These moments

This weekend my brother invited me join him at a small meet-up called 'The Little Green Gathering', held at a local sustainability centre where he was giving a talk on the Zeitgest movement, something he is as passionate about as I am about diabetes advocacy.  I've been saying for some time that I'd come along to one of his talks, so this evening I decided to join him and come good on my promise.   But as so often happens when we aren't searching for it, it was an unexpected, wonderful moment that made the event.

Knowing that he was on for an hour and with a serious coffee addiction meaning I would be a fidgety twitcher if I didn't visit the little girls room, I nipped off to the ladies for a loo-stop.  As I waited for a cubicle to become free, two people filed in behind me: a mother and her daughter,  talking amongst themselves.  Normally their conversation would have passed over me barely registering, but all of a sudden a familiar phrase caught my attention.

"We should do your numbers in a minute." Mum said.

I've heard those words before.  I've heard them on more than just a few occasions.  As I eavesdropped them discussing numbers and times I wanted so badly to turn and let them know my little secret too, but the door of a cubicle opened and without meaning to I found myself locking the cubicle door behind me, saying goodbye to that moment.

It's a good job I pee fast.

As I emerged from the cubicle I made it just in time to see a crisp, clean looking testing kit sprawled in front of the young girl, cradled in the open hands of the mother.  Even that image speaks a thousand words, doesn't it?

I squeezed past and whispered to them, "me too," gesturing towards the open kit.

"Sorry", mum said, now making eye contact with me.

"Me too." I repeated.

"Really?" Her eyes now fixed on mine.

"Yup" I smiled.  

"Type 1 or 2?"

"Type 1" (weirdly proud).  

"When were you diagnosed?" She questioned.

"Oh god, 25 years now. So, 1986 I guess."

"Wow, she has had it a month." Glancing over to her child.

And there it was; the future of diabetes.  A bight young thing getting accustomed to a lifetime of hand-washing, loo-testing and number-crunching.  As mum and I exchanged stories the bubble around us grew as I was only distantly aware of people coming in and out of the cubicles behind us.  Like bathroom checkers, we were pushed from one spot to another as people negotiated the room we had commandeered to share this moment.

We talked pumps, diagnosis and injections, and as mum pulled out the needle from a correction dose of insulin, the future generation of diabetes and I high-fived and smiled.  Stupid, crappy injections.  We shared a knowing glance.

I couldn't leave without swapping details.  Having only been on board for a month but already speaking a language they should never have needed to learn, I wondered how many questions mum might have in her head.  Does it get easier? How long does it take to learn? Are you happy?  Will she be OK?

We swapped emails and addresses and promised to keep in touch  so we could ask all the questions we want, without the whirring of a hand-dryer somewhere in the background.  

As I went to leave the room I heard, "Are you a hugger?"

"Oh yeah, I'm a hugger." I replied.

Hug isn't the word. Embrace is closer to the mark.  An embrace that lingered a moment longer than it would have even between friends.  With that and a "Welcome to the club, kid.  We're all pretty awesome", we parted ways with a smile and a promise.

These are the moments I live for.  A moment which could so easily have been missed if any one of us had changed our path.  If we'd doubled back, done that test elsewhere, not mentioned anything about numbers.

I don't know how, but somehow, every time, diabetes finds a way to bring us together.