Members of the club

It’s amazing how quickly I’ve become oblivious to the presence of my insulin pump. When I was first diagnosed I hid the fact that I had Type1. I’d sneak off to give injections. Slowly I got more comfortable with all of it. Then the pump came. A 1990s style pager looking device clipped to my belt. If not for the obvious tubing, it would look like I’m in full dad swag mode. I’m not sure if I was more embarrassed by the fact that I had Type1 or the seemingly nonexistent fashion sense. Naturally, I kept it hidden.

Here’s the rub. The pump doesn’t want to be hidden. Your shirt catches on it and it shows. For a while I’d quickly cover it back up while my eyes darted around the room as if my fly was down. And then I stopped caring. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t decide to. I just, kinda, did. I have Type1. I can’t get rid of it and I have enough to think about on a daily basis that the state of coverage of an insulin pump didn’t make it onto the priority list.

Every day I take the same train from work to my car. Every day it’s around the same time of day. It’s that magical hour where the rest of us in the rat race pack into metal subway cars like cattle and get whisked through underground tunnels. It’s robotic. Almost everyone has headphones on and definitely everyone is looking down, transfixed at the glowing rectangle of addiction. I don’t hear for my stop. I instinctively know it’s been roughly the right amount of time or Candy Crush levels to get off the train. Doors open and we spill out as one blob of commuters, while being unaware of the very existence of each other.

One night I stuck around in the city for a social gathering after work. By the time we finished up, rush hour was over and the trains were mostly empty. My routing was unchanged except for the massive amounts of room around me and the lack of the non-deodorant wearing guy who always seems to want to stand 3 inches from me.

I’m leaning against the doors, queuing up podcast episodes (probably The Juicebox Podcast) and look around briefly and notice a family across from me. I think nothing of it and look away. As I’m looking down I feel the burning of someone’s gaze on me. Without lifting my head in an obvious manner I glance up. There’s a young boy about age 11-12 across from me. He’s looking at me and looks away. Nosy kid! I feel it again. I glance again. He’s looking again. This time I see it. He’s got an Omnipod insulin pump on his arm. What a coincidence. I look back down but not at my phone. AHA! My pump is exposed.

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I looked back at him quickly. I wanted to connect before he looked away. He was staring right at me. He gave me a bashful little wave with half a smile. I smirked back and left it alone from there.

At the next stop I looked up again, they didn’t get off. Back to what I was doing. Next stop I checked. The family was standing up preparing to get off. I looked right at him. He gave me another meek smile and tiny wave. I gave him a knowing look that consisted of a wink, nod, and another smile. And I watched him get off the train.

That was it. That’s all there was to it. His family didn’t know this exchange took place. They weren’t meant to know. Not that it was hidden from them, but it wasn’t for them. They aren’t in our club. My wife supports me and sympathizes as best she can. I’m sure his family does the same. But they don’t have something stuck to them 24/7. They don’t stare at ice cream and think “I’m low on insulin and it’s almost time to change my site. I could cover it with insulin, but I have to eat soon and I don’t have time for the bolus to work before a meal so it’s better to just wait. Or maybe if I up my temp basal I can stay even. Oh fuck it. I’m exhausted. It’s just ice cream. I’ll try again tomorrow.” That pattern of thought cycles through our brains almost every minute.

So, it was our moment. Two dudes in the T1D club. In our own little world on train car #3 for 10 minutes. A place where glances across a train say “I get it. You’re not alone.” And we went our separate ways, alone again on each of our journeys, but maybe a little less alone in spirit. I hope my little diabuddy remembers it and gives himself the little smile he gave me when he thinks of it.