CAPTAIN'S LOG, STARDATE 2032 A.D.
I open my eyes and grope under my pillow, desperately searching for my Dexcom, so I can see if I'm in-range enough not to have to check, confirm, and correct, on my meter.
But it isn't there. Groaning, I head downstairs, hoping its on the counter top and not lost.
There's a strange teenage apparition (or rather, two of them): sitting at my table,laughing, and inhaling CocoPuffs at lightening-warp speed.
"Hey Mom," the older of the apparitions says cheerfully. "Breakfast?"
"Sure," I reply, dazed. "A diet Coke, 2 slices of toast,(w/jam) and some scrambled eggs."
She presses some buttons, and a machine whizzes to life(like the one in Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang) Presto, breakfast.
"Your meal has a total of 45.8 carbohydrates."
Immediately, my tube-less pump starts to vibrate, asking me to confirm the amount of insulin needed.
"You seem low, Mom. Did you scan this morning?"
"Yeah, like HELLOOOOOO- with the GlucoGadget? Like you do a zillion times a day?" She rolls her eyes, opens a kitchen drawer, and removes a small device which she then proceeds to use to "scan" my forehead, like I'm the upc symbol on a package of bacon at the local supermarket.
"You are 72 mg/dl."
"Drink this," she flips a box of OJ in my general direction. "I gotta run to my job..but no way I'm missing the party tonight. It's sooooo cool that there is finally a cure for diabetes. Ciao!"
A cure. I really must be dreaming.
Shaggy-haired boy looks up from his third bowl of CocoPuffs. "I need money."
"Son, that's enough sugar for the morning, go finish getting ready for school." I can totally do the parenting stuff, I know how teenagers think.
He grabs his baseball cap, slings it on backwards, and shuffles off.
So I'm 81 mg/dl. But what's this about a cure TODAY? I pick up my Iphone-like device(iphones by then will be obsolete) and dial my endo's office.
"Hi, it's X."
"Hey, don't forget about your 9 AM appointment this morning!"
"9 AM????"(it's now 8:22) Whatever this is all about, I'd better be hustling. My bag is already packed, by the door. Just gotta blitz through the shower.
8:59 AM. I arrive at my endo's office, where the staff greets me with humongous smiles and direct me to the operating suite where I am prepared for surgery.
My endo arrives. Wow, this is sure not 2008 any more...both of us sport more gray hairs then an elephant.
Of course I am.
The needle slides easily into my abdoman, she pushes the plunger and hundreds of encapsulated islets travel up my portal vein to free me from diabetes.
I start to cry, the tears come faster and faster until through the blurry haze I can't see my endo anymore.
"I won't know what to do with myself after this."
She laughs. I continue to bawl.
"My pleasure." She rests her hand on my shoulder. "You'll have to be monitored, of course, but this treatment has had a 95% success rate and the kinks have all been worked out..your body won't kill them and they're fixed not to overproduce or under produce insulin. You should be good to go, for the next 40 years."
I drift off on a cloud of morphine-induced euphoria, her words echoing in my ears.
And later that day, proceed to party hardy like there is no tomorrow. Because after that, there will be no more tomorrows with diabetes.
(the account is entirely fictional, except for the part where I bawl. Which I will, when there is a cure for diabetes)