I sit down at the table to eat. It’s past 1 and I’m starving. I don’t know what my glucose number is; my meter is upstairs. I take a bite. I don’t want to go up and get it. Pretty soon my lunch is gone. I left my diabetes in the other room.

I’m snuggled under a blanket. Snow is falling outside, piling high against the window. Flames flicker and dance in the fireplace as the heat warms my frozen toes. I hear a faint buzz from the other room. My CGM is telling me something: too high, too low, dropping, rising. I don’t listen. I left my diabetes in the other room.

We’re gathered around the table, 6 friends enjoying each other’s company and a delicious dinner. The waitress asks if we want dessert. A slice of giant chocolate layer cake is served with 6 forks. I take one and dig in, savoring each rich bite. Chocolate cake, chocolate frosting, raspberry sauce. I left my diabetes in the other room.

My pump lays on top of a pile of crumpled clothes. I’m untethered, liberated, disconnected. I jump into the pool. I left my diabetes in the room.

I’m in a meeting, staring at the computer projection on the screen. The words are there, but I can’t make sense of them. My head feels heavy, my hands shaky. My CGM is back at my desk. I left my diabetes in the other room.

Didn’t I? 

My heart rate quickens, my hands get clammy. I can’t think straight. I’m getting dizzy.

I didn’t leave it. I can’t leave it.

It’s always here.