Unceremonious

So.

It’s thirty-three years since diagnosis.

I thought about writing some rambling introspective soliloquy about what it’s been like, how things have changed, how I fought through adversity, and blah, blah, blah….

But I won’t. It’s just not me.

So what if it’s been thirty-three years?

It’s just one day more than it was yesterday. And one day less than tomorrow. There’s nothing special about it.

I haven’t achieved any goals. I’m not at the finish line. I’m still going.

 

I don’t even know what the finish line is.

Maybe it’s the elusive end to diabetes. Or maybe just The End.

Will I know it when I see it? Who knows?

I hope to see it someday.

 

When I was signed up for diabetes (cursed be the one who put my name on that list), it was a long-term assignment.

Not a one-year contract with annual renewals.

No conclusions and re-negotiations at years’ end.

I’m not at the end.

 

An Indy Car driver doesn’t pull over to the side of the racetrack after the thirty-third lap to get out, look around, and take in the aura around him.

He doesn’t celebrate not crashing his car on the 32nd lap. To do so would break his focus.

Interrupt his momentum. Discard a valuable competitive edge.

To do so would be catastrophic to his success in the race.

I can’t lose focus.

 

I can’t indulge just because of an arbitrary date on the calendar. Heck, until a couple of years ago, I didn’t even know what that date was!

But I do know this, with certainty:

There have been plenty of occasions over the past year when I’ve indulged – for some frivolous reason that wasn’t strong enough to stick in my mind.

I’ll substitute one of those days in place of today.

I prefer not to regret the choices I make today, tomorrow.

 

Some might say that I’m entitled to a celebration. To a reward.

An acknowledgement of another year gone by.

That may work for some, but not for me. To me, it’s just peer-pressure.

I didn’t put forth the effort so that I may reach thirty-three.

A cupcake was never my motivation, nor will it be my reward.

My rewards surround me in my house every day.

Her companionship. Watching J play soccer. Cherishing the joy Z gets from numbers.

My goals are to watch them walk down the aisle to Pomp & Circumstance and receive that diploma.

Or to Pachelbel’s Canon to formalize their love for someone. (Or maybe to Sweet Child o’ Mine. Their choice).

Or whatever dreams they may have, to watch them come true.

This is what motivates me, and these will be my rewards.

I’m not sure that I’ll make it. But I hope so.

Not an arbitrary 365-day period or a gratuitous cupcake.

But that’s just me. You may vary.

 

Really, there’s nothing really special about today.

I mean, there’s nothing particularly unique about today. I suppose, in a spiritual sense, every day is special.

I’ll get up, take my kid to day-care, go to work, bring him home, and find some leftovers in the fridge to eat for dinner.

Maybe watch a little TV.

 

Then I’ll go to bed, and then it will be tomorrow.

And tomorrow will be just the same as today.

I’ll still wake up, still eat breakfast, still go to work, and still deal with a stubborn high blood sugar around 9:00 AM.

 

Nothing will have changed. There will be no victorious atmosphere to soak in.

 

Just another day.

 

Just another day that starts with a bolus of insulin.

The same as it’s been. Every Day. Every Freakin’ Day.

For the past thirty-three years.

 

When that changes,

Maybe I’ll find cause to celebrate.