Since being out of the dating field, out of the dredge of on-line dating apps hoping to find my match, you’d think the comical events surrounding my T1 management would cease. But one would be wrong.
I’ve been trying to hide the depression and anxiety about my T1D from my boyfriend. I don’t want to “scare him off”. I’m attempting to keep the severity of the disease away from him. The high cost of my daily medication and supply needs may run him out the door. The stress of being out of said medication and supplies due to an unpaid insurance premium may push him into the arms of a boring non-cyborg with millions in her stupid bank account.
We’ve been living together for over a year. We have plans in Europe in 2019. It seems he’s in for the long haul despite my slacker pancreas.
But still…T1 is a beast and it feels horrific allowing that beast to also annoy my boyfriend/roommate/#1 lover. It’s stressful to try and eat a fruit snack, or two, while in bed at 2am. To roll over, out from his embrace, reach into the box that is next to my bedside, open that crinkly plastic as slowly as my low blood sugar will allow me, and then chew. Trying to ignore that the only sound in the entire upstairs is me eating at 2 am to avoid seizure.
Or how about getting up, three times after you have sat down to watch the movie you just bought on Amazon, because your pump pager thingy is on the kitchen counter, or your phone where you get your blood sugar readings from is in your purse, or you need to check your emails to see if your shipment of alcohol swabs and pump stickers is on the way.
My favorite is the “rushing out the door but wait my pump is almost empty and my Dex is falling off my arm” bit. Let me just get the insulin out of the fridge; the pump pods, sensors, and alcohol wipes out of my diabetes cabinet; my phone and pump pager thingy out of my handbag. Now let me fill and prep the pump, take my shirt off just one arm, tear the pod and sensor off my arm, wipe the area clean, wipe the next area clean, prime the pump, stop the sensor, insert the new sensor, start the new sensor, stick on the pod, start the new pod, recycle what I can, trash what I can’t recycle, put the medical trash in the medical trash, put my shirt the rest of the way on, make sure the pod and sensor are started and won’t fall off.
Okay, now we can go. Easy peasy.
It’s also fun to do this while driving, while in the theater, while at a five course meal. Really, it’s fun any time.
The best is having no glucose on hand and being low. Standing like a zombie in the corner while he rushes to order me a pop or get me Skittles.
Or getting up on Christmas morning to get your pump pager thingy that you left in the neighboring state on Christmas Eve and you need it to live. To live well, at least.
Or eating fruit snacks while trying to be super naked and super intimate. Just give me one minute. I’ll be right back in that position as soon as I eat this. I’ll be real fast. It’s like I’m not even dealing with a medical emergency right now in my thigh highs and stilettos.
Still sexy, right?
It is always there, this type one diabetes. It is the third wheel in my relationship. A wheel we both hate, but both take such care of. A wheel that requires much attention, even when you both want to ignore it.
I’m trying not to be anxious about my condition in my relationship, but anxiety has a way of not really going away. It has been proven time and again that he is not “annoyed” with my medical condition, or at least, he is really good at keeping the annoyance from surfacing.
I found a partner for this life. And he will fight diabetes with me, even if it means waiting for that fruit snack to kick in before we can romp around.