"I'm hungry," Joshua leans over and tells me as we lounge on the couch watching television. It's 101 degrees outside and feels like 150, and it's all we can do to escape the heat by not going out into it at all. My stomach growls in agreeance as we sit and ponder our options. I get out my CalorieKing book to count carbs for all of the local food joints, reading out the options available to two poor college students. "Let's see... Arby's isn't too bad on carbs. A regular roast beef sandwich only has 37 carbs," I tell him. "Yeah, but I don't like that guy on the Arby's commericial!" I laugh. "Okay then. There's Sonic, Krystal, Moe's, Taco Bell... Chick Fil A... I add, hopefully - being a homeschooler for several years having rendered me a loyal Chick fil A addict for life. Joshua doesn't share my enthusiasm for Eat More Chikin. Instead he gasps the name of the one place even I hold above Chick Fil A: "Zaxby's!", he exclaims.
We arrive at Zaxby's during what was apparently the entire city of Statesboro's lunch hour; contrary to Orlando, there was only about one of each restaurant in the city, versus multiple ones on the same street as I was used to back home. Thus, the drive-thru and restaurant were packed. We were not deterred, though. We found parking for my truck in the back and weaved our way between drive thru cars to get inside. It smelled wonderful. I usually get the sweet and spicy buffalo wings but opted for a daring change by getting Teryaki buffalo wings instead, and a Diabetic-friendly unsweet tea. The thing that I love about Zaxby's is that, besides the awesome food, there is one fact that stands to make it even better: The buffalo chicken wings have only 8 carbs! In turn, I can indulge in my Zaxby-loving basically as often as I like as long as it is not Birthday Cake Milkshake season, which, alas, it is no longer.
Joshua nabs us a table and I excuse myself to the restroom to wash my hands and test my blood sugar. It is 115 despite my 30-carb, non-bolused for granola bar snack an hour and a half earlier and I smile happily. Zaxby's and great blood sugar? What more could I ask for!
I chug my unsweet iced tea with fervor and sidle over to the drink counter to refill. Our order is called, I grab a heap of napkins for my spill-prone self and a couple for Joshua, and sit down at the table. I eye the new chicken a little speculatively but decide it still looks delicious. The group of two people in front of us Joshua coincidentally recognizes because they often stop by the gas station where he works. Joshua and I are beginning to think that he knows practically everybody in Statesboro due to his job. So far he's met a locksmith who made me a spare key to the apartment, a nice College guy who invited us to the local Church in Statesboro, and several of the cops who frequent the 301 on dark Friday evenings (thus we know all of the speed traps in town). Joshua gets into a coversation with them while I "do my thing" -- My Diabetes thing, that is. I know that I don't necessarily have to bolus for my chicken due to its low carbs, but I decide to be good and give myself a unit to cover myself. By now I don't even think twice about pulling my insulin pen out of my purse and giving myself a shot. I am oblivious to onlookers and what they might think of me. Crack Hoe? No. Heroin addict? Guess again. Just your friendly neighborhood Diabetic, people. I give myself a shot in my arm and wince as it bleeds a little more than I'd like. "Ouch," I remark to Joshua. "It's left a bruise again." It hurt, but this wasn't too unexpected. If I ever bruise from my insulin shots, it's usually on my arm, where there is less fat than on the rest of my body. Yesterday, on the other hand, I accidentally gave myself an insulin shot too fast (despite Joshua's warning me) as I was in a hurry to grab my vanilla ice cream cone from the server at Sonic. Serves me right, I suppose. I now had an unsightly black bruise on my stomach to attest to my impatience. Luckily this bruise was only sore and a shade of lovely light blue; very difficult to notice even despite my failed attempts at tanning my pale, pale skin.
I swipe a french fry from Joshua's plate while he is distracted (I'm a grazer - he expects it by now) and dig into my chicken, which proves to be delicious. Joshua's friend remarks on my insulin shot and Joshua tells him I am Diabetic. Type 1, of course. I love having Joshua around to explain my situation for me when all I want to do is eat my food in peace... not talk about my frustrating illness. The man was very polite and earnest though, and I found that in his case I did not mind. We went on to discuss my troubles with Health Insurance and Medicaid. I also gave the websites of two places where you could buy college textbooks for really cheap to his friend, who was starting at Georgia Southern in the fall. The lady next to us, who worked at the hospital, chimed in about how difficult the health insurance companies could be. And then perhaps the icing on the cake was when an older man with greying hair came up to me. He said, "Excuse me, miss. I couldn't help - well, I couldn't help but notice you giving yourself an injection." I glance at my insulin pen, suddenly remembering how strange it must seem to other people, this glimpse of a world that most do not even ever pause to think about. A shy looking red haired girl comes up next to him. "Are you Diabetic?" He asks. I smile a little sadly and nod. "Type 1." He tells me, "My daughter was just diagnosed with Type 1. In April." I cannot help but mention that I, too, was diagnosed in April. "How old are you?" I inquire, and she tells me she is 13. "I'm 17," I say. "It came late for me," I remark, my eyes reflecting the tiniest fraction of pain. "Still on injections?" I ask her. She nods. I smile and say, "Me too. It's definitely not easy," I tell her, my eyes filled with respect for this young girl who fights with the same monsters and struggles of this disease that I do.
The father and his daughter leave, but I cannot help but feel comforted. She is one of the few Type 1's that I have ever met. I hate the fact that others must suffer with this disease, I really do. If my getting Diabetes has kept some other individual from getting the disease instead, then I will gladly bear this burden all of my life in their place.
But sometimes it's just simply so uplifting to stop and be reminded that in this lifelong fight I am not alone. And once more, in spite of the struggle it has become merely to remain alive each day, I am thankful.
* Note: Insulin smells disgusting, by the way. I highly recommend that you don't actually try and smell it.
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