I haven’t been myself this week.
On Monday morning, Nora and I left the house and left the side door open. Only the screen was closed. A friend stopped by to drop something off and was afraid we’d been burgled.
On Monday evening, I left the back gate open when coming in from the garden and Ben looked out the window to see Hoover traipsing around the neighborhood.
On Tuesday morning, my work wife and I got upset with each other, which never happens.
On Tuesday evening, after Nora fell asleep, I threw myself in Ben’s arms and sobbed for about two hours.
On Wednesday, I cried at work.
On Thursday, I yelled at my boss. (Thankfully, he forgave me.)
Clearly, I am cracking up. Why, you may ask?
Because I’m getting what I supposedly want: an insulin pump. It will arrive today and on Monday I’ll go to the doctor’s office and get hooked up. (Warning, this may get vlogged.)
A strange way to act when I’m getting what I want, no?
I’ve heard people say that getting a pump is like being diagnosed all over again. I thought they were talking about the learning curve. No, they mean that you must completely reprocess the grief of having a chronic disease which means you are dependent on something external to live.
I was planning to write an article entitled, “How to Start an Insulin Pump Without Going Crazy,” but given this week, that would be hypocritical. Perhaps a subtitle is in order: “From Someone Who Did.”
Thankfully, I have my sister to turn to. She’s been through it all. But I can’t tell you the sorrow I now feel at not having understood what she was up against when she was diagnosed at age seventeen.
I truly do want the pump. It’s the needing it that’s making me nuts.