You began with my eyes,
Felt like an ink pen exploding,
followed by lasers, surgeries,
shots in my eyes.    All
to save my vision.   Jim
called our girls unbeknownst 
to me, telling them I was going
BLIND!

Next you came for my hands.
No longer can I hold a pen to
sign my name. I struggle
cutting vegetables to cook,
opening jars and cracker wrappers.
Feeling and strength are dwindling.
I burn and cut myself unaware.

A cane is needed for balance.
you robbed the feeling from 
my feet causing me to bumble
and stumble like an old lady.

Diagnosed forty years ago with Type 1
I feared I would lose my toes or legs,
kidneys or have a stroke.      Not
my sight, feeling in my hands and 
feet and now you have clutches on
my bladder. 28 UTIs in 7 months.
Doctor says nerves and muscles
not working to empty.

I hate you for stealing bits of me
making my world smaller and smaller
Can’t walk my Clancy around the block.
Gave up cooking. No night driving.
Need large print to read.     But somehow,
I keep plugging away adapting, moving
forward one step at a time,
stopping the STEAL.