Sometimes, I like to keep my diabetes quiet. I like to focus attention elsewhere (“Hey, is that David Bowie from the 1986 movie Labyrinth?”–jab the needle in, take it out–“Oh, nevermind, just another super-tight-panted man with eyeshadow.”), sneakily eat some glucose tablets without anyone asking if I’m okay, or order an ice cream without the line of questioning that starts with, “You can eat that?”
And then there are times I wish I had DIABETIC stamped on my forehead, just for clarification purposes.
Here are three such instances.
Scenario 1: When ordering a drink at a bar. Bartender, I’m not trying to be difficult. I just need to ask (eight times) if that’s diet soda, because if it’s not, we’re likely to have a problem. No, I’m not a super weight-conscious diet freak; I’m not an Atkins-ite afraid of carbohydrates; and I’m not accusing you of doing your job incorrectly. I just really don’t want to go home with my blood sugar at 300. Is that too much to ask?!
Scenario 2: Deciding where/when to eat (especially in large groups). I know it’s hard to find a restaurant that suits everyone. There’s menu, price, location, seating to consider, and nobody wants to be responsible for the decision, just in case it turns out to be a regrettable decision. But for the sake of all things holy, we’ve been walking around for six hours and I need a place to sit and some complimentary dinner rolls. …And I really want to avoid pulling out the look-at-me, look-at-me diabetic card, which tends to cause the “‘ohmygod I forgot, I’m so sorry,’ if there were a gurney accessible I’d be strapped to it and wheeled to the nearest place selling anything that resembles food” reaction.
Scenario 3: Keying a bolus* into my insulin pump—when said pump is stashed in my bra. I’ll just give you the details of one particular mortifying event: a co-worker walked into my cubicle and saw what, to an outsider, most likely appeared to be me self-administering a breast exam. In reality, I was repositioning my pump, which was at the time living under my arm/inside my bra. But, the horrorstruck look on my face when I realized what it must have looked like prevented me from being able to explain that. After a few seconds of awkward silence, we commenced with the work-related conversation, ignoring the fact that my hand had just been down the front of my shirt. Way down.
*bolus (n.): incredibly gross-sounding word that really means chewed up food, but, in the Encyclopedia Diabetecum, refers to a mealtime dose of insulin