looked up at me with eyes expecting answers I couldn’t give them and a hero I couldn’t be.
Guilt flooded into me as I realized that I couldn’t be the type of hero I had when I was her age, the type of hero that made a life of diabetes seem like it was just a life. My first hero was Mrs. Michalski, my fourth grade teacher, who bent down next to me on the first day of class, which happened to be my first day out of the hospital and, officially at least, my first day with diabetes.
“Hi, Abigail, I’m Mrs. Michalski. I’m diabetic too — we’ll get through this together.”
A large, blue and purple bruise still stretched across the crook of my elbow where an IV had made itself home for four days. I had no idea how to use the insulin vial and syringes tucked safely away in my backpack. My heart jumped into an icy cold pool every time I wondered what my friends would think of my new “best friend” insulin. But when Mrs. Michalski whispered into my ear, her secret made the world spin a little bit slower and make a little bit more sense.
I wanted the world to make a little bit more sense for the little girl waiting for me to whisper diabetic secrets into her ear, but I didn’t have any to share. When my insulin pump runs out of battery, I stifle its alarm in the folds of my jacket, hoping no one else will notice. When my blood sugar falls, I drown myself in a package of cookies instead of patiently waiting for a glass of juice to save me. When I drive to work and realize I forgot to put more insulin in my pump, I continue waiting tables even though my blood sugar is much higher than my paycheck.
Mrs. Michalski was a hero for me, but she only taught me how to write about the diabetic problems that plagued me, never how to solve them. She taught me ratios, but never how to use them with carbohydrates and insulin. She handled her diabetes with diligence and care, but never shared tips after she divulged her one big secret. At the end of fourth grade, when I no longer had Mrs. Michalski to encourage me, I looked for a new hero.
I first saw him as a football left his hands on a third down. The camera followed the football across the field, keeping the ball soaring on the television screen, soaring over the hands of his wide receiver and straight to the chest of the defender. My dad swore at the game, cursing the Chicago Bears and their cursed quarterback, Jay Cutler, before he sat back in his seat and calmly mentioned that Cutler checks his blood sugar every time he comes off the field.
The announcers talked about Cutler’s recent type one diabetes diagnosis and how he has adjusted so that he can still play the game he loves and live the life he’s been living. Their words became legend as they reached my ears, and they created an idol that spilled out of the television and into my life.
When yet another Bears season had failed to result in a playoff game, my dad took me to Dick’s Sporting Goods for half-price jerseys, and I saw my hero’s number hanging from the top rack. My dad rolled his eyes but he bought me the jersey, and the next day I wore it to school, making sure that the long hem didn’t cover the insulin pump still at my side.
All the boys in my class teased me for loving one of the worst quarterbacks Chicago had ever seen, but Cutler’s hero status never wavered in my eyes.
Now, though, this little girl watched me with the same look in her eyes that I had as I channel surfed the Sunday afternoon NFL games, looking for a touchdown pass from the man in orange and blue. Just like me, though, she’ll be disappointed.
Then it clicked.
Cutler crushed the souls of Bears fans everywhere, yet I still wore his jersey every Sunday with pride and my insulin pump at my side. Mrs. Michalski never taught me anything, but her soft words gave me a sense of hope that I thought I had lost at the hospital.
Since coming to college, my blood sugars have been higher than the fraternity guys and lower than my grades, but I had made it to college. Eleven years with diabetes, and I’m standing on a campus next to a little girl with a broken pancreas, and she doesn’t see me, just a t:slim X2 insulin pump at a university.
I kneel down next to her so she doesn’t have to look up at me, and I tell her the truth. When I was in high school, I went on an ice cream date with a boy even though my t:slim X2 told me it wasn’t a good idea. When I started driving, I constantly ignored my t:slim X2 screaming at me that I shouldn’t be behind the wheel. When I went to prom, I hid my t:slim X2 in the folds of my dress so that my date couldn’t see that I brought someone else along. In whispers, I told her how awful a diabetic I used to be, almost as awful as Jay Cutler as the Chicago Bears quarterback. In 11 years, though, I’ve become a lot better. I don’t go on ice cream dates when my blood sugar is sky high anymore because I found a guy that buys me a bottle of sugar-free grenadine for my drinks every year on my birthday. I don’t drive when my low blood sugar causes my hands to shake and my vision to blur because glucose tablets fit perfectly next to the steering wheel and I check my stash before I even buckle my seatbelt. I don’t hide my diabetes from anyone in any situation because diabetes and I are attached at the hip; you can’t have one of us without the other. My insulin pump matches every dress, swimsuit, crop top and pair of shorts I wear.
I’m kneeling beside this girl, who like me, has insulin as her “best friend.” She’s looking right into my eyes, her sister at her side looking slightly up at us, and their dad watches at a distance.
They know I’m far from being a hero. Right now her blood sugar is better than mine, and her mom is tracking it on her phone while she’s at home putting in a load of laundry. They know that having a community that loves and relates is far more important than having heroes that whisper and fail, so I accept that we’re not perfect and become a part of this little girl’s small, but growing, community.
Abby McCreary is a junior at The University of Alabama, studying English and news media. She writes for the school newspaper, The Crimson White, covering mostly gymnastics and other sports. Originally from the Chicago suburbs, she enjoys keeping up with the Chicago White Sox and Bears, reading, and hiking in her free time.