My Life as a Diabetic

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My Life as a Diabetic

Don’t ask me how I feel, I’m not going to tell you. Talking about it makes it worse. When I explain my pain, I have to think about it. Ignore it; maybe it will go away. I dwell on my fears of what may happen. I don’t want to pass that fear on to you. You don’t see it as I do. It’s not your body; it’s not your life. I don’t tell you because I don’t want you to be afraid for me. I can deal with it. I’ll be OK. I don’t tell you because I know that my words are inadequate. I can’t express what it is, yet I do want you to know (even if you can’t exactly feel it). I want to let you in to my world. I want you to know how different my life is from yours, even though it looks much the same. I’m not scarred or crippled. You can’t pick me out in a crowd. To you, I’m just another classmate, another student, another stranger on the street.

There is one physical sign of my problem; some of you have noticed the ugly silver dog-tag that I wear around my neck. Sometimes it falls out of my shirt, into the open, and you notice the Medic Alert sign: my life in three lines.

I wonder what images are going through your mind right now. Most of you are probably thinking “no sugar, injections, diets, doctors.” You’re right, mostly. Pre-med students have it down to a science; some of them even have the nerve to try explaining it to me. I may not know all the details, but I know what they feel like. I have heard just enough horror stories to scare me away from reading up on my own illness. Yes, I realize the stupidity of this rationalization, yet almost every person I talk to about my fears seems to have the same story to tell me: “I had an aunt who had diabetes, but she didn’t take care of herself. She went blin...

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...what can happen to my body?

For twelve years I’ve tried to hide my pain and fear from you. I’ve been trying to ignore the horror stories, unknowingly blinding myself from the stories of hope. I’m not as bitter as this story may lead you to think. In fact, I am an adamant believer in the statement (overheard three years ago in the Coffee House): “God has never taken anything away from me that he hasn’t replaced with something better.”

I have you, my friends. You who look out for me, yet allow me to be myself. Eat cheesecake, drink a beer, run barefoot through the grass—and enjoy it! I know that my life could be much worse. We all know that. Thank you for listening to me bitch about my world. I’ve needed to for a long time. Now let me return to being one of you. After all, I’m just another classmate, another student, another stranger on the street.

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