“Whatcha been up to?”
“Oh, not much. Little of this, little of that.”
“How’s the diabetes going?”
“The diabetes? I still have it.”
Rueful laughter from both of us. Which is confusing, since both are me.
“So not cured yet?”
“Nope, but I keep looking up islet cell transplants as if it’s something I can just schedule an appointment for, like a haircut. I look at the social media profiles of people who have explored the option. I see the hospital settings and the concerns about anti-rejection drugs, and my eyes gloss over not at all because I’m bored but because I’m reluctant to like actually take in what they’re saying.”
A narrowing of eyes.
“Reluctant? What the hell does that mean?”
A narrowing of eyes in return.
“Hey, don’t swear at me. You know I hate any kind of cuss words or course language. I’m reluctant because –”
Laughter interrupts attempt to convey fear.
“Shut up. You LOVE cuss words.”
“Fine. I do. I was trying to keep you on your toes. I’m reluctant — no, afraid to think about the possibility of a cure because I’ve spent almost forty years trying NOT to think about a cure. Not look at it, not think about it, not picture it in any form or fashion because the longer I live without it, the more I think diabetes is endgame, and I can make that make sense, you know?”
“You know I know. But all the organizations talk about cures all the time. They base their fundraising efforts in pursuit of them. Even mainstream news sites are talking about cure therapies. You should be inspired, excited, not reluctant or afraid, you dumbass.”
“I’m not a dumbass!!”
Eyes narrow again.
“You forgot the word ‘mannequin’ the other day. You called it a ‘fake, plastic me.’”
“I was trying to channel Radiohead. And stop calling me a dumbass. I am excited about a cure! But more for people who don’t have diabetes. The screening thing — I get the noise about that. I can rally around testing my kids for antibodies and preventing or delaying a diagnosis. But curing pre-existing diabetes? Even when there’s not even a speck of c-peptide found in my rotten old body? I have a hard time wrapping my head around that.”
“Because it seems impossible?”
“Yeah. I don’t get how science can keep me from attacking my own cells, but I’m ready to learn.”
An inquisitive tilt of the head.
“Does learning make you feel hopeful?”
“Someday I hope it will. For now, it makes me feel cagey. Afraid to think about it and get at all excited about it. I don’t want to make plans around it. And if I let myself picture a life without this, I have a hard time not feeling sad.”
“Sad if it’s gone?”
“No, sad if it isn’t.”
Silence. Then —
“Because hope leaves a mark, doesn’t it.”
A nod of understanding.
“I’m not sad that diabetes happened. I’ve made peace with that. But if a cure is for-real promised and it doesn’t happen or doesn’t work, I don’t know where my brain will go.”
Quiet for a long time.
“You can’t be afraid to hope. Hope keeps things from getting too dark. You need it … dumbass.”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Fine. Only if you get your emotional shit together. And maybe start using the Dexcom G7 sensor, finally. You’ve been hanging onto the G6 for almost a decade.”
Slowly extends hand, raises middle finger, and waggles it side to side.
“No way, friend. I’m staying with the G6 until that last transmitter runs dry.”
