This is the 2nd day of Diabetes Blog Week, created by Karen over at Bitter-Sweet Diabetes. Today's prompt is Letter Writing Day, where we are supposed to write a real or fictional letter somehow connected to diabetes - to an endo, an actual meter or pump company, or maybe a letter from one's adult self to the D-Child you were. Whomever the letter's recipient may be, this is the day to tell that person how you're feeling.
Letter To The Unknown Guys & Gals of My Diabetes Past. Those strangers who, at one time or another, briefly came into my world and made an impression. Now, this multi-point letter is a collection of thoughts to those who weren't around long enough to exchange names or retain details on for more than a brief time.
Second-Grade Substitute Teacher Who Didn't Believe:
I'm sorry that I tried to punch you in the nose that one day you were filling in for my regular, more understanding teacher. When you wouldn't let me eat a morning snack in class, and then the little curly haired red-head fellow student of mine warned you that I wasn't lying about needing to eat, you should have listened. He got into an argument with you, but in the meantime I laid my head down on the desk and tried to sleep. When you wouldn't let things be, two of my classmates ran out of class against the teacher's wishes to fetch help. Back at the desk, I freaked out from the Low blood sugar and started yelling before other classmates had to hold me down and stop me from trying to hit you. Those two help-seeking classmates got in trouble and, had you been reasonable, my mom wouldn't have had to get involved and fight to get them out of trouble because of your stupidity. I'm glad it worked out in the end, though I don't recall ever seeing you again. Hope the teaching career worked out. At least that helped teach the school that all subs needed to be told about my diabetes and allow me to eat in class.
Manager Who Stormed the Bathroom Stall and Tried to Toss Me from the Restaurant:
No, I wasn't trying to shoot up with drugs behind the stall door that wasn't locked. That was simply not an accurate report from the other person who happened to see me in there holding a syringe and pulling my shirt up to inject the partially-cloudy liquid into my body. Though I'm sure that might sometimes have been the case with other teenagers you'd encountered in the mid-90s, that wasn't what I was up to. But rather than believing my explanation, you accused me of lying and proclaimed you'd call the cops and have me locked up. I'm perfectly fine with the fact that you were proven wrong by someone else working that day, and that I never went back to your establishment again. In fact, it was pretty enjoyable convincing others that a boycott of your business was a perfectly acceptable response.
Nice Late-Night Diner Waitress:
You are very nice and I appreciate all you did for me back in the 90s. Not only did you reliably refill my coffee cup while there at any hour, but you had no issue with ALWAYS making sure that my soda was in fact sugar-free and that, from time to time, you brought me many glasses of orange juice and didn't charge me for them. I wish all waitresses were like you.
Anti-Charity Guy In College Who Only Contributes to 'Worthy' Causes:
Dude, you suck. I was a philanthropy-embracing college student trying to raise money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, and you were an asshole. It would have been fine if you couldn't or didn't want to contribute to my particular charity. But to say that you only contribute to 'worthy' causes, that was simply uncalled for. I don't wish many people ill in this world, but I might actually hope that you were diagnosed with diabetes at some point since then. How worthy is that cause now, dipshit?
Face-making Couple at Nearby Panera Bread Table:
It was a Sunday afternoon, and my wife and I were out for a simple sandwich at a place offering free Internet access. We were minding our own business, and being a Type 1 diabetic who must take insulin before eating, it became necessary to test my blood sugar before scarfing down that meal. Yet when I displayed my blood meter and poked my finger, and then drew up some insulin in my syringe (thanks to multi-daily injections), you decided to toss some frowns and frustrated faces in our direction. Like we were invading your turf and doing something so unholy you couldn't believe it. Reflecting on this now, I wish I would have stood up and approached you and started waving my arms at you while chanting "Satin is my friend." Enough to make you really uncomfortable. Instead, I smiled and that seemed to annoy you. There were more looks before you eventually got up and left. Good riddance.
Random Golf Mate #4:
I remember that day a few years ago, when we were standing next to each at a golf tee. You and your pal had been matched up with a friend and I, and so our pair of twosomes became a foursome. We were standing near one of the tees waiting to begin that hole. You glanced down and caught a glimpse of the insulin pump at my waist. "Is that an insulin pump?" you asked. "Yes, it is," I said flatly, then turned and walked away. Nothing more said about it from then on. I'm sorry for being an asshat. Diabetes wasn't what I wanted to talk about that day, I just wanted to play some golf rather than making small-talk about diabetes. You could've been a fellow Person With Diabetes. Or maybe someone with a personal D-Connection. It could have been a life-changing friendship in the works there. But I blew you off. That was uncalled for and not how I should have responded. Sorry about that.
Insulin Pumping Lady At Church:
One Sunday morning, my wife pointed me to you on the opposite end of the sanctuary. That was a communion weekend and we were still sitting in our pew in the middle of an aisle. You were walking away from the front of the room back to your seat, and I could see a Minimed pump attached to your side. Scaling back my excitement, I decided not to jump to my feet and leap over the pew and rush toward you waving my arms and brandishing my own pump for a "pump bump." Instead, I sat and watched you go find your seat. We weren't able to find you afterward, and our pastor didn't know who you might be. I never looked you up after that. I'd like to meet and say hello, but don't want you to think I'm some crazy person. Maybe we'll get that chance some day.
Insurance Guys And Girls on Other End of Telephone
Zombies are usually smarter than you. Most of you. Some of you seem to have common sense, but those telephone encounters are few and far between. I don't understand why you can't understand simple sentences, or insist on screwing up orders that my doctor has clearly directed you to fill. You are not my doctor and don't have the ability to make medical decisions for me. You're screwing with my health and life, and it's unfair and ridiculous. If I ask you a basic question based on what is ON FILE, you should have the ability to look at the screen in front of you and get the answer. Stop being a moron. And when I ask for a supervisor, I'd rather not repeat myself at least three times before you finally direct me to one. If you can't follow these simple commands, find a new freaking job. It's not rocket science.
To everyone else, I hope that whatever brief encounters we've had through the years have enabled you to grow as a person and learn from the situation. If it was pleasant through my eyes, I hope it was the same for you. If not, I hope you've had the opportunity to get some perspective and balance out your asshattery with real person friendliness. Regardless, thanks for making my D-Life what it is.
That One Diabetic Guy Who You Probably Don't Remember