Living and caring in an all-diabetic household

You know that joke, “There must be something in the water?”

In our house, it’s not funny anymore. Because my mother, father and I all have type 2 diabetes. And some days, it feels like insulin flows more freely than water.

We live in a modest 2-bedroom flat in Ballygunge, South Kolkata, on the 4th floor of a no-lift building with rusted pipes, mango trees out the balcony, and a constant battle between sugar levels and daily stress.

If you ask me what I do, I’ll tell you I’m a digital marketing assistant. But if you ask me what takes up my emotional bandwidth – I’m the full-time caregiver of 2 ageing diabetics, who also happen to be my parents. And as ironic as life can be, I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes myself at 34.

This isn’t the life I imagined. But it’s real, and it’s ours.

Our morning ritual

Mornings in our home don’t start with chai. Instead, they begin with a lineup of glucometers, test strips, and a familiar chorus of, “Koto holo?” (How much is it?)

I test Baba’s sugar first. He’s 67 and forgets easily, especially if he’s already taken his Metformin (a medication that lowers blood sugar by reducing how much glucose is released by the liver).

Then it’s Ma’s turn. She’s 65 and fiercely independent but also the most emotionally fragile of us all.

Last comes me. If my number is bad, I often pretend I haven’t seen it – I need to hold it together, and dealing with my own rising HbA1c (a measure of average blood sugar over 2-3 months) is something I tuck away to deal with later.

Then comes breakfast, which is less about food and more about negotiations:

• “No, Ma, you can’t have luchi.”
• “Baba, not more than one slice of toast, please.”
• “Yes, I’m making lauki sabzi again. No, I’m not trying to punish you.”

I’ve come to realise that in our home, food is grief. Every meal is a reminder of what we used to eat, and of how our plates used to look before this disease pulled up a chair at our table.

The invisible load

There’s something people don’t tell you about being a caregiver in an Indian family – You’re still expected to be a daughter, first.

The culture of ‘seva’ (selfless service) is deep-rooted, especially for women. You’re supposed to care without complaint, serve without rest, and suffer in silence.

But the truth?

I’m exhausted. Not just physically but emotionally.

I’m the keeper of prescriptions, the manager of follow-up appointments, the diet chart enforcer, and the emotional shock absorber when sugar readings crash at 2am.

One night, Baba fainted on his way back from the toilet. I was in the middle of a pitch deck due the next morning. But I heard the thud, ran out, and found him sprawled on the cold mosaic floor. His sugar had dropped to 41 (a normal range is 70-100 mg/dl). I had to act fast (give him glucose water, call the doctor, check his vitals). Thankfully, he was okay – But I wasn’t.

I stayed up all night, finishing work with one hand while holding Baba’s pulse with the other.

3 diabetics, 3 realities

What makes our situation trickier is that our diabetes behave differently.

Baba’s is brittle and fluctuates wildly (he also has hypertension).

Ma’s is tied to menopause and mood swings.

Mine is recent and largely stress-induced (though the family history and genes didn’t help).

This means different medications, different dietary tweaks, and different emotional responses. What works for one of us doesn’t work for the others.

One week, I tried a no-rice dinner for all of us – Baba got constipated, Ma got cranky, and I got borderline depressed.

So now, I play chef, nutritionist, and diplomat – Baba gets a little rice, Ma gets a little fruit, and I get a little peace.

The mental health toll

People often assume diabetes is just about sugar. But in our house, it’s about shame, anxiety, and a constant fear of dying too early.

I see the fear in Ma’s eyes when her feet tingle. I hear it in Baba’s voice when he jokes too casually about amputations. And I feel it in myself every time I think about my future – Who will care for me when I’m 65? Will I be another burden in someone else’s hands?

Therapy is not a luxury we’ve normalised in our culture. Some days, I cry alone in the shower. Because being a diabetic caregiver, while being diabetic yourself, is like fighting a war as both the soldier and the medic.

Moments of grace

And yet, amid the blood checks, medicine alarms, and dietary complaints, there are moments that make it all worthwhile.

Like when Ma makes her famous methi parathas with bajra flour just for me, even though she hates bajra.

Or when Baba and I go for our evening walks and he slips his hand into mine like I’m still his little girl.

Or when we all sit on the floor during power cuts, fanning each other and laughing about how that might be our only cardio that day.

These moments remind me that caregiving isn’t just a duty – It’s love in its rawest, hardest, most exhausting form.

If you're in a house like mine

If you’re reading this, and your family is a mini-diabetic ward like mine, I want to tell you, “You are not alone”.

It’s okay to feel tired. It’s okay to ask for help. And it’s okay to not be the ‘strong one’ every single day.

But please, take care of yourself. Eat that vegetable you like. Take that walk, even if Ma complains. And say no to that extra spoon of rice for yourself, not because someone else is watching, but because you deserve a future too.

In a country where so many of our homes are multigenerational, diabetes doesn’t just affect individuals. It reshapes family dynamics, tests patience, and redefines what love looks like.

In our house, diabetes may have taken away sweets, but it gave us something oddly beautiful too – A bond forged in struggle, stubbornness, and survival.

And in a way, that’s sweeter than any rasgulla could ever be.