The same hope may not spring eternal for all of us living with diabetes. I’ve stopped waiting for the “cure” as I’d imagined it as an 8-year-old: a pill or injection that would magically remove diabetes from my body; an antidote; the silver bullet that would explode inside me, its powerful serum expelling all traces of the disease.
At 43, I hope to wake up to a sunny day (or a rainy one if I’d like to work in the studio); I hope all my trash gets picked up on Wednesday mornings, even the heaviest of bags (I seriously watch from a window and let out a tiny “Yay!” when the sidewalk gets cleared).
But when it comes to diabetes, my hopes are slightly less selfish: I wish that the road younger generations of people with diabetes will travel is smoother than mine. I wish for them less fear, less anxiety, less uncertainty. Hope does spring eternal.