One Sunday evening my family and I began our ritual of Sunday sweat pants and a movie. I went up stairs to change into my beloved, Victoria Secret garment: seven-year-old, ratty Pink sweats. As I eased into my Sunday comfort, my Sunday night anxieties started percolating: homework, lunches, carpool, and work. The weekly brew of stress began. I gathered my hair in a messy-not-to-messy top not and proceeded to wash my face.
There she was. Staring back at me in the mirror. My diabetes.
Her gray, rheumatic eyes narrowed. She speaks without inflection. Her statements shoot out of her mouth like poisonous darts:
“Nobody likes you.”
“The other mothers will never accept you.”
“They will exclude you.”
“You were a weirdo before.”
“Now you are a diseased weirdo.”
“Not true.” I kept my voice steady. “I have more friends than ever. My social anxieties have diminished. I don’t have time for nonsense. I should thank you for that.”
She cocked her head exposing the blue veins in her skinny neck.
“Your husband sees you as a burden. He will leave you. You were already a bother. Now this! Please!”
I began to fantasize about squeezing her veiny neck until her brittle, chicken bones collapsed.
I clenched my fist. I took a breath. “ Really? My husband and I are stronger than ever. We are a team. Thank you…again.”
She started again, “Your children-
“What diabetes? What are you trying to tell me? I just don’t care. I manage you. I fight you every day. Nothing is going to change!”
“I am going to kill you!” Diabetes boomed.
I slammed my hands down on the bathroom sink. I met her gray, rheumatic eyes. With all my might, I slung my fighting words at her angular face: “No, you will not. I will die one day. I will go down swinging, on my terms. Not yours. I will have grandchildren. Great grandchildren. I will see the world. You will get nothing from me but my defunct pancreas!”
The anger left my body. I felt it emptying from my veins, down the drain, down into the sewer.
She paused to reload. She was clearly frustrated. Before she gathered more ammunition, I walked out, shut the door, and walked downstairs. I sat on the couch with my husband and daughters. We looked like a sweat pants sandwich.
The movie began.
Choke on my popcorn, diabetes. Now get the hell out of the A to Z Challenge!