For Y E A R S, I have pounded away at this keyboard, literally pouring my heart into each sentence. I started blogging in 2007, and can’t tell you how many crying, snot-nosed, passionate posts I’ve written from the depths of my (candy) heart — many of which have published; but some that have not. I have stared at a blank screen, purging the overload of emotions, thoughts, and information through these fingertips for a countless number of hours.
There were times a thought would pop into my brain, and I’d stop whatever I was doing to “jot” it down…only to glance up and find two hours had passed, and nap time was over. How many nightly sugar checks ended up transitioning into a blog post I had never intended?
I have no idea.
Oddly, writing here wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get it all out. There was more…so much more…more hoopla floating inside my head.
Countless guest posts…a column with Animas…FB groups…social media projects…
I don’t know when, exactly.
Something just changed on the inside.
It was as if I had said all I had to say about our life with T1D.
Just like that.
Then my phone rang around 11pm last night.
On the other end was a nervous voice trying to figure out how to operate a glucometer.
Earlier in the day, I responded to a call for help from a local mother who faced an emergency situation several states away. She would need to leave her child in the care of a loved one who hadn’t yet been fully trained to manage her newly diagnosed toddler, and was asking for someone to help by being “on call” in the event she couldn’t be immediately available.
I PM’d her my phone number…we exchanged a few messages…and that was that.
Well, that was that until my phone rang, anyway. We worked through the glucometer error, figured out a correction, and managed a little snafu from a shot earlier in the evening. Then we went back to our respective lives, and off to bed. I fell asleep thinking that I remember being new at this as if it were just yesterday.
This morning, I woke up pondering the 80 people who would be diagnosed today.
Many, if not all, of them/their loved ones will take to the Internet in search of more information about their diagnosis.
What will they find?
Misinformation? Horror stories? Snake oil cures?
Or…will they find our story?
Will they find fear or hope?
Tell your story, my friends.
And…when you think your story doesn’t matter…or you think your story has written its final chapter…or you think the world is just too vast for your words to matter…
Stop for a moment to think of them.
The next day…
I just realized that I have so much more to say.