“Mom. She’s got a Dexcom,” my big kid said, tilting her head in the direction of two women in beach chairs to our left. “The one with the white hat on.”
And sure enough, the older woman with the white hat and big, teardrop pearl earrings in her ears was also sporting a Dexcom G7 sensor stuck on the back of her right arm. She was deep in conversation with her friend, so I noticed the device but didn’t comment.
Not yet.
Summer peeked back in for a last hurrah this weekend in Rhode Island, bringing me and the kid and their friends for a swan song beach visit. The shoreline was packed, kids and adults were in the water, and me and this lady with the Dexcom were situated just a couple yards away from one another.
Walking up from the water after supervising my son Zissou’ing around in the waves, I saw that the lady with the hat and her friend were packing up their things. Her Dexcom was all but sparkling in the sunshine. I had to say something, right? I’ve been saying random shit to random people with diabetes devices for decades at this point; why get all shy now?
“I love your Dexcom,” I said, like I was complimenting her hat. Or her pearls. Which I did next, but up first: diabetes device check.
“Oh, thank you!” She turned the back of her arm towards me, like she was modeling a fit check for an influencer campaign (I only understand portions of that sentence I just wrote).
I pivoted so she could spy my G6 sensor. “I am a generation behind you, still on the G6,” I said. “Do you have diabetes?”
“I do.” She looked back and forth, scanning the beach for dramatic effect. The wind whipped through her white hair, setting loose some strands from beneath her baseball cap. “Type 1 diabetes for 59 years.”
At this point, she seemed a whole foot taller, her spine straight with pride.
“If I could whistle, I’d let out a long one. Fifty-nine years! Good for you. You look terrific. I was diagnosed when I was seven, so it’s been 39 years for me.”
She could whistle, and proved it. “I was fourteen. Can you believe it? Look at us! Decades of diabetes. Do you go to the Joslin?”
I felt this rush of joy at hearing her call the Joslin Diabetes Clinic “the Joslin.“
“I used to, but after having my kids, I centered my care back in Rhode Island. I have two kids and getting to Boston can be a hassle,” I said, knowing it sounded so Rhode Island of me to complain about an hour and a half drive. On cue, my son ran by and high-fived me, then disappeared into the snack bag.
“Oh I get that. My kid are grown. Those lows during the first trimester of pregnancy, though! I remember those clearly,” the woman said.
Her friend leaned in and waved. “Hi! I’m the cousin. Nice to meet you!”
I waved back. “Nice to meet you, too! And yeah, the lows. They were dramatic. Pregnancy wasn’t my favorite, but I love these kids. I have this one,” I gestured towards my still-snack-foraging son, “And one of those teens is mine, too,” I waved in the direction of the water.
“I used to eat bowls of cereal while I was pregnant. Just eat them up and I’d still go low.” She rubbed her belly, conjuring the memory. “Do you like candy for your lows?”
“I do. But I buy candies I don’t like very much so I’m not tempted to eat them when I’m not low,” I responded.
She threw her head back, laughing. “Oh, isn’t that the truth!”
We stood there, grinning at each other for a few seconds, the common threads of our lives weaving together for a moment.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said, looking out over the ocean.
I think she meant being a parent. Or maybe it was the memory of all that cereal. Or an appreciative statement for the sea. Maybe she meant The Joslin. Or just the idea that we were there on the beautiful beaches of Rhode Island in the fall, with our diabetes device tan lines, defying expectations by being alive after decades and decades and decades.
“It is.”
