She never talked about her diabetes.
Not really.
To us, she was just “Grandma” — the one who baked peach cobbler, hummed hymns while gardening, and always had a peppermint in her apron pocket.
But now, holding these fragile vials, I began to see the truth.
In the 1950s, insulin wasn’t in sleek pens or pumps.
It came in glass bottles, stored in iceboxes.
And the syringes?
Reusable, glass, sterilized in boiling water every night.
The needles — thick by today’s standards — were tipped with steel hooks that dulled with use.
She injected herself without complaint, day after day, year after year — never wanting to worry us.
No alarms.
No drama.
Just quiet courage.
🕯️ What These Vials Represent
They’re not just medical tools.
They’re artifacts of resilience.
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She lived with a chronic illness in silence
No support groups, no CGMs, no online communities
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Every injection was an act of self-care
In an era when women were taught to put others first
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She never let it define her
She gardened, cooked, loved — fully, fiercely
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She saved the vials — maybe as proof she survived
A quiet archive of her strength
💬 “I kept them,” she once told me, “so I’d remember I made it through.”
🧓 The Hidden Cost of Chronic Illness
We talk about disease in terms of medicine and symptoms.
But rarely about:
The loneliness of managing a condition alone
The fear of complications
The daily math of food, insulin, and energy
The shame some felt for “failing” a diet or “needing help”
My grandmother didn’t have apps or A1C reports.
She had a notebook with handwritten logs, a kitchen scale, and a heart full of determination.
And she did it all — without asking for praise.
💖 What I Did With the Vials
I didn’t throw them away.
I placed them in a small shadow box.
Beneath them, I wrote:
“Not junk. Not clutter.
This is love.
This is strength.
This is Grandma.”
Now it hangs in my kitchen.
Not as a relic of illness.
But as a reminder:
The quietest people often carry the heaviest burdens — and still show up with cookies.
