Broadcasting Illness to the World

I'm really having a hard time with the insulin pump, and this is only the test run—I’m pumping saline solution this weekend, not insulin. On Monday I meet with the diabetic nurse and the endocrinologist to program my pump so that it delivers a very low level of insulin 20 times an hour, 24 hours a day, and a much larger dose before meals. I had to remove the needle yesterday after three days of insertion. I tried to follow the directions I was given for rewinding and priming the cartridge and inserting the needle, but so many steps were missing from the guidebook that I just gave up. I disconnected myself from the pump, went to bed, and have allowed solution to dribble out of the needle and onto my futon for the last 14 hours. I’ve had more important things to do than diddle with this device. More important things like crying.

Last night I broke down and wept, something I haven’t indulged in for a very long time. And today I’ve cried every time I’ve been alone, which, of course, is the vast majority of my existence.

It’s not just that the pump signals an end to magic and miracles, the possibility that I’ll ever be free of diabetes and its complications. It’s also that I will now be broadcasting to the world that I’m a diabetic. With the pump resting on my belt or on the waistline of my skirt, it will be there for all to see. And, yes, I suppose to someone who’s paying absolutely no attention it looks like a pager, but how many pagers have tubing coming out of them?

Add to this that the only two relationships I’ve had in the 17 years since leaving my husband were with men who said they couldn’t stay with me because I have diabetes. Now on an intellectual level I agree with my dear son that they were assholes and that they were just grabbing at straws, finding any excuse to leave, and they might as well pick one that I don’t seem to be able to change. I mean, if they had said I was too heavy or my hair was the wrong color or I didn’t speak Chinese or I was a lousy surfer, those are all things I could work on. But to pick diabetes is a stroke of genius. They were saying it’s something fundamental about me, like my gender or my race.

And so now every man who may have been interested in me without the pump now will turn away. I won’t even get to tell him I’m a diabetic after a few dates. I’ll have to tell him from the moment he sees me. I’m trading delayed rejection for instantaneous rejection.

Now certainly one could reasonably say, “C’mon, Heidi, if you’ve only had two relationships in 17 years, it’s not exactly like men have been beating down your door to go out with you, even without an insulin pump. In fact, how many times in those 17 years have you even gotten to a second date? So what’s the big deal? No men currently. No men in the future. What’s the difference?”

The difference is that even though no one is interested, I’m still looking good. I’m looking as if I should/could be with a man, I’m looking like a real catch. No one may approach me, but I’m something like a beautiful, distant star. It’s the same thing with Svalbard and Pitcairn Island. I may never travel to either of these far-flung lands, but it’s sure nice knowing these exotic places are out there. So it’s true that no man has spent the night in almost eight years, but at least my body has been ready for some man to spend the night. Now, attached to a pump that stays hooked up to me through a needle and 43 inches of tubing, I feel more like a machine than a woman.

I've only known one person who has been on an insulin pump and he was in a long-term committed relationship. He and his wife weren't concerned about groping. Those with bionic partners realize they have to work around the equipment. But what about me? What about if I’m on a date—miracle of miracles in and of itself—and I feel something for the man and he feels something for me? We begin kissing and he starts feeling me up and his hand jerks the needle out of my belly or he gets tangled in the tubing. Of course, he’d run, maybe even letting me fend for a ride home.

I know some people will say the Pollyannaish thing: “If a man loves you, he won’t care that you’re a diabetic-heart patient-person with kidney disease.” We all know that’s “Hallmark” bullshit. Women are famous for taking on charity cases—disabled vets, alcoholics, convicted felons—but men demand perfection.

And someone whose pancreas isn’t functioning, whose heart is running on approximately 5 percent of capacity, and whose kidneys are biting the dust is hardly anyone’s idea of perfection.