It’s extra special for me, though: today marks 21 years of living with diabetes. As we say in the DOC, my diabetes is officially old enough to drink, and I’m amazed and grateful to have made it as far as I have without any major issues [knock on laptop].
This time last year I was roaming around the streets of Savannah with my husband and some out-of-town friends. We popped into a little artists’ co-op store to gawk at all the giant art glass creations and marshy landscape watercolors. There were big aluminum sculptures of birds and nativity scenes made of driftwood. I was just about to give up on all the expensive objets d’art when I spotted a wee little something in a glass case.
It was a simple silver ring, tied in a knot. I tried it on and, incredibly, it fit. (I have hands like hamster paws.) I turned to my husband. “I think I’m going to get this. This’ll be my 20-year diabetes anniversary gift to myself.”
The ring was by far the cheapest thing in the store, so even though it was hand-crafted, I half expected it to crack or warp or turn green after a few months. But it hasn’t. As I type this, it’s still winking at me from my right ring finger.
I’m wearing blue today, my pump’s on my pocket and the bump of my transmitter can be seen though my sleeve. I’ve got my trusty utilitarian alert bracelet on my left wrist, but I feel like my little 20-year ring is my secret diabetes trinket. Like diabetes, it’s there, but it’s not always noticeable. It’s become part of my everyday wardrobe, so to speak, but it’s not the focal point of what I wear. And, also like diabetes, it’s a never-ending loop.
Unlike diabetes, I hope it lasts for a long time.