Taking insulin injections at dinner time helped me accept my diabetes diagnosis

A specialist diagnosed me with type 1 diabetes.

It took more than nine months of treatment with a specialist before I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes instead of type 2. The main difference is that while people with type 2 diabetes have bodies that produce insulin, they can't process it effectively, whereas people with type 1 diabetes don't produce insulin and must inject it subcutaneously.

When I was first diagnosed, my life changed forever. I felt extremely ashamed of the disease. In the mainstream media, diabetes was described as a disease that primarily affected overweight people, and I had always been overweight. Even though type 2 diabetes is medically linked to obesity, I still worried that most people didn't know the nuances of a diabetes diagnosis and would make assumptions about me.

For a while, I felt ashamed of my diagnosis.

For the first few years after my diagnosis, shame isolated me. I wore an insulin pump under my clothes, a bulky device that clipped to my bra and was connected to an injection site with long, clear tubing that got caught on everything. I began hugging people from afar, worried they would feel the pressure. I took medical device classes required by my insurance company. But deep down, I didn't see myself or anyone else as a diabetic. I wanted to distance myself emotionally from my illness, even from myself.

I ended up getting fitted for a continuous glucose monitor, which showed up as a noticeable lump on the back of my arm and below my waistline, and it was very noticeable. I hated it when people asked me “what's that for?” when I wore a tank top to the gym, or when women in wedding dresses said “if you're going to wear a tank top, maybe you should choose a different style.” this On your special day.”

Ultimately, my perspective changed.

It took me another decade to slowly reveal my diabetes secret to people, with prying questions like, “Is that for allergies?” followed by “Oh, I didn't know you had diabetes! (shudders)” There was very little response afterwards: people were interested in the medical device, but the derisive comments I had feared never materialized.

Maybe it's the wisdom of age, but eventually I stopped caring what other people thought about my illness or how I was dealing with it. Plus, I knew I was in good shape, maintaining a healthy A1C, a measure of my three-month average blood sugar level, below 6.1%, down from 9.1% when I was first diagnosed. For comparison, the A1C for people without diabetes is around 5.7%.

Accepting the emotional reality of my illness has also helped me make better choices about my treatment. Since I switched from an insulin pump to injections, I feel more in control of my dosage, and I can be honest when people ask me how I manage my blood sugar.

Over time, I was surprised to find that the embarrassment that had made me hesitate to hug people years ago for fear of touching my insulin pump had disappeared. Now, not only do I not mind people knowing I have diabetes, but at business dinners, I sometimes take out my insulin pen at the table, screw in the needle, and inject the required units into my abdomen through my blouse.

I deflect prying questions with a confident smile and a rebuttal, and while the questions don’t annoy me as much as they used to, I rarely have lengthy conversations with acquaintances or strangers; I reserve in-depth conversations for my partner, close friends, and endocrinology team.

Over the last 20 years, I've learned that accepting my illness means leaning more towards pragmatism than emotion: After all, it's me who has diabetes, no one else.