When I was a little chick with type 1 diabetes, a bottle of insulin used to cost roughly $70.  (Also, I had to walk uphill to the endocrinologist’s office on both directions.)  At the time, I was unaware of this expense or how it affected my family’s financial situation.  My mom would yell at me to take the units from the kitchen sink, so I would just open the fridge door, grab the bottle, and uncap the orange top on a 1cc syringe.

“Two Regular should be sufficient.  Please turn to your right arm this time.

“All right!”  (Being right-handed and stubborn, I would then poke it into my left arm.)

Twenty-five years later, there has been a slight increase in the cost of insulin.  I recently placed an order with Medco for a three-month supply of Humalog, and the total cost of the insulin was $697.  For six Humalog bottles, all of which will be consumed by early March.  (And this time, we bear the entire expense due to a large but manageable-on-paper deductible.)  Insulin costing almost seven hundred bucks.

We are fortunate that we can afford that expense without experiencing any anxiety, but seeing how much these bottles would cost without insurance makes me view everything through a diabetic lens.  I am very conscious of the twenty or so units that remain in both the tubing and my pump cartridge after the three-day period on my insulin pump site is up.  Additionally, I make sure to only fill the reservoir halfway rather than all the way to the 185u level when I refill the pump.  (Which is what I used to do, but I am much more conscious now.)  And when I prime the 43-inch tube, I picture myself syphoning it out when I finish with the site, just like I would when I drain gas from a Jeep Wrangler.  (Aw.)

My order for insulin arrived the other day.  When the UPS guy rang the doorbell, I answered him with a dishevelled ponytail.

“I wanted to leave it outside in the cold, but I have a delivery for you.  He handed me the recognizable “big pillow” that keeps the insulin vials safe during transportation and explained, “It is medication.”

“Many thanks!  I said, recognizing my comment was pointless, “I appreciate you taking good care of… of the medications.”

“The medicines, indeed.”  As I signed the computerized receipt, he grinned.  “What exactly is enclosed in this enormous, fluffy pillow?”

Insulin.  There are a few insulin bottles within.  I returned the signature pad to him.  “I appreciate you providing the medications.  You are therefore somewhat of my dealer.

Without wasting a beat, he slipped the signing pad back into his pocket and said, “No problem.  When you are ready for your next fix, give us a call.  Miss, happy holidays!

Diabetes is a costly illness.  And the expensive little goods we employ to maintain our survival—from the tiny plastic test strips we insert into our meters to the bottles of insulin—are quite costly.  Thanks in part to sponsorship agreements and first-rate health insurance, I have had the benefit of forgetting how expensive maintaining this condition can be over the past few years, but I have also had financial setbacks and numerous reminders of how fortunate many of us are.  (If you see the documentary “Life for a Child” while you are feeling a little tight for cash, your viewpoint will quickly change.)

After my UPS drug lord had delivered the insulin, I walked back inside and unpacked everything.  And I was grateful as the bottles arranged themselves neatly in the refrigerator’s butter section.  Although I am grateful that I can afford this prescription drug, I am also quite conscious of the costs associated with both having and not having access to it.  I am one very lucky girl with a fridge full of insulin.