Last night, I had a dream that someone was speaking with me about diabetes and I was unable to understand them.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what that word is. Can you use it again in a sentence? How do you spell it?’
‘D-I-A-B-E-T-E-S. You DO know what it means. I’ve heard you talk about it before. You write about it.’
‘Do I? I’ve never heard of it. Tell me about it. What to I write about it?’
The person in my dream kept insisting that I knew all about it and that I actually worked in the diabetes field.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a doctor.’ I said to them, laughing.
‘No. Not a doctor. You are a person with diabetes who works with others with diabetes. It’s a peer thing.’
As I got more confused and the person insisting that I was some sort of ‘diabetes person’ became increasingly frustrated with me, I woke up.
In that delirious, delicious moment between dreaming and being awake (it’s called hypnopompia which is such a beautiful, evocative word) diabetes ceased to exist.
Diabetes ceased to exist.
It only lasted a few seconds, but it happened. And it happens most mornings. Unless I am jolted awake because I’m low, or with a sudden urge to pee because I am high, there is a moment – a sweet, brief, perfect moment – every day where diabetes ceases to exist.
And, my friends, it is my favourite time of the day.