The lost joy of showering

It was a small family gathering, one where you don't expect anything extraordinary, or at least nothing out of the ordinary. But the conversation, like life itself, often takes unexpected turns.

For some indeterminate reason, the subject of illness came up. One could spend long family sessions talking only about such details of lack of health: from the slight discomfort in the leg to the inflammation of the stomach or the disorder of the skin, to diabetes, the dreaded need to undergo recurrent sessions of dialysis, or even cancer.

I will stick with this last case, cancer. It turns out that an acquaintance of ours had been diagnosed with some form of this terrible disease. One of his sisters commented on how her brother had discovered an unexpected new appreciation for activities and events that he had hardly paid attention to before the cancer diagnosis. On the list were, of course, not having to deal with the painful treatment and not being forced to see the worried and anxious faces of his family and friends; there was also that previous freedom and independence both to act and to relate to others.

One element – ​​which at first seemed irrelevant – caught my attention: the lost joy of showering. The sister in question explained that her brother used to tell her that one of the activities he missed most since the onset of his illness, and especially since he was forced to use a wheelchair, was standing under the showerhead while showering. I found myself amazed at how much this statement surprised me, as it included simple but significant words: "standing", "showerhead", "water", "showering." How many times in our busy, hectic daily lives do we not even perceive the wonder of some of those activities that we consider "ordinary, time-consuming, and obligatory."

On countless occasions since hearing that unphilosophical but resoundingly profound reflection, I have enjoyed the daily shower to an unexpected degree. It was enough to hear about the mere possibility of seeing that delight lost for me to value it again in its true dimension, to re-apprehend it. It is something like when there is a blackout after dark, and we are left not only adrift in the darkness but also invaded by a renewed affection for our complex and modern electrical systems, which we notice only when they are absent. In our effort to find and light that candle or that lamp "that should already be ready for the emergency," we realize how difficult our life would be without the wonder and simplicity of turning on an electric light.

After listening to that gentleman's nostalgia for stepping forward and feeling the water running over his body as he stood up, I discovered how rewarding many of our daily routines can be. These thoughts led me to the importance of starting to enjoy what we can enjoy today – diabetics or not – lest we see lost, for whatever reason.

Our reality as "diabetic subjects" often points to such potentialities in the future. I don't want to sound catastrophic, but along with the possible need for dialysis, gradual loss of vision, or irreparable kidney damage comes the real possibility of seeing the "joy of showering" disappear. I don't wish this on anyone, least of all my diabetic colleagues.