maybe the spring's?

And who knows- I certainly don't- maybe last year's vaccine is better than nothing? or your child fits an excemption rule and its worth the wait? maybe they will have it for their patients anyway. I just know I'd be asking!

I'd be at my pediatrician's door Monday morning asking what I can do right now before this happens.

Because surviving isn’t the finish line. It’s the starting point for change.

#T1D #Type1Diabetes #DiabetesAdvocate #ChronicIllness #DisabilityAwareness #DiabetesHistory #AccessMatters #LivedExperience #DiabetesIsPolitical #FundResearch#BeyondTheDiagnosis #HealthEquity #InvisibleDisabilities

50 years.
Every day. Every decision. Every dose.
𝗨𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲.

📣If you want to honor this milestone, here’s how:

🧪 Fund the research.
🧬 Advocate for sustained federal investment.
🧩 Push for equitable access to care.
🧠 Call out misinformation—before it becomes policy.

50 years of decisions, calculations, risks, and consequences.
50 years of doing the work-without shortcuts and without a break.

𝗗𝗶𝗮𝗯𝗲𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴. 𝗜𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗱 𝘂𝗽.

The ones who treated me as fully capable. Who advocated for me. Raised money for a cure. Believed in me. Who took a chance on me without second-guessing what my pancreas could or couldn’t do.
You made space-and 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

And yet- 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝗮𝗺.

With the help of the people who saw me as more than a diagnosis.

Complications were inevitable. Blindness. Amputations. Kidney failure. These were shown in graphic photos, not to inform, but to scare. And when something went wrong, it was treated as a personal failure.

At school, there were no 504 plans, no trained staff, and no guaranteed help. My parents had to teach the teachers what to watch for, when it was urgent, and how to respond. There was no nurse who understood the risks- no backup, no protocol. Just my family filling the gap the system refused to.

I didn’t treat my own lows back then. My parents did. They were the ones watching for signs, spooning sugar into my mouth when I couldn’t respond, 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. There were no alarms, no CGMs, no nighttime safety nets-just their constant vigilance.

I drew my insulin from a glass vial into an orange capped syringe. I took one fixed dose a day. Meals were rigid, timed, and nonnegotiable. If I wasn’t hungry, it didn’t matter. The insulin was 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 working.

In 1975, there were no glucose meters. I tested my urine in a test tube, dropped in a fizzy tablet, and waited for the color to change. It gave a vague idea of what my blood sugar 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 have been hours earlier. There was no real-time data. No blood sugar readings at all.

Today it’s tracking. Tomorrow it’s 𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗘𝘅𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗣𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴.

📉 Blood sugar isn't a behavior score.
💊 Diabetes isn’t a moral failing.
📣 And compliance isn’t care.

We must speak up before satire becomes policy.

Yes—this is satire.
No—it’s not far from reality.

🧬 A centralized diabetes list without 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 opens the door to terrifying abuse.

Under the latest dystopian model, patients with “poor control” may soon be 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗳𝗳 𝘁𝗼 𝗼𝗳𝗳𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗵 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀. Rumor has it, this is based in 𝗧𝘂𝗿𝗸𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻, where government transparency is as rare as affordable insulin.