I spent way too long trying to come up with a good title for this blog post.
Let’s be real, here. It’s hard to think of compelling, descriptive titles that will make people want to read a piece of content. This post was particularly challenging for me because of the subject matter: bumps.
Before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not talking about baby bumps or any sort of metaphorical or literal bumps in the road. The bumps that I’m referring to are physical manifestations on my skin of my diabetes that I find unsightly, which is why I had a difficult time figuring out how to talk about them in a blog post.
Let me elaborate on the exact nature of these bumps. They only show up when I remove a pod that had been on my thigh. No other site experiences this blemish, and no other diabetes device (e.g., my CGM) causes a raised bump to appear on my skin’s surface. The bumps themselves are relatively small – they look a little bit like mosquito bites. You can always tell the exact location that the pod’s cannula was in because the skin looks slightly more irritated and raised there, whereas the skin around that site has a pink tinge to it. These bumps don’t hurt me, aren’t typically itchy, and usually fade in a week or so.
In the grand scheme of things, the bumps probably don’t sound like that big of a deal. But I can’t help but feel self-conscious about them because to me, they’re stark reminders of the physical marks that diabetes leaves on my body. I made peace with having to wear two different gadgets (my pod and my CGM) years ago and having those stuck on my being, but these ugly little bumps? I didn’t exactly consent to having those on my body, too.
I suppose I could solve the problem by avoiding using my thighs as sites for my pods, but to me, that’s just giving in to my diabetes and giving up an extra bit of real estate on my body that I need so I can properly rotate my pod and CGM sites. I’m a little too stubborn to just accept that I shouldn’t wear pods on my legs if I want the bumps to stop appearing. That doesn’t mean that I have to be okay with them, though.
Sharing about the bumps in a blog post is me being vulnerable about a component of my diabetes that embarrasses me. I’m hoping that it results in that shame evolving into a sense of acceptance, or maybe even pride, over my bumps. Because even though they’re far from cute, they do add visibility to my diabetes and represent the strength that my body and mind have developed in order to coexist with it on a daily basis.
Maybe writing this post is the launching point for me to think of these bumps not as blemishes, but as diabadass beauty marks, instead.