The Moment of Disclosure: When They Judge Me, and I Judge Them
by kerri morrone sparling
Do you tell people about your diabetes? How do you handle disclosure when it comes to employers, casual acquaintances, friends, and romantic relationships? Are you the type to slide it in there - "Hi, I'm Kerri. I'm recently married and I work in health media. I have a couple of cats and... hey, what's that over there? I have diabetes. Anyway, I also love Italian food." - or do you have in-depth conversations with people about your disease?
Disclosure is one of those tricky parts of diabetes management that doctors and certified diabetes educators don't often bring up. They give you the basics on what your blood sugar goals are and what kind of diet you want to stick with, but when it comes to the "real life" aspects of disease management, you're kind of on your own. You need to figure out if you're the type who shares comprehensively, giving a veritable seminar on the condition or someone who avoids the discussion until it's absolutely necessary. Or someone who is somewhere in between.
I have been diabetic for 22 years, so almost every moment of my life has been touched by diabetes. From school teachers to my husband, diabetes has been neatly woven into every relationship. And I, my friends, am definitely a "teller."
My mother used to meet with my teachers in elementary school, explaining that I was diabetic and discussed what my needs may be during the school day. She would give teachers a run down on possible emergency situations, instructions on how to manage these moments, and my symptoms of low and high blood sugar -- warning that sometimes low blood sugars made me act very silly. "But she's a kid, and she's going to act like a kid and be completely silly sometimes, so please have her test so you know the difference. She's a bit of a live wire, my daughter." My mother made it clear that diabetes, though a big part of my life, wasn't the only thing my teachers should know about me. And she made it clear to me that telling people about diabetes wasn't something I should be ashamed to do.
As I grew up, disclosure became more my responsibility than that of my mother. When I went to high school, my mother wasn't meeting my teachers beforehand - it was up to me to introduce myself and inform them about my diabetes. Making sure that the people responsible for me were "in the know" made sense because if I were ever unable to speak for myself, I'd need the people around me to be educated enough to step in. After my freshman year, the faculty had made short work of my disclosure process - they spread the word of my diagnosis - and within a few months, everyone knew I had diabetes. It wasn't discussed, it wasn't much of an issue, but there was a general sense of awareness, which kept me safe.
But these childhood disclosures were easier because they were under the careful watch of my parents. Most people in my small town knew my family, so becoming diabetic didn't shape who I was, in their eyes, because they knew me before diabetes did. It was dealing with diabetes outside of my hometown that became difficult because "diabetic" became an adjective that had the potential of defining me to people who didn't already know me.
In my adult relationships at work and when I was dating, I was most comfortable telling people almost immediately. I've found that diabetes comes up easily in conversations since it is a disease that touches so many parts of my life. This integration can make discussions easier. Having dinner with new friends or business associates provides me with an opportunity to gently disclose. A quick finger prick under the table may catch someone's eye, allowing me to say, "I'm diabetic." A conversation about how many carbs are in a certain dish with another dinner guest (convenient, since so many people are carb-conscious these days) lends itself easily to saying, "Well, I have diabetes, so I'm pretty familiar with carb counting." Pulling my insulin pump from my pocket may have someone say, "Nice phone," and I can counter with, "It's actually an insulin pump." These moments, if handled gracefully and openly, can let diabetes slide quietly into a conversation without forcing me to give some kind of long explanation.
I know I fear that they will judge me, but that moment of disclosure is actually when I judge them.
When I tell them about my diabetes, I watch their response carefully. I haven't encountered many people who are turned off by this disease, or who refuse to socialize with me as a result, but if someone isn't able to accept my diabetes, I know they will not be a friend.
One thing about being diabetic is that it's hard to tell I have it unless I share it. If you're in a wheelchair, you don't really have to tell people "I'm in a wheelchair," because they can see that for themselves. If you're diabetic, people may not see the outward signs unless you point them out. Little finger prick spots on your fingertips aren't that obvious. An insulin pump can be tucked neatly into a pocket, and insulin pens and meters can be slipped into purses or glove compartments or desk drawers. Even the signs of hypo- and hyperglycemia can be written off as "just sweaty" or "exhausted." This disease can be kept close and quiet, if that's what you choose.
We, as people with diabetes, are empowered by our option to tell or not to tell. For me, I want people to know so they are aware of this disease that can pull stunts at any given time. I want them to know so that they are protected, and as a result, so am I. Unlike so much of diabetes management, which can ebb and flow sometimes out of our control, our decision to disclose is entirely our own.
