Immaturity Through IT

I’ve contemplated justifying my absence from this refuge, this space, but I will merely begin again and let the silence mean what it will without explanation. Too much to go back. Onward.

Two years living beside a beast, T1D, has been strange. It’s given time a new kind of meaning and punctuation. The moment so clearly precious, yet I don’t always embrace it as such. Seconds are often heavy and entangled with numbers (blood sugars, A1Cs, carbohydrates, insulin doses, the date of our next endo appointment), emotions (joy, anger, sadness, fear), and movements (finger pricks, pump changes, calls to medical suppliers, breathing). And others, jiggly with a mix of hope, inspiration, and immaturity. The latter (jiggly) is where I’ll rest today.

Max (now 13) and Charlotte (now 11) find it humorous that our family, as they put it, “is the most inappropriate of anyone they know.” Eyeballs regularly roll at parental antics which they deem the height of immaturity. Hallelujah, well done! We infuse our complex lives with humor (often puerile) because it feels good, especially in the midst of T1D and uncertainty. If Charlo’s pancreas doesn’t work, let’s cackle at the other untoward bodily functions that do! There’s a lot we take seriously (school, health, commitment, responsibility, community), but I’ve always found humor humanizing and stress-relieving. It’s connective tissue.

And immaturity? Well, the perpetual 11 year old in me, the one who didn’t get to laugh because of family tragedy, deserves to be heard. We are symmetry: I am her wise woman and she, my zany muse.

As for hope, I find a wealth of it in children and young adults who exude strength, grace, courage, and vitality despite what comes their way. More on that next.

So, I’m going to join P!nk and raise a glass (mine will be Diet Pepsi, thank you) to everything that makes us, us. Me, me. You, you.