Ten Years

'Today's the day,' I thought as I bounced out of bed. I threw on shoes and a jacket and ran out the front door.  I ripped my newspaper out of its plastic bag and impatiently flipped it over to see the front page headline.

"Govenor approves ...."

Too late to make the front page, I guessed.  I quickly fired up the news app on my phone and started to scroll.  Nothing.  How could this be?

There must be some mistake.  I clearly remember the conversations ten years ago today.  I was told not to worry.  I was told to be patient.  I was told developments were occurring every day.  I was told that in 10 years there would be a cure for diabetes.

Ten years ago today, as my little girl laid helpless, full of tubes and hooked to countless monitors, I was told to be grateful for what I had.  And indeed I was and continue to be grateful that she survived the trauma of diabetes' onset.  I'm grateful for each and every helpful person, vial of insulin, and useful piece of technology we've encountered since that terrifying day.

Yet every extra day she spends living with diabetes makes me increasingly eager to open my newspaper one morning to find that headline.  The one that tells me it's all over. 

It turns out today is not that day.  It's unlikely tomorrow will be either.  Yet I live in hope that some day, 1, 5, 10, or 27 years from now will be that day.  After all, someone in an emergency room somewhere today must be being told not to worry because "there should be a cure in less than 10 years."

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