I moved house on Sunday — not completely, as my old place is on the market and I still have a few things yet to move. But my bed, a few kitchen items, my writing desk (a rolltop antique from 1900, something once purchased by my maternal grandfather), and associated new-fangled electronics are in place. The transition is more than a change of where I sleep — it’s a move from house ownership in a park where strata fees ate away at my pension to a rental where, my landlord and I calculated, my house sale will give me 29 years of accommodation.
After a couple of days, we went from strangers to women who felt that we had been friends forever. Both enjoy our time alone, but also benefit from light companionship. My dog loves her. Right now, I think he loves her more than he loves me, but that’s okay. I feed and walk him. And the homeowner has cats who are not impressed with a dog in the house. It’s a complication, but manageable.
The landlord’s name is Sandra. Same as mine, but she goes by Sandy. Another alignment.
I’ve returned to the rural community where I grew up, and where my mother grew up. I live down the road from my junior high school, a ways from the Anglican church where my maternal grandparents were married in 1919. A massive cemetery is a five-minute walk away, and I found the final resting place of my Mom, Dad, and Dad’s sister at the base of a big tree. I walk among the plaques and see so many familiar names. I knew some of these people. It’s a quiet, contemplative space. I have much to explore there.
Yesterday, I installed a couple of shelves above the half fridge so I can keep my coffee, a few cans of food, and dishes in order. I have shared use of the full kitchen and laundry, but have yet to make use of them. Yesterday, I went for a drive to reacquaint myself with the road I live on. I found a new park by the ocean. Nobody else was there. I looked out at the islands of the Decourcy Group. I know them as though they’re members of my family — Decourcy, Ruxton, Pylades, Valdes, Thetis, among others.
Is it any wonder I’ve been sleeping soundly and that my glucose has settled to its happy baseline, sipping a mere 0.6 units of insulin per hour. Last week, in the days leading up to the move, I needed 2.2 units of insulin per hour. I never thought I’d see this kind of serenity again, thought my life would be a series of spikes and high “normal” levels. At my old home, I endured stress from monthly strata payments that ate up my newspaper pension. Utilities and taxes nibbled at my other pensions. I felt as if I were drowning, on the brink of financial ruin. The answer — cash out of home ownership. Let someone else pay those other bills while I pay rent.
So here we are — a change of circumstances, a new place that feels like home — and peace in my body, soul, and bloodstream. My nervous system stopped bracing.
Stress is a real factor in Type 1 diabetes, and for me, it’s a prime cause of resistance. Reduce the stress and T1D is much easier to manage.
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