My PDM is my muse. A force that externalizes an inherently invisible disease. A computerized therapeutic concept to help patients grapple with the clinical inertia that was a historically unapologetic gateway to capital punishment. In just ninety years, we’ve come as far as ushering a conspiracy into a digitally-supported blind alley to enable a lifeline of liquid gold into our bodies. In my own experience as a diabetic of two years, I have grown as dependent on medical technology as a heroin addict craves his next fix. So much is hidden from society when you are entrusted with the responsibility of a faulty organ. An object riddled by stereotypes, masked in a hot pink glitter case to undermine the cynicism of my disease, mistaken for a novel object, the cell phone. My PDM is my cell phone. It is my prime form of communication, and though I wish it weren’t, we’ll just have my cute jeans to thank for it.
I am the control system; the PDM is the network of cybersecurity protecting the critical infrastructure of all my other organs. Such a demanding little device she is, I am sequestered in my own little world. The orbs of my enthusiasm are sullen, tired from countless sleepless nights permeated by high or low blood sugar alerts. The expressive nature of conversation and balance, my hands are quivering from the fever dream I suffered a thousand times over after a menacing hypoglycemic state. It is impossible for someone to experience the insurmountable pain, anxiety, and fear built up inside me, without actually living it. I close my eyes in anguish, and moments later I awaken to my PDM telling me it’s time for a Pod change. An inconspicuous, dainty piece of technology telling me how to control my life. But I guess that makes me no different than everyone else after all.
Just like you, I live in an environment that sustains permanence. My body is my temple, and my diabetes is a sour patch gummy: first sour, then sweet, and sometimes a little too sweet. My PDM keeps me in tune with my new reality. It prevents my blood from becoming overly confectionary but also has the capacity to dictate my demise. Behind that little sparkly screen beholds a nexus of equations: basal programs, micro bolus adjustments, insulin to carb ratios, etc. Beyond the radiance of the y2k inspired encrusted monitor is my creation. It is fascinating to think about the many parallels between a phone and my PDM.
Is this society’s way of stimulating the age-old stereotype that comes with a diabetes diagnosis? Could it be the healthcare community’s attempt to muzzle an undisturbed meadow with an interchangeable object, to avoid the guilt of flaunting something so natural? I guess we will never know, and I guess I don’t care to know because all that I can think about right now is my next move - when I will eat, how far my walk to my next class will be, and what adjustments I should make on my PDM. Every move is calculated on this paradigm little touchscreen interface, which I am perpetually grateful for.
My eighteen-year-old self had the utmost confidence in the company of my seven-year-old Weimaraner puppy. My existence, however, was completely shattered on May 11th of 2020, gifting me a new sense of reality and an ambivalent source of companionship. Unfortunately my world does not revolve around the simplicity of man’s best friend. It culminates with a consumer device that doubles as a blood glucose monitor, a food database, and a logbook. A glorified lab rat, I will spend the rest of my life fixated on graphs and numbers, but my PDM offers sentiments of solace and equilibrium to offset the resentment I feel towards my condition. My PDM makes my relentless pursuit for optimal glycemic control effortless and unique. The algorithms wired in my prototyped dashboard are sewn to fit my demands in the same way your phone safeguards your personally identifiable information.
Chronic illness manifests in a myriad of altitudes. Rewiring the ways in which I previously consumed food, knowledge, and culture. It is inconceivable to depict contemporary times in an authentic manner without respecting the interludes of transparency from society’s technological lust. How lucky am I to be able to control what was in times past a spectral facet of life with an instrument that allows my disabled-bodied self to feel pride, pain, and promise.
By Brianna Carrasquillo
