on mothering diabetes.

in my fridge,

in the shelf that is designed

to hold cheese,

there are vials of hope,

and

an emergency kit

in bright orange,

remember, remember

in case you forget

how to breathe,

with

pre-filled

hormone,

so that when my fingers

fumble with fear

i have a needle ready

to plunge into muscle,

to bring you back

if you should ever slip

too far away

from me.

i keep nocturnal vigils

with foxes

and other moon mothers

who have to

keep on

keeping on,

until the day breaks.

i punch a calculator in my head with every meal,

and

i sing songs of

no, you cannot eat that

now,

and

please, you must drink this

now,

or, else.

and in this home

we

know

needles,

and

fear, and we belong to the ones with sharps containers

on their kitchen counters

where others have no such

things, and

we are intimately familiar with the fear that can slip into a word,

hypo

hyper

ketones

coma

death.

but, i also know this hope that lives in delicate glass vials,

where every drop

holds life,

yours, and

my heart, and

i promise you

that cells might forget

how to keep

you alive,

but i will not forget,

or

give up.

and, for you,

and for life,

i am grateful.

— on mothering diabetes.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

Today, 14th November 2018, is World Diabetes Day.

In our home, we sing a different song and we fight a daily war that involves needles and insulin and fear — if I am honest.

But, we know hope and we are grateful for the simple miracle of insulin.

And, life.

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