The Bitter Taste of Being Sweet
I’ve long accepted that, when the zombie apocalypse comes, I will be one of the first to go. As a type I diabetic, I’m not exactly the most durable member of the apoca-squad. If I were in a zombie movie, I would be the character who the audience knows—without a doubt—will croak first. The sweet, lovable character whose death is inevitable but also inspirational to those who survive. We’ll make it through this—because she didn’t get that chance! [Cue heart-swelling music.]
I want to believe that I’d be tough, and surprisingly handy with a 2 x 4 beam or crossbow, but the realities of living with a chronic condition quickly abort any daydreams into which I may slip. I might survive for a few days initially in this rough, new world, but I’d wither away in the weeks after my insulin pump dripped its last drop and my blood sugars started climbing as high as the empty, ominous skyscrapers. Even if I could go the old-fashioned route and remove insulin from the pancreas of a cow or pig (historically a source of insulin for humans), I’d need refrigeration to make it last. Or to start my own herd of animals simply to harvest its insulin crop continuously. Having no real experience with animal husbandry, however, or any idea how to remove insulin from a cow’s pancreas, I suspect my odds aren’t good.
I would be an outright liability to anyone paired with me. Beyond the whole diabetes thing, I don’t actually possess any apocalypse-ready skills to bring to the table. I can’t sew like my mom or fix machines and hunt like my dad. Even my two sisters Rachel and Michaela have some marketable skills: building fires, finding edible plants, extensive zombie hunting in video games. Me, I’m dead weight. That’s probably why my little sister Michaela didn’t even contemplate picking me for her zombie apocalypse team for an assignment she completed in high school. (That I could understand, but the fact that she left my dad off her team baffled not only me, but Dad as well.)
Her assignment, however, made me seriously contemplate weathering the zombie apocalypse. I spent a significant time mulling over this problem, and it began to bother me, the liability of me on a survival team. I hate to be part of a team and not contribute. Damaged and useless, what could I offer?
One day, while in the car with Rachel and her sons, I figured out the answer. I lacked a suitable segue into the topic, but I wanted to share this sooner rather than later. You never know which day might be the first day of the zombie apocalypse, after all.
As we turned a corner in my sister’s truck, I said, “I want you to know, if we ever end up in the zombie apocalypse, I give you permission to eat me.”
After a brief pause, their mouths bubbled with nervous laughter, like they were trying to convince themselves they’d misheard me. Not the most promising introduction to my plan.
“What?” said my nephew Corbin with a chuckle. As though my generous gift was utterly ridiculous.
“I mean it,” I said, miffed at this reception. “I don’t want you all to agonize over whether to eat me when the time comes. You’ll be busy fending off zombies. You shouldn’t worry about finding your next meal. So I thought I’d clear it all up now and give you permission in advance.”
“We’re not going to eat you!” Rachel exclaimed.
I was undeterred.
Having broached the subject, it seemed best to carry on. I was sure I could convince them as I’d convinced myself. “I’ve thought a lot about this. This is how I can be most useful. I won’t last that long once the power goes out, refrigerators stop working, and insulin goes bad. We’d have to spend so much time searching for insulin while also fighting zombies. This seems easier for everyone. I’m encouraging you to eat me. Think of all the extra sugar in my body! It’ll be a great source of nutrition, like a power bar that happens to be a leg.”
They didn’t appreciate the gesture as much as I’d hoped. My nephew Zack actually gagged. Perhaps I should have left out the bit about the leg.
Later, my parents also seemed less than thrilled with my solution. Granted, I probably should have introduced the topic more carefully. But it’s akin to telling someone that you’re an organ donor, or that you want to be cremated or buried or left in the desert to be eaten by coyotes when you die. No one teaches you how to broach these topics gracefully.
My family may struggle to embrace my choice, but I’ve accepted my fate. I’d rather be eaten by my family than by a pack of ravenous zombies. That’s the kind of bittersweet bargain you learn to live with as a diabetic. You struggle through twenty-five years of stolen time compensating for an organ that gave up when you were nine, and you realize that you’ll always be a liability; that the best way to help someone is to free them from the burden of helping you; that you’re not as durable as you hoped but still have something in the worst of circumstances to offer those you love. If they ever agree to take you up on the offer, that is.
My dad, at least, is starting to come around. After I wrote some poems for his birthday, including one praising his survival skills, I mentioned again how I wasn’t gifted with many survival skills myself. His response? “We’ll need tasty poets in the zombie apocalypse.” So maybe there’s hope.
Back to Top of Page | Back to Creative Nonfiction | Back to Volume 20, Issue 1 – Summer 2026
About the Author
Trystan Popish is a poet and essayist from Colorado. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and can be found in Pleiades, The Sunlight Press, Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly, Rogue Agent Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Denver with her husband, their toddler, diabetes, depression, two dogs, and two hairless guinea pigs. Find her online at trystanpopish.com.