The other morning, just before I was fully awake, I noticed that the spot on my hip where I often put my sites was itchy. Even though I wasn't fully conscious, I found myself going through a little mental inventory before I let myself scratch the itch. Is that where my site is? When did I last change it out? Don't scratch it until you're totally sure. After the couple of seconds it took to scroll through those questions, I remembered that indeed, I had changed my site out the night before and the place that was itching was the old site. Check, I could scratch the itch without fear of disturbing the site or worry that an infection was starting there. Check, I could scratch the itch and roll over for a little more snooze time.
It struck me later when I was actually awake, that diabetes is so much about these little details for me. For some reason I notice the textural, granular things about the physical experience of diabetes, often more than the big stuff. These nuances, the strange bits and pieces that make up daily life with all the paraphenalia I need to use to survive, are what catch my attention at the strangest, most unexpected moments. Skin meeting sticky adhesive tape, callouses meeting dull metal, sparkles in my vision when I'm low, numbness in my tongue when I'm really low. After so many years, these physical sensations exist in a strange place within my consciousness, certainly within my awareness, but also less distinct because they're so persistant in their daily presence. They demand my attention and yet their demands are so commonplace that the volume is also subdued. These small details have become so quiet and yet somehow, so much more noticable too.