It’s 2 am here and I am blogging. I am not waiting for a college student to come home or cooing an infant back to sleep. My stomach, with the deep empty feeling, woke me because I didn’t take care of myself today. And now I need to wait, 15 minutes at least (enough time for this 5-minute exercise), to check my numbers again. I had ice cream for dinner and 1/2 a peanut butter sandwich, in that order. Too much carbs and then not enough. And I never checked my numbers before I went to bed.
Diabetes is the company I keep. She came to visit during my first pregnancy. Then again, with more flamboyance during my second. She left for a year. Then returned and apparently has set up residence.
I remember years of anger. This disease did not belong to me. I did not invite her. I was 31-years-old, 5’6” and under 130 pounds. Diabetes was only supposed to stay forever with people who had different stats. I felt left out. Watching others celebrate with cookies and a giant piece of chocolate cake while I took my time with my sliver was unfair. Or that is what I told my pity party coordinator.
It’s 2 am and I blog because God has answered my prayers. Contentment has replaced anger. God took this disease, not away, but from burden status. Now I am grateful we can live together, without her killing me. Not grateful that she won’t go, because I would celebrate that day. Grateful that my body wakes me up when my numbers slip too low. Grateful for the pocket-size machine that needs only a small prick of blood to spit out helpful numbers. Grateful for the extra need to eat well. And grateful for the life giving insulin I inject daily.
God must be here for I could never transform anger into gratitude.
Image credit: Ambro/Freedigitalimages