I saw him from across the room.  And edged closer. 

Tall, white-haired, horn-rimmed glasses, a blue and white seersucker suit.   Yes, seersucker.  What can I say?  It was a summer event on the water for the theater where I work - seersucker is always "in" amongst theater folks.  But none of that caught my eye as much as the clear Medtronic Pump clipped to his grosgrain belt.  I had to get closer.  The pump, like a magnet, drew me. 

"I noticed you're wearing an insulin pump," I said brightly,  "I wear one too!"  Popping my hip so that the outline of my pump showed a bit through the fabric of my dress. 

"Oh, I'll just move out of the way - you guys are like a club."  Said his wife "And don't forget to show her that other thing you have, Stan." 

We all giggled, as he stepped a little closer to me and pulled his Dexcom out of his pocket. 

"I am already jealous!"  I said.

"Don't be.  I pay for this thing out of pocket," He laughed. 

And we spent the next fifteen minutes talking about our diabetes.  His diagnosis in his thirties, mine in my childhood.  His start on three shots a day, my start at two a day.  His graduation to a pump - my graduation to a pump.  His love for these gadgets that keep us on track, my love for these gadgets that keep us on track.  His dangerous low bloodsugars, my dangerous low bloodsugars.  His desire to be in control, my desire to be in control.  At one point, we even got to do a little joint Diabetes 101 when a friend of his approached us and asked what we were talking about.

His wife chatted with us a bit and I told her I thought it took a unique patience to be a strong and solid partner for a person with diabetes.    She agreed, sharing stories of phone calls from the Harbor Police when they found Stan floating around in his boat - passed out and from Southwest Airlines when he'd lost consciousness on an airplane and they had to call the rescue.  And stories of low bloodsugars that ended in meanness or frustration - or talk of complications that ended in tears.  

When I mentioned how it's so strange and exciting to see someone with a pump - how it makes me feel less alone and truly comforted - she said,  "I don't blame you for feeling that way - it's a lonely, lonely job." 

"It is, isn't it?" I responded.

To me it seems a shame that those facts are lost on people who've not actually lived with diabetes.  This is a lonely disease.  Filled with challenges, troubles, and victories that are unique to the person living with it.  It is also a job.  Filled with tasks and responsibilities upon which our lives depend. 

And that is why it fills me with relief and comfort to see another person in the room with a badge of courage - a glucose meter, a pump, a Dexcom, telltale callouses on fingers - that announce our commonality.  That is why I feel at home in the company of a person like Stanley - and his wife. 

It's bittersweet, I think.  

How do you feel when you see someone with an outward sign of diabetes in an unexpected place?