Upon turning 40 with a Chronic Disease
I think I don't want to admit it many times. I'm defeated, body broke down somewhere along the line. Maybe I was born with it. Or a virus caused it, or too many antibiotics as a child. I don't look sick.
But I am.
Forty is a beautiful gift to a woman, healthy or sick, in that it forces you to look back, even if you weren't ready to face certain realities. It' sneaks up like a noise in the background, something that catches your eye, then for whatever reason you chose to stop and look. And there it is- your decisions, your path, your story, your regrets, your joys.
Your disease.
What does it mean to live with a little biological glitch that writhes around inside you waiting to show it's knarly teeth if you don't feed it what it needs? It means daily stress, fear, anxieties that build up. It means interruptions of perfect days, guilt-laiden indulgences, scenic views blocked by numbers on a screen. It means distraction and learning to keep them at bay as you try to live a normal life. But life, I can now admit, is not normal, and won't be in the years to come. And now that I'm being honest, normal is nothing I am truly comfortable with anyway.
The fact that I wake up each morning and fall asleep each night with millions of zig zagging lines in between those moments is worthy of pause and reflection and gratitude.
Forty is a gift because I am still here, despite the days when I wasn't sure I could afford the cost of this disease, and fill the gas tank. Looking at the cost of Type 1 is overwhelming and one story that will stay with me forever as long as I live is the one where the college-age boy, in a shitty upstate town with high unemployment rates, died because he couldn't afford his insulin. Here I am pumping insulin through a tiny machine I wear, feeding my kids healthy foods and ideas, hoping the future of medicine does not allow for any child or adult to suffer because of their lack of resources and money.
It's a little like living on the edge, having Type 1. And I'm guessing if I ever did literally live on the edge, I would have moments where my gripping would slip and I would lose my breath, and sweat it out, and then when I gained my footing I would look around and be so thankful, grateful, and have a new appreciation for life. And figure out how not to fall again. My husband is drawn to the outdoors, up rocks, and mountains, and my children love the wild stories of rock climbers, and the pictures in National Geographic. And I am in awe, but am not drawn to those edges. And isn't it funny how cliches are real? Forty teaches you that.
I've grown so much as a woman with this disease. In my early twenties, angry and newly diagnosed, hopeful and newly married, confused with the ups and downs, the highs and lows. Late twenties brought my children into my life, the fear, the worry, the lightness of it all, the sweetness of it all, not letting this disease define me, letting motherhood take care of that. My early thirties, still healthy, but not as lighthearted, not as carefree, one more little baby to bring my motherhood to it's full extent, knowing this would be the most I could stretch my luck and health. Late thirties, I feel deeper, and am more aware of reality, my body is 15 years into an inward battle, that doesn't just go away with a mindset change, but I still seek that mindset change-to go forward. And here I am a few eves before I celebrate an age that defines so much, but really means nothing.
There is a peaceful rush that fills me many days as I age. I battled a depression this fall and winter that I had never felt before, spurred by many things including sugars that went too high for too long. This is the age that is bringing reality to the forefront. On so many levels, and with this new awareness and good therapy, and good music, and true love, comes freedom and the thrill of possibility, and the knowledge that no matter what we are physically, we alone choose to hold ourselves back or push ourselves forward.
And with that I welcome 40 and all it may bring.
But I am.
Forty is a beautiful gift to a woman, healthy or sick, in that it forces you to look back, even if you weren't ready to face certain realities. It' sneaks up like a noise in the background, something that catches your eye, then for whatever reason you chose to stop and look. And there it is- your decisions, your path, your story, your regrets, your joys.
Your disease.
What does it mean to live with a little biological glitch that writhes around inside you waiting to show it's knarly teeth if you don't feed it what it needs? It means daily stress, fear, anxieties that build up. It means interruptions of perfect days, guilt-laiden indulgences, scenic views blocked by numbers on a screen. It means distraction and learning to keep them at bay as you try to live a normal life. But life, I can now admit, is not normal, and won't be in the years to come. And now that I'm being honest, normal is nothing I am truly comfortable with anyway.
The fact that I wake up each morning and fall asleep each night with millions of zig zagging lines in between those moments is worthy of pause and reflection and gratitude.
Forty is a gift because I am still here, despite the days when I wasn't sure I could afford the cost of this disease, and fill the gas tank. Looking at the cost of Type 1 is overwhelming and one story that will stay with me forever as long as I live is the one where the college-age boy, in a shitty upstate town with high unemployment rates, died because he couldn't afford his insulin. Here I am pumping insulin through a tiny machine I wear, feeding my kids healthy foods and ideas, hoping the future of medicine does not allow for any child or adult to suffer because of their lack of resources and money.
It's a little like living on the edge, having Type 1. And I'm guessing if I ever did literally live on the edge, I would have moments where my gripping would slip and I would lose my breath, and sweat it out, and then when I gained my footing I would look around and be so thankful, grateful, and have a new appreciation for life. And figure out how not to fall again. My husband is drawn to the outdoors, up rocks, and mountains, and my children love the wild stories of rock climbers, and the pictures in National Geographic. And I am in awe, but am not drawn to those edges. And isn't it funny how cliches are real? Forty teaches you that.
I've grown so much as a woman with this disease. In my early twenties, angry and newly diagnosed, hopeful and newly married, confused with the ups and downs, the highs and lows. Late twenties brought my children into my life, the fear, the worry, the lightness of it all, the sweetness of it all, not letting this disease define me, letting motherhood take care of that. My early thirties, still healthy, but not as lighthearted, not as carefree, one more little baby to bring my motherhood to it's full extent, knowing this would be the most I could stretch my luck and health. Late thirties, I feel deeper, and am more aware of reality, my body is 15 years into an inward battle, that doesn't just go away with a mindset change, but I still seek that mindset change-to go forward. And here I am a few eves before I celebrate an age that defines so much, but really means nothing.
There is a peaceful rush that fills me many days as I age. I battled a depression this fall and winter that I had never felt before, spurred by many things including sugars that went too high for too long. This is the age that is bringing reality to the forefront. On so many levels, and with this new awareness and good therapy, and good music, and true love, comes freedom and the thrill of possibility, and the knowledge that no matter what we are physically, we alone choose to hold ourselves back or push ourselves forward.
And with that I welcome 40 and all it may bring.
Comments
Id love to chat! Kel4han@yahoo.com