On Thanksgiving Day, my four year old nephew noticed me test my bloodsugar for the first time.  A look of dire concern spread across his little face as I drew blood from my finger.  I told him that Aunty needed to test and see what her numbers were before she ate so that she could give her medicine and not get sick.  He nodded, still looking concerned, and said, "medicine, like for my eyes?"  Born with cataracts and structural issues in both of his eyes, he has had more surgeries in his first four years than most people have in their lifetime, has worn contact lenses and glasses since he was three months old, and medicine is a word he's known for entirely too long. 
 

There was something about the quality and the sincerity of his concern when he saw the blood coming from my finger and the nod he gave when I told him about my medicine that is unique.   Lots of people show curiosity or fascination with glucose testing and insulin injections and pump sites, it's not unusual at all for a person to crane to get a closer look at what's happening when I'm testing or treating.   What is unique is when someone instantly empathizes when they understand that the blood they're seeing, the medicine pumping through the tubing and into my thigh, those things are keeping me alive, keeping me from getting sick.  At four, my nephew's own brokeness, the surgeries, contact lenses and medicines he's endured for his eyes, have given him an unfair understanding of needing outside help to function normally. 
 

I have never had an issue with referring to myself as abnormal, broken, or sick.  I am all of those things in varying degrees.  And I have always said that there are gifts that have come with my faulty immune system and dead beta cells.  Gifts like the ability to handle data, patience in the face of difficulty, and verve for life that comes with knowing how fragile our existence is.  Above all, diabetes has certainly given me an extraordinary ability to empathize. 
 

I believe that there is a kind of empathy that happens only in people who've known real physical or mental challenges that set them apart from normal people.  There is a language we share, those of us who are broken.  It is often unspoken, our concern sometimes expressed in a simple look.  It is a language sometimes shared with the caretakers who know our illnesses almost as well as we do, but it is largely reserved for those of us who have lived in the shoes of someone who requires assistance to do the things others do without thinking. 
 

I was blessed recently to spend some time with my friend Schuyler Rummel-Hudson.  Her dad, Rob, writes here at dlife, and I believe many folks in the online community have read about her or even met her.   In Dallas for business, I took some time to go to dinner and spend a day at the Dallas Zoo with Schuyler and Rob.  For those who don't know her, Schuyler was born with a rare brain disorder that stole her ability to speak and that presents challenges with fine motor skills and swallowing.  She uses a device called a "Big Box of Words" to communicate, though to be honest, in the whole day I spent with her, she rarely used it with me.   
 

Although I am almost always aware of the language shared by broken people, it had never been as clear to me as it was spending time with Schuyler.  At dinner, she programmed her device to order chicken fingers, fries, and a shake, I watched and told her “pretty cool” as I tested my bloodsugar.  She was curious when I took out my pump and I explained that just like she used her box to help her to talk, I used my pump to help me to eat.  I also explained that I couldn't live without my pump, because I would get very sick, I explained that it kept me alive.  Schuyler took the pump in her hands, examining it carefully and then looked up at me and smiled and said "cool."  
 

For the rest of our time together, she watched carefully when I took my kit out to test and my pump out to treat, once or twice she asked if I was OK.  Just as I listened carefully as she expressed herself, both with her device and without, and once or twice asked if she was OK.  Considering how little she used her device and how infrequently I had to ask for her to repeat herself, I'd say I did very well at understanding what Schuyler had to say.  I don't think that's an accident.
 

When you struggle to do something that other people do without pause, like speaking, eating, exercising, going to sleep - you learn how to listen to your body, but you also learn to listen to people in the outside world in a way that you might not otherwise have been able.  You learn to pay atttention to the challenges of others and adjust your body, mind, and behavior to ease their difficulty.  You also learn to show concern without making others feel weak and you learn to let people test their boundaries, to help when you can but not to assume they need your help. These aren't things you do consciously, they're just things you do, much like others speak, eat, exercise, go to sleep, do all the things you can't do without a thought.   
 

When you meet others who struggle as you do, even if their struggles aren't precisely the same, there is a very genuine and very natural give and take to the interactions you share. 
 

I am a fortunate woman.  I am broken.  I HAVE a disease that quite often, in spite of how I might like it to be, has ME in its grip.  But, my life is filled with people who remind me that I am also more gracious, more kind, and more understanding because I know what it is like to struggle.  I realize that when I count the people I love, the vast majority are broken.  And when I consider those friendships I value most truly, I see they were built and are maintained through the unspoken, natural, genuine language of the broken.