Charlotte’s first sharps container is full after two months with Type 1 Diabetes (T1D). Overflowing with used needles, alcohol swipes, test strips, and lancets. My daughter’s biohazards. It’s a fraction of what we really use to maintain her life as these damn artifacts inhabit her bedroom desk and floor, our car, and are strewn about the house. Underfoot. They defy enclosure which pisses me off. They demand acknowledgement as if I’m not aware every second of their new imperative for Charlo’s survival. I know these allies are everywhere, inextricably a part of our life now. But I wish they would disappear. Wish we could go back.
Sigh. Lots of them these days. Navigating the health insurance world is harrowing, frustrating, and a time suck. I just learned after five years with the same insurance provider that ‘pharmaceutical’ insurance is different from ‘medical’ insurance. And that my mail order for Charlotte’s test strips and lancets (we use an average of six a day) and pen needles (four a day if we’re lucky) was cancelled. With no phone call to let me know that what keeps her alive is being held hostage. I’m frantic – we’re running out of supplies.
So I take a deep breath, get my fire up, and reach for the phone to figure out this new conundrum. I think of Charlotte and her courage when I get overwhelmed. And I’m thankful for hilarity, compassion, and love. They are more than armor, they are lifeblood.