Let’s talk about islet cell transplants, shall we?

Basically, it’s when doctors take insulin-producing islet cells (those sweet little pancreatic overachievers we Type 1s no longer have) and transplant them into a diabetic person — often into the liver — with the goal of producing insulin naturally again. Like, on their own. No pump. No pods. 

Sounds fake, right? Or at least like something from a sci-fi diabetes dream sequence where you wake up, rip out your CGM, eat a donut, and don’t immediately hear beeping.

But here’s the thing: it’s real now.

It’s actually working.

There are Type 1s walking around who’ve had the transplant and are no longer insulin dependent. Not for a few hours, not for a week — we’re talking months or years. They’re making insulin again. And the technology is speeding up like it just had a juice box.

Now here’s where I flip.

Because for most of my life? I would’ve killed for that.

I was diagnosed so young that I don’t even remember not having diabetes. The idea of a world where I don’t have to carb count, dose, plan, correct, and panic sounded like a Disney movie.

No more pokes, beeps, or that charming CGM error message that says “Sensor Error. Try not screaming.”

I used to dream about it — not even in metaphor. Like actual dreams where someone handed me a new pancreas and said, “Go live your life, kid.”

But here’s what happened:

I did live my life.

And somewhere along the way, I got really good (that’s a lie) at managing this disease. I hit the holy grail of diabetes: I have control (maybe not perfect or tight). My A1C is good. I wear my tech. I’ve got routines. This… this is the best control I’ve ever had.

So now I find myself asking:

Why mess with something that isn’t broken?

Yes, I already have complications. Nerve stuff. Eye stuff. Scary stuff. But I’ve started to make peace with them.

What about the complications from anti-rejection drugs?

What about the fact that you have to suppress your immune system to keep those new islet cells alive? What about increased risk of infections? Organ damage? Cancer?

Let’s pause on that last one.

Isn’t cancer just cells multiplying out of control?

And isn’t the whole point of this transplant to get new cells to grow, survive, and multiply… in a body that already tried to kill them once?

I’m not saying I have the answers. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be tempted if things got worse.

But I am saying this:

For the first time in my life, the idea of “being cured” doesn’t automatically feel like a dream.

It feels like a trade-off.

And I’ve already made peace with the devil I know.