Nineteen Years: The Girl Who Lived

As Kanye might say, “Nineteen years, nineteen years, busted your pancreas, got you for nineteen years.” Oh, diabetes, you golddigger, happy anniversary. I’ve had to deal with you for nineteen years as of today. You’re my enemy, but you’ve made me many friends and given me fascinating opportunities.

I don’t like the term “diabetes sufferer,” even though you’re insufferable; I prefer “person with diabetes” or “living with diabetes” because I’m a person first, and despite you, I’ve lived.

Every time I’ve dragged myself down from scratchy eyes and pain in my limbs, I’ve lived. Every time I’ve woken up from a bad low and been able to cheat death for another night, I’ve lived. Every time I’ve done a workout, performed, taught, achieved without letting you stop me, I've lived.

So, on this, my nineteenth diaversary (my diabetes can legally drink in Ontario), don’t call me a diabetes sufferer.

Call me The Girl Who Lived.

And join me for cake.

Okay, I had doughnuts instead