An Odd Science

I am sorting papers upstairs for good 'ole Office of Admissions.

I feel it - if you've read my blog before, I don't even see the point in describing it anymore, because I've written about so many lows. I ignore it for a second, but quickly acquiesce - I can't fight this one, even though lunch break is just 20 minutes away.

I scramble downstairs to my bag to grab a snack and test.

Test first - other hand is sorting through bag for granola bar. 

World is buzzing. Can't focus. Number is 42 mg/dL.

"You alright?" Boss MaryAnn asks. 

MaryAnn has been more than nice with me. I'm low a lot - and she always sympathizes and gets me juice and lets me go to lunch early. But I've already done that twice this week, and I feel bad for having to do it again. I don't tell her, because it doesn't seem fair to do that and take time away from work again. 

"I'm fine." I say. "Just getting a snack."

I run out of the office and back towards the stairs to the sorting room upstairs.(and blah blah blah oshie was here - don't leave your unfinished blog up. hehe - love you baby, by the time you actually read this I will be in the laundry room - outside of your influence. ~Oshie) (That's not funny baby. I'm not good at laundry, but I can get it done... and get the washer replaced before anyone finds out I broke it) I have the wrapper torn open and I'm eating the granola bar, but as I'm running towards the stairs I am overcome by weakness and suddenly climbing those stupid stairs seems equivalent to climbing Mt. Everest. I have to stop mid way, and I lean against the wall, wiping sweat away from my brow. 

"I hate this," I mutter to myself.

I manage to climb up the stairs one at a time, then use a last burst of energy to make it to the couch just around the corner. The third floor of Wesleyan College's Olive Swann Porter Building is what we call the "furniture graveyard"; old antique couches, desks, rugs and chairs are scattered around the landing, and the offices and sorting rooms are through a door situated on one of the walls. The couch I plop on is not comfy, but my low self doesn't really care. 

At the moment, to me it is simply: couch. 

This low hits me hard. Lows are an odd science: some you don't feel, and others will knock you off your feet faster than being shoved will. I lose track of how much time I sit there, but instead sit and wipe sweat from my forehead. Susan comes by and I sit up, slightly embarrassed at my current state.
"I'm just low. I'm resting until I feel better, I don't feel so good."
"Oh, dear, are you ok?" She asks. "Rest as long as you need to."
I feel like crap but know I'll be fine, this has happened before, and so she walks down the stairs.
5 minutes later Mary Ann comes up the stairs holding a glass of juice. Susan has clearly told Mary Ann (as any concerned person would do) that I was laying upstairs looking pale and drawn. I don't say anything, just "hey" and drink the juice. It touches me that Mary Ann cares, but I wish that Diabetes didn't interrupt my life like this so much.
I don't want to be the sick kid, the liability, the one that has to interrupt a campus tour because of a low.
I don't want to have to leave work early, or take 30 minutes off, to treat. In truth, it makes me a little ashamed.
I have so much I'm capable of - being driven is one of my strongest traits.
It sucks when you feel like Diabetes limits you, no matter how much drive you have.
But such is life, no?
"Take care of yourself," she says.
I promise, I'll keep doing my best. 

Survival Mode: Near-Semester's End Edition.

The school year is finally winding down, and I find myself able to breathe a sigh of relief as I only have one impending Physics final left before I can enjoy three weeks of freedom. I need it: this semester has been hell, to put it frankly. I got way more than I bargained for with Genetics, Physics, work, work and more work. I'm tired. I'm stressed. I don't sleep enough. My blood sugars suffered for it earlier this semester, with hardly a day going by that I didn't get at least one 200+.

Actually, this year in general has been rough, and I mean seriously. From relationship to family drama, trying to apply to Graduate school, the midnight cry-sessions about how I can't seem to get my brain to understand a lick of Physics, to all the times I couldn't get to my face painting gig on time... it's been really hard. And Sunday made it all harder, because the most terrifying thing in my life happened: I was in a terrible car accident and managed to total my Ford F-150, walking out with barely a scratch when I shouldn't have been able to walk away at all. I can't describe the feeling without cringing, because all I can think of is seeing the guard rail hurtling toward me as my car is rolling, and I'm scarcely understanding what is going on - it happened so quickly, that at least I know that had I died, I wouldn't have had time to feel fear. I simply lived in the moment, I didn't have flashbacks of my life, I just thought: "I'm probably going to die. Ok. God, please, help, God." And then it was over, and the smell was horrible, and I crawled out the window, adrenaline coursing through my body.

I'm going to devote a blog post to this soon, but I'm trying to write it now and the memory is so fresh in my mind and heart that it's like trying to peel a sticky, wet bandage off a fresh wound - it physically hurts, it terrified me, and I don't think I'm ready to face the emotions that go along with writing about this experience yet. Not yet. Soon, but now it's enough to think about it and feel sickening fear, and try to push it away again. I pour my heart and soul into writing - I write better than I express my own emotions and thoughts verbally - and so I feel a lot of emotions when I do it. This week has been a melting pot of trying to recover and terrible emotions and trying to simply survive through finals when really I've been a zombie of myself, and each day I discover some new bruise or wince because there is a piece of glass still in my foot that I can't get out. I don't think I'll even be able to drive down Highway 96 for a while, I'll take the other way, because I don't think I can mentally handle seeing the crash site again, even if there's nothing special about it that would point out that location in anyone's eye but my own. I need to chill, so in the meantime I close my eyes and think of images that don't have to do with guardrails or the awfulputridsmell or the glass or the rolling or any of it. I need to stop writing about it now because if I really stop and think about it I feel physically sick.

On the bright side, my sugars have been better - OK, so I've had a lot of lows, but very mellow, <180 mg/DL for the most part, with a few highs speckled in between. It's been good - Diabetes is on the backburner right now, I'm testing and giving insulin and carb counting like a good little Diabetes robot, and I haven't exactly had the biggest appetite lately, so actually I'm eating pretty healthy and sparingly and it's nice because my sugars show it.

So, that's what's going on in life right now - keep an eye out for that other blog post soon.
Merry early Christmas.

You Can Pick Your Battles, But Not Your Genetics. (This Title Seems Kind of Funny and Semi-Relevant).

My Genetics Exam Thursday went a lot like this:

I stayed up countless nights, countless weekdays, mashed in study time after work, poured over powerpoints and generally worked my Senior butt off, to study for my Genetics Exam.

Thursday I walked in to the lab. I had my pencil, glucometer and snack by my side. I was ready! I was gonna pass! My grade was not going to be shredded by Professor Schroeder.

The tests were distributed. I glanced at the exam and wrote my name on top. Read the first question. Read the second. I chewed my eraser gently. Scratched my head for a second. The clock ticked by. I removed my jacket. Was it hot in here?

I called an answer to mind, chased after the thought for a bit, tried it on for size, and then... my mind let it slip. I tried again. Failed. My thoughts were like wet soap: and the harder I tried to hold on, the faster they slipped out of my grasp. 

I knew what was coming. I checked my sugar and it was 60. Ok, not so low, but not high enough that my brain could focus. I could only answer the easy questions, the ones that skimmed the information off the top layer of my memory, not the ones that required me to dig closer down to the bottom. I was frustrated. I literally could not focus, could not think: lows rob you of that ability. 

30 minutes passed. The first granola bar had only kept me level at 60; I ate another. I could be mad at the fact that I had had to eat 3 granola bars that afternoon, which for me was too much. I could panic, but instead I told myself, stay calm: this will pass. I knew the answers - my brain simply needed sugar in order to process and retrieve them.

I finally did climb back up the blood sugar ladder, and the answers came, like you begin to feel hot water gradually pouring out from a faucet that starts out all cold. 

I wasn't mad, not this time. Just tired of my body, and wanting to pass my genetics exam so that I could go home and relax. 

Sometimes in the fight with Diabetes, you simply have to pick your battles. 

A Silver Lining with a Side of Insulin

I had something incredible happen to me last week. I've been busy with class and not had time to blog about it, but all week I carried it around with me in my mind, because small little breadcrumbs of Diabetic-happiness like these come not often enough and too far in between.

It goes like this:

At Wesleyan College, I work in the office of Admissions.

I.Love.Admissions.

I ended up Work-Studying there by chance, because one day my first year I had stopped by the office of one of the faculty and was casually mentioning that I hadn't found a work study job yet. "Well, admissions still needs student workers!" said Amy, one of the Directors of Admissions at, yep, you guessed it - Wesleyan. Still a rather shy, quiet and un-forward freshman/sophomore/Junior (I dual enrolled for two years and didn't really know what I was), I went right up to admissions, applied, stumbled through a slightly awkward interview, and was officially an employed work study student. Every year, students have the opportunity to pick wherever on campus they want to work, provided there are openings - I've never changed where I work, because I couldn't picture working anywhere else.

Admissions is work - any one that goes to any college, I imagine, will tell you that it's not just sitting at a desk, like some work study jobs. I stuff envelopes - I enter data for hours at a time - I handle random drop-ins and give tours and sell the school and handle the phone and print 25,000 postcards to mail out and plan events and arrange flowers and write letters and peel oranges and diagnose beta fish on the fly. It's organized chaos, but mostly a bunch of chaos. Someone once told me Admissions is like the MacGyver of colleges, and it's true. We do it all. It's exciting, it's funny, is frustrating, it's hectic. But I love the work, and it's so fulfilling because I get to outreach to incoming students and talk about my school and be social and creative at every opportunity. I can't wear jeans and I hate giving surprise tours in heals in the cold, and stuffing 10,000 envelopes according to each specific name really bites it, but those are small matters compared to the ultimate love of my job that I feel, and the appreciation I feel for all of the wonderful counselors and workers in admissions and students that work with me. No one would believe me if I described all of the funny conversations we've had, or the things we've laughed over. In the course of 2.5 years, I have changed from this awkward, shy whatever-class-level-I-am, to a slightly less awkward (but still awkward sometimes!), less shy kind of grown up who is about to go to graduate school if someone decides to accept me. I can give tours without blinking. I can talk on the phone confidently. I can deal with people. And hey, I even own more than one pair of slacks and dress shoes, now. (Florida flip flops every day as I grew up with just don't cut it.)

And so I was at work last Monday, utilizing all of these skills I claim to have acquired over the last few years, when the phone rings. Expecting an ordinary phone call from an applicant or perhaps someone needing to be transferred to another department - God forbid it's a male asking about his transcript (Wesleyan is an all women's college) or someone calling for information about Wesleyan University - I answer.
"Wesleyan College, how can I help you?"
A young woman answers. She's clearly an applicant, and she tells me that she is in the process of applying and that Wesleyan is her first choice college. That's always an exciting thing to hear! She has a few questions about when she should pay the deposit and I answer, telling her that the earlier you pay the deposit, the earlier you also get to choose which dorm room you would like.
She hesitates. "Well... do you have to live on campus?"
I explain to her that Wesleyan is a residential campus so that, yes, if you do not have parents or guardians within 25 miles of the school, that you had to live in campus.
She goes on. "I'm just worried," she tells me. "About living on campus and going to college. You see... I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes last October."

My professional veneer immediately falls away as I'm jolted from worker mode to ... well, myself. Without hesitation I reply, startled, "No way. I'm Type 1, too!" I was so startled and excited I could practically have jumped out of my seat. "I was Diagnosed the April before coming to Wesleyan. It's hard..."

We jumped immediately into conversation. I had never met this girl, and yet the connection I felt with her was one that I felt talking to all Type 1's - understanding. Sympathy. Knowledge. We know the intricacies of Diabetes that no one without Diabetes can ever understand. And we support each other. Throughout my walk with Diabetes, I have never had the opportunity to talk with many Type 1's. I met that man in the card shop in Savannah - which was amazing - I've met Type 2's, I've talked with Type 1's over email correspondence, Facebook, groups, blogs, etc. And that's a valuable source and priceless link to others who I can vent to and ask questions and who know how I feel.
Never had I talked to someone who had had Diabetes for less time than me. And aside from the instant connection of knowing inherently what many of this girl's struggles and challenges were, it was nice to be able to help her, or try to, anyways. She was interested in knowing if anything was going on for Diabetes month. I told her to check out some awesome Diabetes blogs online, told her about some Diabetes summer camps she could volunteer for, and told her about JDRF's website and all of the events they advertise, such as walks for Diabetes. I told her to look on Facebook for support groups. I told her that life with Type 1 at college was hard - but that professors were understanding, and that your friends could be a powerful support group for you. That your roommate could make sure to know the signs of a low and watch out for you. That you could educate people so that they would have your back. I told her that blogging was a powerful way to cope and spread awareness, if she liked to write. We sympathized with each other, exclaimed at how hard Diabetes could be, and how few people without it understood. I told her the same advice my dietician had told me all those years ago - that Diabetes is going to make things harder for you. Sometimes a lot harder. But it doesn't have to limit you.
It was amazing.

And a good feeling too - maybe this conversation was a way bigger deal to me than it was to her. Maybe she went on with her life and it faded out of her mind. But maybe, I like to think, maybe this girl rushed to excitedly tell her mom that she had called Wesleyan with a question and the person that answered the phone was Type 1 just like her, out of all of the people that could have answered the phone that day. Maybe it touched her life in a small way just like it touched mine. When I got off the phone, I excitedly told Mary Ann and Amy, who worked in Admissions. Mary Ann thought it was amazing coincidence too. I told my friends - I told my family - I totally nerded out about it and made a way bigger deal out of it than most people ever would.

Because every once in a while, you get those breadcrumbs, like meeting men with insulin pumps at card shops in Savannah and receiving phone calls from Type 1 Diabetics at work. Every moment like that is special, because every moment that your life is touched in that way - where you find someone that understands - or someone asks a knowledgeable question - adds a silver lining to the disease you suffer with each day. And it makes all the difference.

Ringing in World Diabetes Day With a.... Low?

Hypoglycemia: it's probably one of the biggest things that I write about on this blog. Naturally - it's one of the biggest side effects of being on insulin. One of the worst feelings in the world. Each low feels different, every experience unlike the one before: sometimes I don't feel them at all. I'll casually test, see a 50 and say, "Oh, wow, I'm low. I don't feel bad at all," and casually saunter to the kitchen or wherever to grab a snack. Others, I'll be in the middle of Walmart, feel low and have to start eating something out of my cart because I'm out of snacks. Sometimes a little girl will look at her mom and whisper, "Is she supposed to be doing that?" Confused, because lows are those sinister, invisible monsters that sneak up on you and rob you of the right to control your own body movements. Or think properly. And you feel it - but to others, you're acting funny, or thinking irrationally, or you're just plain weird, because they can't feel what you feel. When I'm low, I can't focus - even simple tasks such as trying to write something to someone have to be set down for later because the words I mean to transcribe fly right out of my head. Try as I might to catch them, they slip away, farther and farther away until they are distant echoes of my consciousness.

This low was different, too. I went to bed, as usual - I'd been low before bed (72, so not bad) so had a snack and then went off to sleep. I wake up at some time during the night undisclosed to me - I don't know the time, I don't look, I just know that it's dark and quiet and IcanfeelthatI'mlow but I do not test.

I'm tired.

I want to go back to sleep.

But... I'm low.

I should test, I mumble blearily to myself. Go... get something to eat, I will my body.
But sleep feels so good. I pull the cover up over my head and sink deeper into the pillow. Mmm, it can wait til morning, I think, irrationally. You think but it doesn't always make sense when you're low. When I'm sleepy, I think a lot of things that don't make sense, too. I roll over and doze off. Somewhere in my subconsciousness I knew, just knew that it was imperative that I wake up and go eat something. If I didn't, I could fall even lower, and then I might die.

Maybe that seems overdramatic, but when you live with Diabetes, you live on the edge of constant close calls every day. You live on the edge of panic - like walking on a cliff edge, and one stumble can topple you. I have Diabetes - I have my meter - insulin - test strips - I'm prepared. No big deal.

And then life happens.
You forget to put an extra insulin pen in your purse and you're away from home, far away, traveling for the day.
You just used your last test strip and neglected to put in extra strips in your meter bag...

You're low and in an unfamiliar place, and realize you have no snack.

Suddenly, your sense of security, which turns out to be false after all, flies out the window. You panic - you're blind - as though you're in a car behind the steering wheel and someone has covered your eyes and you can't see where you're going or where you're headed and you're confused and don't know what to do and you're powerless.

Maybe you think, "well, those are all really stupid. You shouldn't ever forget those things - they're important after all." And that's true. It is stupid. But how many times have you left the house and forgotten something? Are in a rush to get somewhere? Get lost in life? It happens to all of us yes, even Diabetics - because on top of all of the things I have to do for my normal life, my Diabetes life is there, life a separate life on top of my existing one, and I have to make time that I don't have to take care of it, too. I'm running late for class? Guess I'll have to check my sugar eat my breakfast and give insulin in the car. Need to test but I'm running late for work? Too bad. I'm low and I'm entertaining at a party - that's a fun one. Bottom line: you have to make time for Diabetes, but Diabetes doesn't make time for you. It's constant, never relenting, always there. No break. Ever.

But that's a tangent - I startle awake again, after what might have been 30 seconds or 30 minutes, for all I know. The low is humming in my consciousness still, I'm sweat-drenched, hot, my body is tensed and shaking, my limbs feel like Jello and my mind is once again blank fuzz, like static on the TV. My mind knows what I should do but doesn't want to act and my body doesn't want to listen. There's a distinct lapse between what I tell my body to do and when my body actually decides to do it, as though every movement I make is me trying to walk in the ocean near the shore against the waves, and they're pummeling me, and they're throwing me back, pushing me, further away from where I need to go, not letting me move how I want to.

But this time I roll over, out of the bed, in the dark, I don't test, I just know I'm low and need food and I stumble through the dark until I'm in the kitchen and I've grabbed a bar of ice cream and I'm eating it, and I'm low so I just want to eat the entire kitchen so I get out the chips and salsa and ketchup and I'm sitting on the floor eating because I don't have the strength to stand myself up and ---

This is what my life has come to, I think, in my bitter, cranky and clouded hypoglycemia mind. The haze of the low is still settled over me like a film, clouding my senses but making me hyper aware of the panic my body is in as my brain searches for sugar and isn't finding enough to give me energy - but the anger is sharp, not dull, and I'm mad, because I don't want to be on the floor eating stupid ice cream because I went to work out that evening which was stupid because I'd gone at 9:00 PM and this was a delayed low from that and I was so frustrated and I was even scared because I almost had gone back to sleep and hadn't woken myself up to go treat my low and could have gone back to sleep and never woken up like others with my disease have done before me. I hated it. Nor had I ever done that before - just fallen back asleep nonchalantly. Lows were EMERGENCIES. Not something you tell yourself to go back to sleep for. Stupid. Stupid! You could have killed yourself! I thought angrily.

When I had the strength to stand again, I set the kitchen back in order and then walked slowly, resignedly back to my room to sleep. It was only 2:36 a.m. I was angry, but I tried to console myself: the important thing, I tried to remind myself, was that I had woken up and I had treated and today was World Diabetes Day (11/14), in which we Diabetics try to hope that enough people will care someday and keep trying and trying and trying.... so that maybe someday, I can eat a sandwich. Just eat a sandwich. No testing, no insulin. So I can sleep easy without worrying about my sugar. So that I don't feel the guilt of a high... so we can all be normal... someday. We dream, we live, we rejoice, we cope, we suffer, we falter, we try - we are imperfect human beings trying to live our difficult lives and be a pancreas at the same time. It's hard. We'll keep trying. We'll keep living through little battles such as these. And, always, we'll keep hoping for a miracle - the seemingly impossible, the dream of a dream. A cure. Always and forever, hoping for a cure.

Diabetes Day.

Today is a special day: It's National Type 1 Diabetes Awareness Day, and November marks the start of National Diabetes Awareness Month.

It's funny how in the course of 2.5 years you can go from never having heard about such a day, to living it every year, marking the day with blue clothes and perhaps a blue circle on your hand. Do I expect this day to have the same kind of significance to others as it does to me? No, of course not. But still, I'll wear my blue and share the significance of the day with others, if only because it makes me feel as though I'm not going through this journey alone.

Every chance to educate another person and spread awareness is important, after all - important to a cure, to more research, and important to simply letting people know that Diabetes isn't simply a disease your grandpa got from eating too much sugar. Type 1 Diabetes is so much more - it permeates your life, coloring everything from the food you eat to the thoughts you think in your head until you live, eat, sleep, breath Diabetes all of your living days. Yes, I talk about it too much. But if you're constantly barraged, day by day, with thoughts such as:

My heart is racing. Am I low?
Did I forget to put new syringes in my meter case?
How many carbs does this fast food meal have?
Should I really eat this?
Did I change my lancet? Note: just kidding about that one. Diabetics rarely change their lancets. I don't feel bad - we all do it.
My mouth is dry. Is my blood sugar high?
How much insulin do I need to bolus for the pizza now, and how much should I bolus for later to account for the fat? Should I have two slices? Maybe just one? Will that affect my sugar more?
Can my levels afford to eat a slice of cake tonight?
What is my endo going to say about that 450 mg/dL last night?
Did I remember to grab an extra insulin pen before leaving the house?
Did I pack my lancets, syringes, extra pens in a cooler, extra meter, glucagon, ketostix and test strips for my trip?
I'm low during an exam and I can no longer concentrate.
I'm at work and I'm low and I need to find a time to treat.
I had to run out of the house this morning with breakfast and have to find time to give an injection before class, which I'm late for, so I'll have to do it in the car. 
How many carbohydrates does that pineapple casserole have?
All of my friends are eating it, and I don't want to seem weird for not eating it, either.
How do I politely turn down the huge bowl of pasta the host just gave me?
What is the etiquette for giving an insulin shot at a fancy dinner?
That huge bruise on my arm is from insulin, I swear. 
I need to give an injection but my stomach is all bruised, I'm in jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Where am I supposed to inject?
My sugar is high and I'm to blame. I feel like a failure.
How is the new health care law going to affect my ability to get medicine?
Will I have to have a high paying job for the rest of my life just to afford health care and medicine?
Does my employer care that I have Diabetes?
Will people treat me differently if I tell them?
Will the waiter look at me funny if I request the menu's nutrition info?
Please, for the love of God, if I have to head "I could never be Diabetic!" or, "I know exactly what Diabetes is like, I have low blood sugar sometimes!", I just might overdose on insulin because I'm sick of hearing it.
How did this test strip get there???

This is just some of what Type 1 Diabetics live with every.day. So yes - I mention it a lot. Because every hour, at minimum, thoughts such as these enter my head.
For Type 1's, Diabetes is our life, which creates an interesting paradox. We live our life trying to be as normal as possible, not letting Diabetes define us, and yet almost all of the actions we do seek to help us continue to be healthy and live in spite of this disease. Our actions are often defined by what we do to continue to live with Diabetes, and thus our actions require constant thoughts like the ones above. It's a heavy burden to bear - the price of Diabetes includes many things. It costs us freedom. It costs us time. It costs us health. And it costs us our very minds, which are sometimes consumed by this disease and all that it entails. And it's difficult.

So... days like this are special. They are a big deal. Maybe not to everyone, but to us individuals that know, and our loved ones, and perhaps the ones we can spread awareness to. Because they remind us Type 1 Diabetics of something important - that although this disease has such a high cost, that we can over come it. We are not alone, we are more than this disease, and although I may spend 18 hours of the day thinking about Diabetes, not counting all of the midnight lows, I am still my own person with and in spite of Diabetes. I work hard to treat myself so that I can still enjoy the quality of life that I desire. Paradox or no, this is the life I strive for - a life of living with Diabetes but also living in spite of it.

So here's to my 3rd year of celebrating National Type 1 Diabetes Awareness Day and Diabetes Awareness month. And here's to wishing all of the Type 1's out there many more years of observing this day to mark another year lived in spite of Type 1; and, perhaps, more importantly: many more healthy, perfectly normal days in between.

I Got Low in Target and All I Came Out With Was Gum... and Some Other Random Groceries.

One moment I'm standing in the shoe aisle at Target, the next I'm on the floor leaning against the racks, wiping away the sweat beading on my forehead. My heart is racing, and I suck in the air around me in quick, shallow breaths.

The lows are back again, and it's been a long time. Too long. My levels? On the other end of the spectrum more than anything these days - translation: not so great lately. The stress of life and of class if really getting to me. I don't (can't) sleep much between everything I have to do. I make time for meals at little 5 minute intervals of free time throughout the day. I can't work out as much as I want to because I'm tired and busy so much of the time. All of these things raise blood sugar, but I'm more blaming myself than anything. I've been lazy, too busy to care.
It's hard - I'm feeling somewhat like a failure again. My mind says, when are you going to get it together, Lacy? 

The last two years may have been a grace period for catching your bearings, but there are no excuses now. You'd better shape up, or you'll regret it in the future. You have no reason to be struggling anymore. You should have this down by now. 

Regret - guilt - I feel it a lot. One of the things I fear most is having complications from Diabetes. And the feeling of failure I know will/would be associated with it. I just want to be healthy. I just want to be healthy and carefree. Is that so much to ask for? (With Diabetes, I think that sometimes the answer is resoundingly yes).

Each time I feel like this, I have to pick myself back up. No wallows of self pity for me - not for long, anyways. Hell, self pity probably raises blood sugar, too. Everything else seems to. Defeat is not allowed. I may shake my head and bite back a retort at myself when the number on the Glucometer is higher than I want it to be, but ultimately I've got to translate that frustration into something useful so that I can make progress and get back on track again. At least I know how that works, even if I can't necessarily seem to understand how getting the elusive in target BG's works.

So when I sat down, shaking, in the middle of Target on the floor, I was kind of glad. I gave myself a mental good job - because I'd upped my insulin dose the last few days, and I was really making a conscientious effort to keep my sugars in range. Less carbs - more insulin - lots of water. If that meant that I had to be low sometimes while I fine-tuned by insulin/carb ratio, so be it. It was progress. As much as I whine about lows and how awful they are - and seriously, they are awful - I realize that sometimes they are a necessary for my illness. Lows tell me if I'm doing something right or wrong, and if something I'm doing needs to be adjusted. It is something that makes me pay attention to my body, which is an undoubtedly good thing. And sometimes I'd almost rather be low than high. I mean, when your low, that's a great excuse to eat ice crea---- I mean, correct and learn from your mistake, of course.

So here's to better treatment - again. Take one million, or something like that. I'll never stop trying. Here's to trying hard - hopefully, minus the lows in the middle of Target though, of course. Lows while grocery shopping make me buy weird things. Somehow I came out of the store with eggs, some really weird flavour of gum, diet soda, and recees pieces. You learn something new every day. I should come with a disclaimer: Warning: Not responsible for any groceries I bring home while shopping low.

20!

It's my birthday. And I made it to 20! 

20 is an odd age. 

On one hand, 20 is an awkward 3-year stretch of uneventful age, where nothing particularly exciting or socially gratifying occurs. I can vote, I can join the army (nvrmd I'm Diabetic and I can't), I can't drink (*giggles inconspicuously*), I can't rent a car and nobody really takes you seriously when you're 18-21 it seems, anyways. 

But at the same time, 20 is a pretty special age to turn. 20 marks the end of my teenage years, and with that I suppose a whole decade of crazy, tumultuous, emotional and mental turmoil - woah, being a teenager was (is, I still have a few minutes) pretty crazy. I don't expect 20 to bring any less emotional/mental turmoil, and I'm certain I'll experience greater challenges in the next decade, but it's still nice to feel as though, in this moment, my slate is wiped clean.

20, the start of my third decade, is probably one of the most important decades in anyone's life. In my life. I'll finish school, start a career, maybe if I'm not busy being a free spirit settle down, I work with kids all the time so really I'd rather not think about kids... ever... 

Yeah, it'll have a lot of changes. 

Maybe I'll take this new year to think more deeply. (I'm tired, I just wrote deeply more think before I fixed that). Read a new political science book. Change my views on something. Realign my life's direction. And certainly, try harder to manage my Diabetes.

But regardless of what I'll do all year, I'll start with the very first day. As I've learned from many rather lackluster college birthdays in the past, my birthday is just like any other day, really. But I hope to make it truly special this year, by celebrating with a number of odd, eccentric things on a to-do list I crafted over the course of this week. 

I'm going to go to a hotel I'm not staying in and see if I can get away with eating the continental breakfast.

Jump in a swimming pool with my clothes on.

Drop 20 pennies face up anywhere.

Compliment strangers.

Buy a new book.

Get a free firehouse sub. 

Watch the premier of the Walking Dead. 

Stargaze.

Blog. (Check).

And who knows what else? I'll see how the day goes. 

So here's to the start of a new decade, a new set of challenges, new changes, beginnings, tragedies, joys, events. I'm ready as I'll ever be.

You Know... You Can Always Just Ask, Right?

I haven't written in a while. I've been so busy it's hard to find time, and consequentially I feel like part of me has, sadly, been missing. I love writing here, and I am always coming up with new ideas and things to add to my blog in my head. So let me segue back into writing with a short experience I had this morning.
I don't get many free mornings these days. August rolled around, and school started: I was totally, unequivocally unprepared for the intense amount of work and stress that hit me...

Well, needless to say, I was happy to sleep in this morning. I had work later that afternoon a short 30 minutes away instead of my typical 2-hour commute to Atlanta for princess-ing; with that in mind I rolled out of bed at 10:20, made coffee, cleaned, got ready and generally piddled around. Josh and I went out to breakfast. We went to J. Christophers, which always makes me think of our trip to Savannah now, and brings up many fond memories.
The wait for our food was excruciatingly long as the place was packed, but as it arrived I did the usual and diligently counted my carbs:

2 slices of wheat toast (about 30 carbs)
Grits (about 30 carbs, we aren't ever exact here, Diabetes, you imprecise science, you)

So about 60 carbs. I stretched over to the top of the chair and placed my left arm propped up so that I could get a good angle. Out of the corner of my eye peers a girl about 7 or 8, I'm guessing, maybe a little older. She has turned and is watching me extremely intensely as I jab the needle into my arm, slowly push down the button, and sit and wait while the insulin goes in for the obligatory 10 seconds. I pretend I don't notice. I look around. I look back at her.

That little girl is giving me the stare down! I laugh at Josh. "I saw too," he said. I am amused, not upset. It's not even a big deal, but being stared at is sometimes weird. (I say sometimes because when you're dressed as s princess in public, or a clown, x amount of times you get desensitized to such things.) It made me feel... older. Different. I am almost 20, and I know more about bolusing, carb counting and beta cells than most people will ever know in their life. I know my stuff. I forget some people don't, and that sometimes it must be weird to look through someone else's eyes and see what I do.

I prick my ears up as the little girl turns back around. I watch her and her father out of the corner of my eyes still, and see his gaze directed at me. I smile a knowing smile at him, the "yes I just gave a shot in front of your daughter and probably confused her" smile that perhaps only Diabetics know. Hey, you get special perks when you're part of the club.
"Daddy, she just gave herself a shot. Why?"

Note: Trying to be subtle about it only makes it worse. Yes, I can hear you when you whisper excitedly/accusingly about some weird Diabetes thing I just did.

I hear her Dad trying to explain it in clips and pieces. I am tempted to turn around and simply tell her that I have Diabetes and say, "You know... You can always just ask, right?", but I try to put myself in her shoes. I wouldn't have asked either. Probably, just whispered excitedly and confusedly. Well, at least I know why I do what I do, right? I pay a hefty price for the knowledge, but it's all part of life, I suppose.

Josh and I get up, and leave the restaurant - I'm Diabetic, and that's alright. People stare. Ask questions. Avoid eye contact. Wonder curiously. I'm still me, just plus a chronic disease. Let them stare. It's always less embarrassing than walking into a gas station dressed as a mermaid.

....... always.

Savannah Trip Part 3 - Finis

Sunday. Our last day in Savannah.

Slept in, crept down for breakfast again, did not nearly set the toaster on fire or knock down the serving spoons (but I sheepishly avoided the glares of the lady worker in charge of the continental breakfast), and got ready for the day before Josh and I checked out at 11. Truck packed, we piled back into our seats and ventured into the heart of the city one final time. It was a little heartbreaking, really!

I didn't want to leave.

"So, sweetheart, where are we going?" Josh asked. My head swirled with ideas, and finally one surfaced - "Forsyth Park!" I tweeted back. I was still a little peeved that the lady on the haunted tours had told us that Forsyth Park was where all the Yellow Fever victims were buried, but I still wanted to see the gorgeous stretch of land and felt our Savannah trip to be truly incomplete without it. We arrived, found a super-convenient parking spot, and began our walk hand in hand. The park was indeed beautiful - old oaks canopied the walkways and the park was green, lush and gorgeously landscaped. It was a picturesque day, too - Josh and I took pictures in front of the statues and the big white fountain, explored the amphitheater and a little walled garden, and - my favorite - walked the perimeter of the park so that we could get a glimpse of all of the old, incredible, lovely houses. We gazed at them all longingly, and though I was coming down with an unfortunate head cold at this point and losing my voice, it seemed that I spent every last precious word I could speak on how beautiful each and every house was.

"Baby, oh, look at that one!"
"Oh, isn't it amazing?"
"We could buy that one... it's for sale..."
"Let's own a bed and breakfast in Savannah!"
"That... is the prettiest house I have ever seen."
"Look! Their address says 13 1/2!"

Josh said I was cute.
After Forsyth we crawled back into the car for one last adventure. Josh is really into the card game Magic, and we had seen a card shop called Savannah Comics on Friday that he felt like checking out. So after driving around and getting lost once, we found the tiny shop off Liberty Street, parked (I'd like to take the time to gloat that we did not spend a penny on parking this entire trip - HUGE accomplishment) and walked to the store. When we got there, a young man was sitting on a bench under the store awning. "It's still closed," he said. "But it should be open at one. Sometimes he's late getting here." I didn't pay much attention to the young man, and to bide time we decided to get lunch at a bustling restaurant called J. Christophers. It really seemed like the place to be! It was packed. Josh and I got seating at the front, and what I could taste of my food was good (it's dreadfully hard to taste with a stuffy nose). Blood sugar was OK last I'd checked an hour ago, I'd had an apple then and bolused and so I didn't check for lunch and bolused again. When we'd finished and paid we walked back towards the card store and found it open. We walked inside, looked around, and looked at the back, but didn't see any Magic cards; just comic books mostly. I finally saw some up front and pointed them at to Josh, all the while feeling funny.

Can't be, I thought. Just ate.
But I knew it - I noticed that I was getting better and  better at sensing my body. Both lows and, recently, highs. Like, scary good. It was like a super power. And my meter confirmed it - I was dropping at 60, and madly scolded myself under my breath for not checking at lunch and for bolusing without checking while I was low!
I sighed, frustrated, and walked to the front with Josh. Finding a chair, I melted down into it, fishing a granola bar out of my bag.

"You look so excited to be here," a familiar voice said to me. I looked up to see the face of the young man that had been on the bench earlier, a small grin on his face. He was, apparently, an employee, and he was facing me from the right. I said, my voice monotone due to my being used to explaining my Diabetes to people that didn't know, or didn't care, or both; "I have low blood sugar. I'm Diabetic."

And what happened next completely shocked me. The man turned and I caught a glimpse of his left side. My mouth gaped open, because out of his pants pocket a thin, transparent tube curled and snaked up under his shirt.

"Me too." he said softly. 

I was in awe. I'd never even met another Type 1 Diabetic in the "real world" before. At the endo, yeah, but never at school, or at work, or anywhere... and yet in this tiny card shop in the middle of a big city, that we had walked into by chance, here was a man who knew each and every up and down about what I went through and could name my troubles to the tee. I gazed at him, our eyes locked in understanding before we launched into conversation about what life was like with a pump, or insurance situations, stupid things people said to us, our pet peeves about Diabetes, diagnosis date, number of times in DKA, type of insulin used, etc. 

"Baby! Look! He's Diabetic too," I said, turning to Josh, even happier than I had been back in the candy store. 

"He is too," he man motioned to the man at the counter. "Type 2. Insulin Dependent," the man at the counter said. 

Josh was so happy for me. We talked about the pump for at least a solid 30 minutes, and I truly enjoyed listening to what the young man (he was only a few years older than me) had to say about the pump, as I had never seen one in person and never talked with someone in real life about what it was like. I have to say, skeptical as I am about getting a pump, he definitely gave me a lot to think about. And more than that, I just truly felt as though this Diabetic man was a gift from god himself; one of the best things about this entire trip, in fact, and that's saying a lot. 

Finally it was time to go, and we bid each other goodbye. It struck me as we were leaving the shop that I didn't even know this man's name, but it didn't matter to me and I don't think it mattered to him either. Names or no, we were kindred spirits, and this man gave me a powerful reminder that in my struggle I am never, ever alone. That God uplifts and strengthens us and never gives us more than we can handle. And I was so overcome by happiness again I felt as though I could cry tears of joy. 

"It made me so happy to see how happy meeting him made you," Joshua said, and I smiled at him. "And you?" I asked him. "Are you happy? Did you have a good time on vacation?"

Josh smiled back. "The best," he said. 

We spent the rest of the day braving I-16, and visiting friends in Statesboro. At around 10 PM as we left Statesboro, Joshua kindly drove the whole way back as I dozed on his lap, my cold having gotten the best of me at that point and totally knocking me out. But even the cold couldn't put a damper on my happiness, because I had visited Savannah with the man I love more than anything in the world, swam in the ocean, eaten the best piece of candy I'd ever had, gotten my fill of all the pretty sights my senses could hold, and met a person who understands everything I'm going through.

Who knows? Maybe he'll even read this someday. If not, thank you, either way. I'm so glad I met you, because you lifted a weight off my shoulders that I don't even think I'd realized I had. The weight of having never met someone with my illness, of feeling alone - that feeling isn't completely gone,  but thanks to you, I don't feel so alone at all, not anymore. 

Savannah Trip - Part Two!

The next morning, after sleepily crawling downstairs to the continental breakfast, accidentally almost setting the toaster on fire (How was I supposed to know that you can't put a whole bagel in those open faced toasters?!) and knocking over the serving spoons (I blame my clumsiness on the Diabetes) I scurried back to the room and Josh and I got all our day stuff together to go to Tybee Island.

Note to self: DO NOT WAIT UNTIL GETTING TO THE BEACH TO PUT TANNING OIL OR SUNSCREEN ON. The design of your shirt will be seared onto your body if you are fair-skinned.

Joshua and I loaded our bags with towels, drinks, 4 different "in case of low" snacks, suntan oil, and changes of clothes. The drive to Tybee took about 40 minutes and was pretty stop-and-go. There was a lot of traffic, but I had to admit it was pretty picturesque to see the marshes and the gorgeous blue sky - especially after days of rain back in Macon.

When we got to Tybee we were greeted, as my grandma stated quite literally, by "the land of the endless parking meters". We drove for at least an hour trying to find parking, failed, and had to drive about 1-2 miles out to the post office just to find an empty space. On the bright side, we were treated to the tour of local houses and hangouts... on the bad side, gas was $3.30. And we didn't escape the lengthy sojourn to the beach once we parked either... then, the hike began. Part of me thinks the 12 miles hike up the mountain that year at Summer camp was easier. We could only carry the necessities in my purse, and we kept walking, and walking, and walking, trying to tell ourselves that lunch and the beach was "right around the next corner", or the next, the next, the next.... there were no shady trees, no soothing bird tweets, no trickling creeks. Oh no. Pavement, searing sunlight, traffic, and don't forget those parking meters.

Suddenly all of me shook, and I tested, blearily seeing the 36 mg/dL on the screen, peeling away the granola bar wrapper, eating it in about 1.5 bites and stumbling on, leaning on Josh for support. The cognitive thought in my head faded, replaced by zombie-mode. My "beach, beach, beach" chant echoing in my head soon turned into "lunch, lunch, lunch", and it must have been thirty minutes later - but really felt like two hours in "Tybee time" and a miniature downpour - that we finally made it to a restaurant. I told Josh, out of desperation, that I would literally eat at the first restaurant I saw that was at least semi-reputable looking. So we ate there. I don't remember the name, I remember it being overpriced and tiled like my old house back in Sanford, but the food was pretty OK and it did the trick. I didn't feel shaky anymore, probably because I ordered a salad and ended up eating half of Josh's steak fries when I tested and saw that I was still at 50, and we proceeded on towards the beach from there. As soon as we reached the sand we shed our shoes and set out under the pier and to our left in order to find a less overcrowded plot of sand on which to lay our bag.

So far our trip seems like it might have been miserable, but don't get me wrong. The moment my feet touched the sand, it was all totally worth it.

We found a place, which was amazing considering Tybee was the most crowded beach I'd ever seen (I guess in FL we have a lot larger of a choice), and we wasted no time in shedding our shirts and pants and running to the water. The water was incredible! It was warm, and salty, and pure perfection. Back at home it always seemed like the water was too cold (I'm a wimp when it comes to cold water, yeah), but here it was just right. Like, wow. Josh and I laughed and ran and tripped and dove into the waves, swimming out and making a game of leaping over the waves as they charged toward us, threatening to drag us back towards shore and sometimes sending us tumbling underwater and scrambling to hold onto our bottoms. The day passed away while we screamed and paddled and vigilantly watched our bag from the water, and I felt like a little kid again.

When we had swallowed enough salt water to pickle us, we breaked for a good half hour in the sand, digging sandcastles with our bare hands and haphazardly remembering to apply some bit of tanning oil (mistake, mistake, mistake). Halfway before building the pyramid of giza-great moat of China hybrid, we decided to run back into the water and played in the waves more before packing up our things once again and starting the hike back to the car. And an uncomfortable hike it was! I had been spoiled from years of seeing showers to bathe in on the beach docks, and there was not a shower to be found anywhere on Tybee. No lie, Josh and I both would have probably paid for a shower and we were seriously considering foregoing the consequences of using someone's hose in order to avoid the sandy, salt-sticky walk back.
When we were almost there, we stopped in a beach store to enjoy the AC and grab some fresh T-Shirts, and Josh went ahead of me to get the car. I caught glimpse of myself in a mirror and to my not-so-surprised horror saw that I was unevenly sunburned. By that I mean, the mother of all sunburns. As in, I was wearing a crochet top and the design of the crochet was burned into my skin. In short, my skin somewhat resembled a doily. Le sigh. I can't get a pretty tan for the life of me.

We began the long sojourn back, stopping at Sonic for some mega-huge drinks before going back to the hotel, where we freshened up, complained about our sunburns, applied aloe, repeated the word "ouch" a lot, and finally crawled painfully back into the truck, with our tender red skin, to go back into the city and get some dinner. It took forever... we drove around again for an hour looking for parking, as apparently Savannah on a Saturday night was THE place to be. But we got some great views of the city that we had missed Friday. We saw more churches, town squares, Paula Dean's restaurant, theatres...it was stunning to see the eclectic mix of old and new, and the ever-constant thrum of pure life that pulsed like a heartbeat throughout the city. People were everywhere, tourists, locals, dressed-to-the-tee's, photographers, hipsters, rednecks. I loved it all and took in every moment of it.

When we finally did hunt down a spot next to a cozy looking cafe by the intersection of Hull and Bull Street (easy to remember), we walked around for a good while, and couldn't seem to decide where to eat. We actually just ended up eating at the same place we had for lunch the first day because we thought it was so good! I was ravenous - we ate nachos and queso, Josh had another parmesan chimichanga (we aren't creatures of habit at all...), and I had a huge serving of chicken, my fries replaced with veggies. BG had held pretty steady since the beach and I was cruising at around 150, but was careful to give myself plenty of insulin to cover the chips so as to try and not get off track. After dinner, we walked down River Street again, spent some time listening to another one of the 4th of July bands until the bugs ate at us too much, and then journeyed back across Bay Street and onwards to check out the squares we had missed earlier.

It was fantastic --- we looked at booths full of beautiful things for sale, witnessed a proposal in the middle of a streetside concert, and I happily dragged Joshua back into a Candy Shop (conveniently enough they were all over Savannah!) to indulge in a treat of my choosing. I was literally as happy as a kid in a... well, candy store! (What is it about candy that makes people so... happy?) I had such a hard time choosing what I wanted! This was such a treat for me --- I told myself that, for tonight, I could pick anything I wanted, no blood sugar-strings attached. Tonight, I was just Lacy. Not Diabetic Lacy. Just me.

Josh picked a candy apple, and I ended up picking a single piece of Butterfinger Bark. I carried it like a treasure through the streets of Savannah, until we got back to the car. It was drizzling lightly, but instead of being annoying I felt as though the mist added yet another tinge of magic to this magical, magical city. As we drove back to the hotel, I closed my eyes and tried a piece of my candy, which melted on my tongue in the most amazing burst of flavor. The day in the sun, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the joy of today, and even the Butterfinger Bark...

It took me away from life and from the everyday, from the ins and outs, the drags of Diabetes, everything -
Nevermind the insulin pen in my stomach as I dutifully bolused. In that moment, it was Joshua and I, and we weren't sad with troubles, or weighed down from the world, I wasn't Diabetic -

No. We were simply, truly, oh so very, very happy, and it is a memory I will treasure always. 

Diabetes Never Takes a Vacation - Savannah Edition Pt. 1

In May, Josh and I set aside a free weekend over the summer. Free, as in I resisted booking any parties so that we could go on a trip - something neither of us had done in far too long! We juggled for weeks where to go on the designated one-weekend break for the Summer. Being a party entertainer means sacrificing a lot of weekends, and thus I wanted this weekend to be special.
Destin, FL? Helen, GA? Orlando? Atlanta?

Josh and I finally selected Savannah, Georgia as our destination. On Friday morning, the trusty Ford truck (if you're not a Ford fan, hush) was cleaned, loaded with snacks and small bags of luggage, and smelled strongly of cherry from the new air freshener we had placed in it. I gave Forsyth, GA a glance back as we pulled out of the driveway and, as we got onto I-75, we finally began our long-awaited weekend adventure.

I-16 is a really boring drive. Like... really boring. Stretching from Macon to Savannah, I-16 is a flat, desolate, two-lane highway straight east to the coast of Georgia. Savannah lies about 175 miles from Macon and it took about 2.5 hours to get there.

We settled in Pooler, just outside the city limits of Savannah, and once we were ready got back into the car to venture into the heart of the city. Just when we thought we had lost ourselves, a huge bridge loomed right before us, and we were suddenly transported into a place that seemed as though it still belonged in the 18th century. Savannah is the oldest city in Georgia (1733) and I was just in awe at the architecture.... plaster and stucco walls with aged worn brick peeping through. ancient facades and columns, cannons from the 1700's, and these incredible, beautiful little squares scattered like gems at points throughout the city. My first impression of Savannah was... awe.

It took a long time to find a parking spot. We finally parked in a Kroger (like the rebels we are) and stopped to get drinks for the long walk ahead. Neither of us were wearing tennis shoes, but rather sandals, which we would later regret. After leaving Kroger, we basically turned ourselves loose in the city. It is immense - you could explore it for days and not know every nook and cranny that Savannah has to offer. But we did pretty good. We came by an old cemetery very soon, and headed inside. It was there that I stopped and felt my heart pitter-pattering, tested, and came back with a 41. After my relatively steady levels all day so far, I was a little bummed. I ate a granola bar and asked Josh if we could sit on one of the benches a bit while I caught my breath.

After a few minutes we were up and walking again, past the cemetery, through more beautiful squares. When we finally crossed traffic over to Bay Street, Savannah seemed to once again morph into something completely different. We stepped down a set of ancient looking stone steps and picked our way through uneven cobblestone down to River Street. It was huge, it was bustling, it was...incredible. The river sat before us, and shops lined the street in both directions. It was so ancient, so old, and yet so full of life. As if the future had taken residence in the past overnight. There was a festival going on for fourth of july, and an endless assortment of souvenir shops, entertainers and tourists.
First things first, Josh and I booked a ghost tour (which I was not thrilled about!) and then set down River Street, looking through all of the shops and finally finding a place to eat. We were both starving, and glad for the respite from the burning summer heat. Josh ordered a parmesan chimichanga and I a salad. Even though I'd just been low, I didn't want to use too much insulin and figured this would keep me pretty steady. After eating we set out again, searching through more shops, taking pictures and absorbing all the incredible sights. We even ducked into a candy shop where we were greeted by the most amazing smells, and these sweet workers making taffy who threw us both a piece! Neither Josh or I like taffy, but even I had to admit that, fresh off the taffy-making machines, these were awesome. The permeating smell drove us out eventually - me from the madness that surely would have enveloped from not being able to eat so much of the sugar in the store, and Josh from the sickly sweetness. But it was still one of my favorite parts of the trip --- forbidden fruits taste the sweetest, I guess?

We turned ourselves loose in Savannah for the rest of the evening and afternoon. Ghost tours were at 10:40, so we had lots of time to kill. One funny episode happened when we snuck into the River Street Inn, an old, historic and beautiful inn famed for being haunted. Josh and I were looking over the impressive balcony down to the first floor landing, and as I walked away Josh yelped and asked, "did you do that?" I stared at him, puzzled, before he explained that something had just pushed him, hard. I was three feet away from Josh though and definitely had not pushed him! I'm sure it would have been scary if it had happened to me, but, at least from a spectator's perspective, y'know, it was kinda funny. Creepy... but funny. Regardless. Savannah is definitely haunted, y'all.

We checked out the 4th of July concert going on by the River, roamed through antique stores, viewed the parks scattered throughout the city, went into the tourist-ey shops, looked for souvenirs and even saw an old man walking around in booty shorts, which made us bellow in laughter. I even convinced Josh to go back into the candy store get some candy... in case of a low, of course! (I admit it, I was totally obsessed with the Candy Store at that point!)
We walked back through Savannah in search of our car at around 6:00 PM and were pretty sure we had lost ourselves after walking for what seemed like... forever...
As I said earlier, neither of us were wearing tennis shoes, so our feet were killing us, and we ended up asking some man with a British accent how to get back to Kroger. We finally made it, and stumbled inside for some snacks and some much-needed drinks. After spending some quality time in the AC, we drove around Savannah to relocated to a closer (and legal) parking spot before grabbing dinner. We were fortunate to ask a couple of cops about parking to find out that parking meters were all free after 5 and on weekends in Savannah. This made finding a spot a lot easier!

Finally, it was time for the ghost tour, and we climbed into a rickety trolley to be greeted by an eclectic tour guide named Ana. I was scared out of my freaking mind. Ghosts are not my thing! But Ana was fun and told us all kinds of ghost stories before we silenced our cell phones and got off the trolley to check out some creepy warehouse. The tour was fun but I hated this part! I hate being in creepy places, and we had to spend about 30 minutes with little detectors searching for ghosts and hearing the story behind the place. Josh's phone rang while Ana was telling the story, and everyone stopped to stare. Which was weird... because he didn't get a text, call or email, and he had silenced his phone!
We also toured some building called a Chandlery, which was honestly all just theatrics, but the tour was fun and I thought it was a totally memorable part of our vacation! We were pretty wiped after the tour, and decided to end the day after that.

All in all... it was an awesome first day, and my sugars remained pretty steady after the afternoon low. :)

Stay tuned for Part 2!

June 19th 2013, AKAThe Black Sheep of Diabetes Days

Today hasn't been the best Diabetes day.

I woke up a little high, in the 190-220 range, so did my correction dose and ate a healthy breakfast of oatmeal. By lunchtime I was hovering at an acceptable 180, and had a sandwich, grapes and a coke zero for lunch. I bolused for that as well as a little extra to get an even better number. When I pulled the pen out of my skin, I noticed some leakback. "Shoot!" I said. (No pun intended!)

"You alright?" Darrien, my roommate Crystal's brother, asked as he heard me and noticed my anxious face. As a side note, every Tuesday I stay at Crystal's house because I work a gig in Columbus at TGI Friday's on Tuesday's. I face paint and balloon twist, and really enjoy the job, but the trip back to Macon from Columbus is scary in the dark. There are no lights, no cell phone reception; really, there is no civilization at all except for a few little towns here and there. It's 90 miles of backwoods and there is no easy way to get there, so I am very grateful to be able to spend the night in Columbus and go back to Macon in the morning!

"I'm alright," I said. "I'll check again within the hour and make sure I'm OK." I thought about giving myself some extra, but didn't want to make myself low, either.

I ended up checking 45 minutes later. I was expecting something a little high - 200's maybe - but was entirely unprepared for what I saw on the screen. A 545 flashed at me and I did a double take. "What? WHAT?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME???" You've got to be kidding me," I yelled out loud. I could NOT fathom how my sugar had gotten that high. Even if I had leaked back, I had had half a sandwich and some fruit; it didn't seem like there could be an earthly way that I could have gotten that high, and I didn't even feel it. Frustrated, I dialed in a whopping 18 units and stuck myself, trying to wrap my head around the conundrum.

In Roberta, about another 30-40 minutes later, I checked again. 242. At least I was coming down, right?

I checked when I got back to Macon as well, and came in at about 239. Novolog finishes its work about 1.5 hours after injection, and so I gave another 3 units (my correction dose is 1unit/30mgdL), stopped by my room at Wesleyan, changed for the gym, at hopped on the treadmill for an hour.

I was determined; if all that didn't bring my down, it would seem that nothing would.

An hour later after I hop off the treadmill Josh calls, and we meet up and head back to my room. I sit on the bed and start to feel a little shaky. I know I am low, and test to find 52. I grab two mini ice cream sandwiches from the fridge (favorite snack), one for him and one for me, and eat that in order to coax my sugars back up. In the meantime I ride the pitiful wave of Diabetes low blood sugar purgatory, contemplating for the next 15 minutes or so how much I despise Diabetes and ruminate on my continuous annoyance with the disease. 

15 minutes later, I'm ok. Life goes on. Josh and I head to Zaxby's for an early dinner, and we order food and sit at the table to wait. I am trembling and I reach up to wipe a wet strand of hair from my face. I feel irritated. I test again, and come in at 56. I sigh, trying to be "cool", but I feel as though I'm going to keel over if I don't get my food soon. Joshua brings it over when our number is called and he might as well be carrying a treasure chest full of gold in that moment, I am so relieved. I gulp down my food and hope that this nightmarish string of high-low-high-low-lows is over for the day. I'm 70 later on but feel few-ish symptoms, and my nighttime snack cures any symptoms I may feel later on. Thankfully.

I feel better, I'm alive, I'm disappointed in how today's numbers turned out, but I am trying hard and do get a lot of good numbers for the most part. I guess today was just the black sheep of Diabetes days. Tomorrow will be better. I'll try harder. I am frustrated, but have to keep moving on. That's how this disease works. Always keep trying, improving, moving forward. Someday I won't have to. Someday I believe they'll find a cure. Listen to me, two years in and I'm already saying that as if it's something I have to believe in order to keep moving on. Someday...

Details, Details, Details.

I sometimes rue the complications that Diabetes creates for me in life more than the act of dealing with Diabetes itself.
What do I mean by that?
I mean that, in comparison, the act of sticking a needle in my skin 5-10 times a day and testing my blood sugar around the clock is simple in comparison to having to actually obtain the insulin, worry if it will be mailed on time, deal with pharmacies, insurance companies that want nothing to do with me, the new health care bill and how it will effect me, whether my future career will be able to support me medically, trying to schedule endocrinologist appointments in Florida when I only come home 2-3 times a year, the thorny issue of my residency and terms more complicated than they should be such as "Medicaid", "Medically needy", and "Share of Cost".

In other words, one of the biggest hassles of having Diabetes lies in the seemingly little issue of the details.

Dealing with blood glucose numbers suck but trust me, if all I had to do was worry about how to give a couple of shots a day, I'd be golden.

My plan when I moved to Georgia was this: change my address, get a Georgia license and registration, apply to the Georgia Medicaid office and bam: Georgia Medicaid, easy and simple.

Hahahahaahahahahahaaha.

How little I knew.

This plan was way more difficult than I thought it would be..... I realized, upon getting to Georgia, that changing my residency would require me to renounce my Florida Medicaid before applying, leaving me with a potentially 60-day long gap of waiting to see if I apply for Georgia Medicaid. And no one at the Medicaid office seemed to be able to tell me if I would actually qualify for Georgia Medicaid - I'd just have to see, and I turned down, I'd have to switch my license and registration (requiring a trip back to Florida) back again, and re-apply, a difficult process in and of itself. Not to mention the change (and upcharge) in car insurance switching my residency would create.... what a mess. Maybe I'm making it out to be more difficult than it really is, but as someone who lives month to month depending on test strips to show up in the mail, the thought of being unable to get medication for a few months fills me with a sort of vague, cold and unknown fear.

Did I want to go to Georgia State for the Doctorate of Physical Therapy Program? Well, yeah, I did. And I could as a Florida resident, but I'd have to pay out of state. So I've had to switch my grad school plans, which does frustrate me. I wish that I didn't have Diabetes, if only so that switching my residency would be an infinitely more simple matter that I could have addressed in a week, versus months of waiting, with far smaller consequences. I could go pretty much any where I want then, but I feel as though with Diabetes my options are more limited than without. I hate to feel barred, limited. But I guess that's just life.
Instead, I decided to look into an old possibility that I had given up a few months earlier amidst my agonizingly slow grad school decision making process; after juggling about 6 different schools, I finally think that I've settled for a very likely contender, which is Mercer University located in North Atlanta. Mercer is a private university, which means I don't need to pay out of state. Private education does come at a cost, however, which is initially what discouraged me. But after looking at the numbers and weighing the possible costs and benefits, Mercer seems like a good choice for me. I have a high chance of getting at least some financial aid, I already have a successful business (aka form of income) practically run out of the Atlanta area, and I know the area decently well. The prospect of Atlanta is scary to me, but I've taken some time to mull it over in my mind the past few weeks and I'm gradually becoming more comfortable with it.... I think....

Ok, I'm still scared. Truth be told, I've become comfortable with Macon. It's cushy, familiar. I don't want to leave that familiarity behind. I hate uncertainty. But trying to envision Atlanta life in my head (granted I get accepted to Mercer) helps, and hopefully in a year I'll be ready to peel myself away from this town and move on to bigger and better things. To get one step closer to my future career!

It's a dizzying prospect, but if there's anything that life has taught me, it's that we people are more capable of handling things than we think.

A Snack-less Outing.

The sun hangs high in the sky, and birds sing their songs back and forth to each other from the branches above me. I step into the cool arboretum, sighing as if I've returned to a long-lost home. I love the outdoors, but let's face it: I'm pretty lazy. I work out in the AC, but I don't go outdoors much. Joshua laughs at me because I drive to the Wesleyan gym (which is just across the lake). So today, I was really proud of myself that I had decided to take a hike in Wesleyan's Arboretum. I've been there a few times, but did not know the area particularly well. I was not entirely sure what to expect.

Stepping into the arboretum is almost like stepping into another world. Everything surrounding me falls silent; the grating sound of the lawnmower across the hill, the screaming children on the tennis court, the cars of Tucker Road. The path descends and a wooden bridge takes you over the creek, where frogs hurriedly splash into the water upon hearing footsteps.

I walk on, basking in the afternoon sun that falls in fragments between the leafy canopy above me. My footsteps make soft sounds on the dirt path; squirrels play noisily in the leaves, darting up and down trees. It is peaceful.

A flash of color draws my eye downward. A box turtle sits, solitary, before eyeing me and retreating into his shell. I bend down to get a closer look. I decide to pick the poor little guy up, and I walk onward until I reach this absolutely beautiful clearing. I cannot believe Wesleyan has been hiding this place in their backyard this long and I never knew! It seriously looks as though it is straight out of the book Bridge to Terabithia, which brings me back to 3rd grade. A creek runs through the clearing, and the water running over the rocks makes little gurgling noises.

I set the turtle down as I sit on a rock and take my water bottle out of my bag. I realize then that I was in such a rush to get out the door that I had neglected to pack a snack. (Hiking and I have a bad history, don't we?) I check my phone. It is nearly dead. But I shrug, figuring I'll be ok. It is doubtful that I will meet calamity in the Wesleyan woods. I walk on, stopping in the clearing by the cabin to read for a bit with the turtle, who peeps his head out only a few times. Then I pick another path, walk down, and walk on, on, on.

It has been over an hour now. I know where I am, and I know what direction I should be going in to get back to the path, but I realize that I have become very entangled in the path, didn't study the map and it would take so long for me to retrace my steps back that I might as well keep going. After another good 30 minutes of walking, I realize that I, indeed, do not know if I will ever emerge from the woods. I am beginning to worry that I may get low at some point and not be able to call anyone due to my dying cell phone. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I knew that I should have thought this through better, but the beautiful summer day had beckoned to me.
I trod on and on, still enjoying the hike but acknowledging that I would be enjoying it far more if I knew how far away from the school I was. As far as I was concerned, the path appeared to have no end as it snaked past a slow-moving creek and rose to surround me with thin young pine trees.

Shoot, I think, swatting at a gnat. I am half-lost in the woods, Diabetic with no food, and I have a turtle in my hand. Taking stock of the situation I press onward, certain that if I go in the right direction long enough that I must emerge at some point. It takes me a while, but I finally realize where I am and, with great joy, reach the trail's end out by the MAC. I am relieved as I crouch down to set the turtle back on the ground. The poor guy was probably feeling seasick.
I can feel myself  shaking just the slightest bit, and sweat clings at my back as I struggle up the hill and finally make it back to the apartment.
I know I am low at this point, and when I test back in my room I see that I am 59. I am mad at myself but sigh with relief that I narrowly dodged a bullet. No harm done, but I'll be sure to take more care in the future.

I sure do love the outdoors, but lesson learned: I'll bring not one, but a few, snacks next time!

Playing Make-Believe.

I used to play all sorts of games when I was little. Artist, teacher, archaeologist, detective, journalist - I could go through 3 different careers in the span of a single day.
I played Doctor, too. I used to grab a mechanical pencil, push down the eraser and pull on the lead until it nearly fell out. I'd put it up to my skin then, and push the eraser down, pretending that it was a needle as I watched the lead disappear into what looked to be skin.

Pretending was a lot more fun than the real thing. I'm no Doctor, but then, I play Doctor to myself every day. 
I guess after two years it's sunk in that this will be my life for the long haul. Am I a Diabetes whiz by now? Do I have perfect BG readings all the time? No way. But after this time I do think that I am beginning to get my confidence back - my confidence in myself, that I had lost for so long since my diagnosis. There came to be a constant worry, hanging like a shadow over me. The worry waited, unnoticed at times, until I fell headfirst into the right situation. Suddenly, the questions, the second guessing, would be there again. Hitting me headfirst like a train...

Now that I have Diabetes, will I ever be able to reach my goals?
Can I even be a physical therapist having Diabetes?
Will school and Diabetes be too much to handle?
Can I come to terms with the fact that I am imperfect when it comes to treating myself?

The worry isn't gone. But I feel like I can better confront the questions now.
Having Diabetes makes things more difficult, but I don't have to let it stop me from achieving any of my goals.
Will I get discouraged? Yes.
Have my bad days? Yes.
Wonder for the millionth time why the odds of having this disease fell upon me, when statistically they shouldn't have? All the time.
I've tried for so long to be perfect when it comes to my treatment, but I can't be. I am imperfect, I am flawed, my body is messed up. But everything comes one step at a time. Wake up, test, eat, test. Repeat. Every test, every shot, every Blood Glucose log carries me forward. 

So what if I want to get a Doctorate with Diabetes? It won't stop me.
So what if my job will require being on my feet a lot? I'll adjust my insulin if I get low. 
If I want to hike a mountain? I'll bring snacks. 
Diabetes won't stand still for me, so I won't stand still for Diabetes. 

I'll keep doing what I know how to do - keep on moving forward, setting goals, and achieving them. 

Looking back now, I realize something monumental - Diabetes, for me, was the defining line in my life between childhood and adulthood. Was I mature before my diagnosis? Certainly. (Ok, well, maybe my mom doesn't think so - ha-ha.) But Diabetes gave me something else.... changed my personality, tweaked me in some small but monumental way. 
When I got Diabetes, I think I truly became an adult. I learned things about myself that some people will never get the chance to learn. I learned that I would do what it takes to survive. I learned that I would let nothing get in the way of my goals, that nothing would stop me. That if I keep my chin up and keep pushing through, that I'll surprise even myself with what I can achieve. 

And something else.....
That life isn't perfect. That happiness isn't about perfection, or how few things are going wrong. Happiness is about the little moments; 
The sun in your hair, stolen moments with the one you love, a phone call to home. A walk on a crisp fall day, the smile of a stranger, the laughter of a friend.
Cracks, glimpses, fragments of life between life; this is what happiness is about. Learning to find the joy despite the craziness, the intensity, the anxiousness. Learning to find peace despite the turmoil. 
And to treasure all of it.

Sometimes, I still feel like the little girl playing Doctor. 
Sometimes, I wish it was all make-believe. That I would wake up one morning laughing, saying, "it was all just a dream."
But it's not make-believe any more. And I've made the choice to learn, and to grow, from this experience instead. 
I can never forget my life before; unlike some Diabetics, who have suffered with this disease since toddlers, I remember with a crisp, painful clarity all that my life was and used to be. There is and always will be an ache in my soul for that life.
But though I may look back sometimes, the past will not hold me back.

I will always keep moving forward.

Two.

Today is my two-year anniversary with Type 1 Diabetes. 

Did I celebrate? Cook a special sugar-free treat? Have a party? 

Well, no... today was just like any other day.

But as I checked my blood sugar, gave insulin, counted the carbs, went through the motions that over the last two years have become second thought to me...

One part of me silently mourned for the life that I lost two years ago,

And the other celebrated the woman I have grown to become. 

Here's to another two years, Type 1, and many more years living in spite of you. 

4.3.2011.

I Wear My Insulin Bruises Like Battle Scars

Ouch. The insulin has struck back again, and this time with a vengeance. I know I've already blogged about my colorful, rainbow-riffic insulin bruises before, but this morning as I was getting ready, I just got to thinking about all of the things Diabetes would be like in a perfect world. (Granted if, in a perfect world, Diabetes did exist, which in mine it wouldn't).

1. In a perfect world, insulin injections wouldn't leave bruises. Or, for that matter, it wouldn't leave tiny microscopic holes in my skin, either. My stomach, my arms, my.... legs, would be perfectly bruise-free. Some people fear bikini season because of too many Holiday cookies - I fear bikini season because of my bruises. Nothing like having a great swimsuit to wear and a great bruise to match the color of that swimsuit right on the side of your stomach. In that elusive, perfect world with perfect Diabetes, bikini season would be worry-free for me, and people wouldn't have to wonder about whether my apartment-mate, Crystal, is beating me up. (ha-ha).

2. In a perfect world, the lancet would work on my finger the first time. Not the second, not the third, not the fourth... the first.I wouldn't have to keep upping the lancet depth from 2, to 3, to 4 and now, finally, to 5. My callused, though once-delicate fingers would not be as tough as a man's now. I wouldn't get ugly calluses on my fingertips, or tiny shallow depressions from where the lancet has pricked (the red marks have finally gone away) that just plain don't look good.
It's a good thing I'm not a fingertip model.

3. In a perfect world, I would NEVER, EVER not notice my insulin pen is nearly empty and either a.) run out of Novolog right in the middle of dinner (at a friend's house, out to eat --- never at home, it seems) or b.) run out of Lantus right as I'm about to go to bed, and am spending the night somewhere that is not my typical abode. This typically ruins my entire day, evening or outing and forces me to have to go back and get my insulin, or eat nothing. This has happened on Christmas... at a dinner out with friends... out with the family... nothing is sacred to Diabetes.

4. In a perfect world, I would never have to forgo eating lunch in the car when on the way to work. When I'm in full costume, driving and have no access to arms, legs or my stomach (such as a long-sleeved, full length gown), there's really just no way to give an insulin shot. Sometimes, I am able to stab myself with an insulin pen through my clothing, while driving (can you say impressive?), but most times I simply have to forgo eating. Which... is lame.
While we are on the topic of parties, I would never get random lows in the middle of parties. Doing a fashion show, painting 30 children and trying to act cheerful while doing so are all extremely difficult things to do, and they suddenly become about 5x more difficult when you're feeling low.

In a perfect world...... oh, forget it.

Chinese For Lunch.

"What do you want for lunch?" Joshua asked, as he climbed into my truck. I had just gotten out of my class at Mercer and had stopped by Josh's work on the way back to Wesleyan so that we could have lunch together. I take a class at Mercer, one of the other colleges in Macon during the week, because they offer several classes that Wesleyan doesn't and it gives me a good chance to get off campus. I told Joshua that I was still debating, and he suggested Zaxby's or Chinese. I eat Zaxby's about every other day it seems (I'm a big fan), so I decided to go with Chinese, and we found a place in the shopping center not far from his workplace.

We walked inside, the bell above the door clinging as we entered. I stared at the menu for a brief moment, saw that they offered chicken and vegetables sans-rice, and approached the man behind the counter. To this day there has only been one time that I have eaten a dish of rice since becoming Diabetic, and I found that I didn't like the direction rice pushed my glucose levels in. Rice and I just didn't agree with each other very well.

"I'd like the chicken and vegetables, please," I said, pointing at the menu.

The man stared at me quizzically.

"Erm..." I said, trying to figure out which would be the best way to convey to him my menu choice.
"I don't want the lunch with rice." I told him.

At this point, another man on his lunch break had gotten in line behind us.

Despite my best efforts he grabbed a plastic white lunch crate and started loading rice into it.
"Wait, no," I said quickly. "No, I don't want the rice."

The man starts shoveling more rice into the box. I wave my hands frantically. The man behind Joshua and I snickers a little.
"I just want chicken and vegetables! I'm Diabetic. I don't eat rice," I told him, trying to make him understand. The effort seemed futile as he hesitated for a moment, but then he dumped the rice back into the metal dish and called a woman who I assumed was his manager. He told me to wait.

The man behind us gets his lunch as we wait. As Joshua and I are waiting to get my correct order and the man is waiting to pay, he turns to me.

"My wife is Type 1 Diabetic," he says. "She doesn't eat Chinese often."
I look at him, realizing his laughing earlier suddenly made a great deal more sense.
"I don't either," I said. "But sometimes, I like to spoil myself," I said with a hint of a smile. "...minus the rice, anyways!"
I turned to Joshua. "What a small world, isn't it?" I was amazed at the random people I seemed to meet, who had connections to Diabetes,

The other woman finally came out. It took a good 5 minutes to explain to her what I wanted. "Chicken and vegetables," I said again, pointing to the lunch dish which was on the menu... "No rice, please", I said, almost pleadingly. After a few quizzical glances, the woman disappeared in the back for about 10 minutes. When she came out I had my box of chicken and vegetables... and at long last, NO RICE!

Joshua and I walked back out to the car, and he opens the door for me. The other man comes out as I shut the door, sees my and smiles. He mouths,

"That woman is crazy!," And I laugh.

Not only do I have Chinese for lunch, but, at least for a few short minutes, I have met someone else who I know understands what I'm going through. It makes me feel a little bit less alone.