Halfway Through My DPT!

"How do you think you did?"
Me: "Well... uh...I mean, I guess it could use some improvement."

This is the conversation that goes on every time after a competency at school. In case you don't know what a competency entails, it's this: It's essentially an exam done with a professor and/or PT clinician where you perform your PT skills and receive a grade. A number of things can allow you to fail. If you fail more than two times, you get kicked out of the program.
Competencies have been beasts for me ever since I started school. My first year, I floundered and failed nearly every single time it seemed. I had retakes. And I had second retakes. And I had to take retakes over break. PT school seemed like one huge, stupid, massive struggle and I sucked at it. Competencies would go like this:
Professor: "How do you think you did?"
Me: "Well, I think I did ok."
Professor: "Actually, no. You messed up. I want you to retake."

After a couple times of that, I stopped saying I did good or even ok during the feedback session.

Was I ever going to be a good PT? Come summer, I had the ante upped for me a bit as I got a talking to about my awful competency performances. It always seemed like it was some stupid mistake that got me in the end: Reading my goniometer measurement wrong. Palpating at not quite the right area. Not performing this or that test quite correctly enough. And I hadn't even gotten to the hard competencies yet. The ones that didn't just involve having skills read off a list at random to be performed. The ones where you evaluated, treated and documented just as you would in a clinic were around the corner. How was I supposed to pass those?

I'm looking back at all of this now and I guess it's all the more surprising how far I've come. Summer was stressful, because I felt as though I was under so much pressure to pass that come 2 weeks before a competency I would have stress dreams. The week before, all I could do was fixate on the stupid thing: my life as I know it, hanging in the balance - was this the week I get kicked out?

It was a struggle. Last year was rough. For a lot of personal reasons. For personal relationship reasons. For my insurance doesn't cover insulin so I need to save up money and work in case I don't have insulin reasons. For struggling to acclimate to school and a new city reasons. And I nearly drowned in it. School wasn't the priority I needed it to be. My mom even told me about some dream she had this time last year: about me passing fall, and then having some kind of meeting, and a second chance. And I'd finally graduate. And then Spring finished: no meeting: I passed classes. But I failed my last competency. And then I failed that retake too. And I finally passed the last one. And then I was in a meeting about it; about the second chance I'd had. Things had to change in order for me to achieve getting my DPT.
Ever since meeting Kris in fact, things have changed. He stayed up tirelessly before every single competency so that I could practice, and practice again, and practice some more. I haven't failed a single competency since then: no retakes, nothing. I've worked my ass off and stayed at school until midnight some nights just to have a fighting chance at passing. Even the big ones that came this semester: whole weeks of relative terror leading up to an hour and a half of my heart rate being way up as I tried to prove to someone grading me that I deserved to stay in school. I'm not a perfect PT, or even a perfect PT student at that, but you know what? I've passed. And that's a big deal to the student that struggled so hard last year. But, part of me is still afraid to say how I think I did! So I don't. I always just say I can use more experience and improve from there.

It's finals week now, and next semester is my last academic semester before going off to clinic. I can't believe I'm nearly there. Just a week of finals and one more semester and I can go to clinic. 4 semesters down, 4 to go. I can be a PT. It's almost here. It's been a really hard journey, but looking back at the last year of my life in school, I can say this: I've adapted, and I've grown where I need to. I'm still not perfect, and I'll never be a perfect A graduate student. But you know what? I'm still here. I'm still going to be a PT, because I'm going to fight for it. I won't fail. I'm not perfect - but I've fought tooth and nail to be here, and I'm going to keep doing that and keep practicing until I fall asleep exhausted before competencies. I'm going to study myself to death so that I can pass exams in the morning. I'll sacrifice sleep, I'll sacrifice free time, I'll sacrifice fun. But it's all going to be worth it in just a year and a half: because I'm going to make it. And at the end of the day? That's what matters.

A Season of Changes

This post is personal, and so I'm sharing it with you.
There's a sort of good catharticism that comes from sharing personal things - you're laying yourself bare, and that can be draining, but you're also giving yourself a chance to let go of things and breathe.

I don't talk a lot about my past relationships anymore. I don't talk about them, because me and my husband-to-be have talked about pretty much everything from our pasts. There's nothing we don't talk about, really - and I find that so special and meaningful because I want the person I'm going to spend my life with to be as easy to communicate as breathing, and talking to him to be as natural to me as thinking thoughts in my own head. I've never had that before, and these past few months have really shown me how amazing it is to share the gift of good communication with someone.
I don't every feel like talking about past relationships is unwelcome. But when you've said all there is to be said and left no secrets behind, you don't really feel the need to. Sometimes, though, I think it'a ok to want to - it's good to get these things off your chest.

So, here I am. Someone I knew passed away last week. I knew her from a past relationship. It hurt me a lot more than I thought it would. She was my one of my teacher from high school's mother. My high school wasn't like your high school - it was a very tight knit, very loving and small group of homeschoolers that came together once weekly for classes. As an extent, I still keep up with most of these people today. They are wonderful. She was also my ex-boyfriend's grandmother. I spent a lot of time in Georgia when we were dating, and thus I spent a lot of time with her. I found myself wishing I had known her longer, because she seemed like an amazing woman. Capable, brilliant, beautiful. I heard nothing but good stories about her.
The last time I saw her was in May. I was in town for a brief visit, and she had gone back home to live with Florida family for a while now. She had recently had hip surgery and was recovering. I was struck with the need to go visit her. I didn't know why, honestly, but something told me to go. I asked my old teacher, who was also a friend, for permission first. After getting the ok and being told where she was staying. I picked up a card for her and decided to follow my gut and go.

I'm getting better and following my gut, but sometimes I still don't know why I do.
I pulled up to a pretty community in Winter Park, and went up to the lobby inside and asked for her. After some walking around and going up this elevator and down that hall and that, I finally found her room and waited on the nurse before going in and softly saying hello. I didn't talk about any of the bad things. Honestly, I wasn't sure if I was welcome or not - things between my ex and I had ended badly, and I'll be the first to take all the blame for that. I'm not a perfect person at all, and I feel I left a lot of residual damage on my road to finding myself. I can't undo it, and that's life. All I can try and do is be as kind as possible, although I'm sure there are plenty who would say I am not kind.

I spent a lot of time talking to her. I told her about my adventures in Atlanta. I told her about PT school, and how we had learned so much about hips and hip surgeries last semester. I talked about her family in Florida, my friends from school. I even talked about her other family - the family I can't talk to anymore - and how much I knew they loved her. I talked about the sun outside and the birds and how I hoped she could see them soon. I cried. And then I left the card on her table and softly said goodbye, leaving the room behind, knowing this was likely the last time I might ever see her.

I got chewed out for going to see her by my ex, as I had accepted might happen. That was the final straw - I hated that we were still bickering back and forth and arguing with each other. It saddened me because we were both being hurt. It had been over a year, and I was tired. I felt that this prolonged limbo was only acting as poison - no one could move on with something like that in their lives. No one deserves that. I hadn't been able to let go... but I did it then.

Last week and today - it's made me think a lot - about my past and, ultimately, about forgiveness. I don't feel ill will towards anyone in my past - I'm sure some think ill will of me, and it's ok. I get it.
I was trying to explain this to an elderly woman I was interviewing for a project last Wednesday. She was telling me about life in her community - how death was all around her now that she lived around the elderly. One day people are there, and the next, they're gone. It can happen in an instant. "I'm very sensitive about my age," she told me. Growing up, even 20 years ago - "You never picture yourself getting old." Time passes, years add on to our lives, and people go away. Even you go away, eventually. It's the hard reality of life. Tears came to both of our eyes as I told her the story I've just told you, and how I talked about the surprising amount of hurt, loss, and forgiveness I felt for my past. How sad I was about this woman's passing, and how much concern I felt for the loss I knew her family must feel.
Grief hurts, but it can bring healing, too.

I think it's ok to feel hurt about people or news even when they aren't part of your life anymore. Even after you've said goodbye. My past relationships left a lot of hurt and a lot to be upset about on both ends. I feel that I could be upset and angry also, but I don't think that's the road God intends us to take. We have to learn to give our worries to him and let him heal us in the way he knows best. We learn that in order for us to heal, it's good to wish the best for others. It helps you find peace, too, when you wish peace on others.


My life is changing more quickly now - this last year was about getting used to Atlanta, and becoming comfortable in my own skin here.
This year is about saying goodbye to the familiar that I have built and embracing the new. It's scary - I'm leaving the home I have so dearly come to love, and even more scary sometimes, I'm learning how to stop living life in the "just-me"; it's not about just me anymore.
It's about us - Kris and I. I'm not building a life alone anymore, but every day of our engagement is the opportunity to start laying the building blocks of the marriage we will have.
It's going to be the best adventure of my life. It's scary, but the cool part is, I'm not doing it alone - and I'll never have to.

Last week was a reminder of the changing times, and to remember to stop and take time to think on my past and find peace with it. To pray a little more, and yes, to mourn, too. Because I am sad, and loss comes to us all and changes us, in big ways or little ones or both.
Yes, it's very much the season to let things go. I'm starting to "purge" old things everyday as not too long from now I'll be packing my belongings in boxes once again. It's time to forgive my past. And to embrace the new. This is a time of transitions for me, a time for learning and getting ready for all of the changes that are coming. In a little over 6 months, I get to marry the most wonderful man I've ever met. And while change has never been my favourite, I know it's something about life I can't control. I can only embrace it and do the best I can.

The Engagement Story!

Every morning driving to school I have a reason to smile now, because I pass underneath Jackson Street Bridge, the view of the city skyline rising before me, sky turned pink, orange and blue by the early morning light and rising of the sun.

I'd always been fond of this view, but now especially I feel I have a reason to. 

I can't help but feel a sense of awe at God from bringing me to Atlanta. I almost didn't make it - I can count dozens of times where, if something in my life had happened differently, I wouldn't be here. If I hadn't done gymnastics - I wouldn't have homeschooled. If I hadn't homeschooled - I wouldn't have gone to Smith Prep. Or gone to summer camp. Or chosen to move to Georgia. If I had decided to choose UCF's PT program when they called me in April 2014, I would have bypassed my chance to go to Mercer. I would never have gone to Atlanta. I would have never started dancing. 

If I never moved to Georgia and started face painting, I wouldn't have found myself at a park in November in 2012 face painting for the Atlanta Cabbagetown Chomp and Stomp. A park which, coincidentally, Kris Mason happened to pass by on this same exact date, and saw my friend Crystal and I dressed like gypsies face painting. (Which I just think is funny).

Last week on my birthday was the most wonderful day I've ever had. Kris told me to come right to his place when I got out of school, and told me I should wear a nice dress. The weather was beautiful and only slightly windy. Every year on my birthday, I make a list of unusual things to complete - eat something I don't normally do, write a letter and leave it for a stranger, leave 22 pennies in 22 random places, jump in a pool with all my clothes on... and this year, a new addition, sign my name on the Jackson Street Bridge, which since summer had become Kris Mason and I's favourite spot after he had shown it to me one starry night. 

Obviously, any gal is going to think that her boyfriend has something special planned if he tells her to come straight home and wear her favourite dress on her birthday. What could it be? Surprise photos? Flowers? A letter? I couldn't really wrap my head around it, but Kris had been throwing out hints for a week, much to my dismay. He'd thrown out enough hints to convince me that is wasn't an engagement ring, however, that I knew better than to get my hopes up. I had badgered him about my mysterious gift all week though (not that he was budging). By the time my birthday came around though, I was so excited about the day in general that now knowing what my gift was yet was ok. There was one hint he had given away though: we'd be going to sign the Jackson street bridge at sunset. 

Kris drove me to Acapella first to buy me a new book - one of the first items on my list, and all the while I was throwing pennies out the window and everywhere I could find to get rid of the 22 of them I had in my dress pocket. While we were there, I left my letter in a book because I was worried leaving it outside would result in it blowing away. 

We left Acapella after finding a book and then Kris drove me to Krog Street market. I was surprised there was a place on that side of town that I hadn't been to (I'm very fond of the Inman Park area). Another item on my list was trying a beer I'd never tried before. I tried to pay for our beers but Kris insisted that I wasn't going to pay for anything on my birthday. 

"We have some extra time," he said as he smiled and we sat down. "It's not sundown yet". 

I saw a lady behind us looking at us, all dressed up that we were. She was talking with a man and sipping her beer. She gave us the sweetest smile as we sat down, which I don't think Kris caught, but it made me happy because I felt like my life was better than a fairytale right now. Honestly, I was just happy to spend my birthday with Kris. It was really all I'd wanted to do all day since I'd woken up.

All the while, Kris was texting someone but not letting me see who, leading me to think there would definitely be pictures. I'd told him I wanted to get a picture on the bridge for us to frame earlier that week, and he had smiled so sweetly and told me we would definitely be able to get one that I thought maybe he was just going the extra mile with that item on my birthday list. 

While we were sitting down, I was sipping a beer in my right hand while my left was in my lap. I usually wore rings on my left hand because my right hand fingers were smaller, and I had unfortunately lost quite a few rings due to them slipping off my right hand through the years. I was wearing a ring that Crystal had given me from her trip to Italy earlier that year, and Kris slipped it off, which should have (obviously) been a big hint to me, but me having just drank an 11% alcohol beer didn't really get the hint. Kris took my beer away and I took my ring back. "No fair," I told him, as I put it back on my hand.

It was time to leave. There was one more thing on my list before Jackson Street bridge - get some Recees Pieces. Kris took me by a gas station and bought me some, and then we parked by Condesa Coffee in the parking garage to walk over to Jackson Street bridge. The sky was turning bright orange with the sunset as we walked across the streets filled with traffic. I was so happy I was practically skipping, my heart fluttering with happiness and anticipation with what my gift could be. Kris held my hand in the meanwhile and we walked across the street, and finally we were at the bridge. I went to look around but he put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Look at how beautiful it is!", while directing my view towards the skyline And indeed, the view was beautiful, as the sun glistened off of the building tops and it felt like all of Atlanta stood before me in its shining glory, Freedom parkway snaking underneath and blending into the Interstate. We walked to the very center of the bridge and Kris hugged me closely. "Right here," he said. He started talking about when he first took me to Jackson Street bridge - how he had promised to love me always - I was hardly listening, because by then it was obvious to me what this was going to be, and I could hardly breathe from nerves. I can't even remember the rest of what Kris said, especially as he started moving his arm from off my back and stepping away as he said, "so with that..." I looked at him and held onto his arm so as to say don't go, if you do my life will change forever, and next thing I know, Kris was on one knee and reaching into his jacket pocket, and I was thinking about a billion things at once, mostly due to the fact that a person in this situation doesn't really know what to do. There's not really a social guidebook. 

No, all I really remember from what Kris said before we got engaged was the most important part:

Him as he asked with the biggest smile on his face, "Will you marry me?"

I feel that I'd always known the answer to that question since I had met Kris, but me trying to verbalize the answer came out so softly I could hardly hear it, because all I could whisper was "yes", supplementing my lack of words with a nod of my head.
It didn't matter to me though, because that felt like a moment where words didn't matter. I was so distracted with clinging to him and hugging him that I didn't even notice what the ring now on my finger looked like, or the fact that our friend Elizabeth Day (the mysterious person Kris was texting) was taking pictures. All I could think about was how changed my life was from what it had been. How I had spent years of sorrow and upset chasing after the wrong people who hurt my heart and whose hearts I'd hurt, too. People who, no matter how hard I tried to fix our relationship, would never be right for me the way Kris had always been without even trying. It was one of those moments in your life where you finally realize what God was trying to tell you all along when he put you through all the things he did.
All the tears I shed in 2014 as I had bid someone I'd dated for 5 years goodbye, and all the struggles with it I had faced all the way up until 2015 before I met Kris, even. The depression. The falling asleep feeling alone, the waking up sad, the tearful car rides to and from school, the almost failing my second and first semester because I couldn't let go of the past. The hurt felt like my penance for the wrong I had done. The leap of faith it had been to move to Atlanta completely alone, not a friend in the world or someone by my side. All the aimless dating - the feeling bored, feeling like people only understood part of me, questioning after nearly a year whether or not I actually even loved the people or person I claimed I did - not knowing what it was supposed to feel like to know who the right person was but being scared. Scared of the uncertainty. Scared I'd mess up and pick the wrong person.

And then Kris walked into my life one hot summer evening, and my life would never be the same. He took all of my fears and my paranoia of finding the wrong person and took them away forever. He showed me that living a life beating myself up for the hurt I'd caused was doing a disservice to myself. For the first time with any human being, I let him know everything - I even let him read every single one of my journals chronicling years and years of my life through my best and darkest moments. Every hurtful secret, tearful goodbye, shameful moment - he knew it all and then what's even more remarkable, instead of turning around and leaving, he embraced me even more for it. He assured me that he wasn't going to go anywhere and he proved it. He actually wanted to spend time with me - wanted to talk with me - wanted to know either all of me or none at all. So I let him know it all, because something told me that was the right thing to do. Kris embraced everything about me - my devotion to school and to work with being a distraction, and more importantly the love I so desperately wanted to give, the belief I desperately wanted to have in someone being the one for me, the someone that finally wouldn't hurt me - he showed me that that person could exist where before I thought that all you could do was settle for someone who only met some of your hopes. Kris met every single hope of mine and more. I never felt like God had made someone just for me, but with Kris... I felt like this was exactly what God was bringing me to all of these years. And loving him and being loved by him: it's effortless. All the times I felt like giving up, God was whispering, just wait. Soon I'm going to bring the two of you together, and you'll understand everything. Trust me and hold on a little longer.

It brings tears to my eyes to think about all of this, and it took me a week to right this because I had to let my emotions settle first. I'm not the kind of girl to jump on board right away with things. I carefully weight everything and then weigh it more.
But Kris came into my life, and I realized that it didn't matter if I'd dated him for months or for years - this was the man that God intended me to love and be loved by. He was the One. The exact picture of the kind of man I'd always hoped I could marry but never thought I could fine. And it was so obvious that all the doubts I'd ever felt with people before were gone - and those doubts seem so silly when I see that now I don't have a single doubt at all.

Because when you find the right person, it's clear as day.

I still can't believe it, it hardly seems real that last week we got engaged and now I'm planning a wedding for May. But I'm the happiest person in the world. All those old memories I have feel as though they were lived by someone else, and ever since I met Kris I've finally felt free. Free to move on and live the kind of life God promised me I could have. To live in the happiness that is knowing that you entrust everything you are with a person that never hesitates to do the same with you.
As we stood on top of that bridge last week, I was thinking all of these things. And while some of it still doesn't feel real, I know this:
I love Kristofer Mason more than anything in the world, and I am so happy and blessed that I get to spend the rest of my life with him. 

Glad for the Unknown.

I think frequently back to my last couple of weekends prior to learning that I had been accepted to Mercer's PT program. It was a very difficult time in my life for me, but I was doing my best to get myself out and around Macon and enjoy myself. I had grown to love Macon, and all its nooks and crannies. Macon was a place of comfort for me. It was where I lived. It was where I worked. My friends were there, my business, and I had all of my favourite places. Coffee shop: check. Walking Rose Hill Cemetery and the flooded, poorly made trails around the Ocmulgee. Kroger was a familiar, welcoming place. Traffic was never crowded - the gas was cheap - and Mercer and Wesleyan's campus made wonderful walks. The library downtown was my happy place.

What could be better?

Back then, I didn't think I was going to get into PT school that year. So what if I I just took a year off? Or... a few? I was tired. Maybe I just needed a break. Maybe I just needed to enjoy my youth. Recover from the hardships of that year. It wouldn't be so bad.
And so I was happy to receive an interview for an Admissions Counselor position at Wesleyan College, as well as an interview for a pharmaceutical sales rep for Quintiles. I'd be a good sales rep for Diabetes medications - I mean, I know a lot about them. Both cushy positions that could allow me to still live in Macon. I didn't want to leave! Macon was home. 

As I prepared a date for my Quintiles interview and sat in the interview seat for a counselor position, I could really believe what I was telling myself when I thought that this was the best move for me. Yes, I was worried - what if I didn't get into graduate school? How much harder was it going to be to re-apply? What was it going to take for me to make myself stand out in applications next year - what more could I do than what I had already done? I had decent grades, I had the volunteer time, but I was young, and my experience in PT was only so-so.
Maybe PT wasn't even right for me.

My life was full of questions.
Then one night after the counselor interview and the day before my Quintiles interview in Atlanta, I received a call. It was from David Taylor from the Mercer PT program.
"Congratulations. We'd like to extend you acceptance to our program for Fall."
I couldn't hide my shock. "Oh my gosh...really? Wow. Ok. Wow." I probably sounded like a babbling idiot. But if Dr. Taylor knew all of the things going on in my life at the time - at how little solid stuff I had to grab on to - and how much he'd just shifted my life again, maybe he'd understand.

And just like that, my life suddenly became scarily solid as I prepared for a move.
There would be no job.
No more interviews.
No familiarity.
And no more Macon.

My life was thrust from familiarity to living in a place with no friends, no family, no one. Nothing familiar.
And it was terrifying at the time. You know? It still is, sometimes. Sometimes I stop and think and then realize that it's like walking on a narrow bridge and forgetting how high up you are until you look down.
My life could no longer be cushy and familiar. Now it's hard and there's new experiences every day in this great big city of lights and traffic.
It matches my ambition, I've found.

And while the road hasn't been easy, some days I look back on that time in my life when I was considering all these endless choices and I think....

I'm so glad I decided not to stay in Macon and be an admission counselor. (And there's nothing against that job at all, truly. I admire how hard those people work.) But looking back, I realize that  that was a role that was never meant for me.
We're all meant for different things, and I'm glad that part of that role for my life meant being a part of something not comfortable and familiar at all - but exciting and unknown.

Full Heart.

It's been a long day of work, I'm exhausted, and I just have to brag on Kris Mason a little bit.There's nothing I wouldn't do to help Kris, but today he went above and beyond in helping me. Kris helped me get ready for my events this morning, helped me pack my car in the rain and organize balloons, drove me to my first party, helped me in and helped me get unpacked. When he got back to help me pack when my first party was over, he not only helped me back to my car, but he had gotten me barbeque for lunch, donuts from this amazing donut place he'd been wanting me to try, and glucose tabs, in case I got low. He drove me without complaint to my next event. It was still raining, and Kris stopped at a yellow light. We were running a little behind, and I caught myself being upset that he had stopped when he could have gone.
"If it was just me, I would have." He said. "But there's nothing more important to me than making sure you're safe."
And being upset was silly, just like that. How can you ague with that logic?

My next event was very busy, and face after face I painted while it was very hard to get through the line with the darkening skies and the rain. Kris stepped in and even though he only knew how to twist two different types of balloons, he twisted balloons for all of the kids in the line as they waited, and made up designs just off the top of his head - even though he's only ever had 15 minutes of practice here and there at balloons, ever.
I handed him my tip jar at the end of the event, but he passed it back and drove me home.
I couldn't have done it without him.

Guys, I tend to talk about Kris a lot. But I can't help it. He makes it impossible not to. And until meeting him, I've never met a man more wonderful, more one of a kind, more special, than him, I'm a firm believer that no love is the same, but Kris makes me feel as if I only felt half of what love is supposed to be before. He's so kind it brings me to tears sometimes just thinking about it. I've never met someone so genuinely good for me. Someone that makes me realize how much in the past I've only been settling. It's so genuinely wonderful to be in a relationship where we are both just mutually good for each other. And one that makes me realize: I don't have to settle. I've spent a long time chasing the wrong people, enough so that I see so clearly what a difference it makes when you're with the right person. And when you are, you chase each other, you strive to love each other, every day, just for the sake of doing so. No needless drama, no silly miscommunication: we're not perfect, but we always communicate, we listen, and we care. And that makes all the difference. For the first time in my life, I'm consistently joyful: for the first time in my life, the scars and height that marred me from my past for so long have no power over me, They are gone, and it's the easiest thing I've ever had to do, to watch them go without a second thought.
My heart is so full, and I'm so happy. God has blessed me beyond measure, and I'm finally at one of those beautiful points in life where you see how everything that was supposed to fit together, finally has.

Mindfulness and Diabetes

Tuesday at lunch some of my friends snagged me to go to some free program they were having at Mercer called "tea time and meditation". While it turned out that spending 10 minutes analyzing raisins to better our mindfulness was a little bit comical, it did get me thinking about how mindfulness really is important to the quality of how you live your life. I don't know about you, but I myself have been very bad about mindfulness for a very, very long time. College was a literal blur and so was high school. I am proud of where I am at, but when I look back on my life for years and years I see one long string of goings-on and going-to's, of this, that and the other. Of rushing. Of worrying about the next thing. Each moment was an opportunity to prepare for another. Study and do hw on all of my breaks so I can work. Scarf down my food in 5 minutes to make my schedule fit from class to class. Rush from school to gymnastics, answer clients' emails on my free time while chatting with friends, and on, and on, and on. I am the literal queen of multitasking. It's wonderful and awful at the same time. Have I changed? It's hard to say.

But I think some of the best progress that I've made in truly learning to be mindful started when I began dating Kris. Kris is very anti-stress for me. He can calm me down in any situation, talk us through it, and lead us through prayer. He's really just wonderful at comforting me in general. But more than that, I feel like my relationship is different in that I want to be mindful with him. It means a lot of things. I want to focus on and enjoy every minute I have with him. And more than that even, I respect him. I respect him and by extension I want to give him all of my attention. This doesn't mean I can't work on homework or study or practice on him and thus give up spending quality time together. In fact, more than not I'm always doing one of those three things when we're together, because that's just the nature of school. A lot of it means being conscientious. It means listening when he speaks - truly listening, not just hearing. It means contributing to our conversation. It means being excited to tell him about my day and to hear about his. It means respecting his point of view, and embracing his opinions. Importantly for me also, it means putting down my phone and focusing less on social media. I think as I get older and I keep growing more, I realize that using my time to participate in useless Debates is not the best use of my time when I could be doing something meaningful. That my life exists outside of a screen - most importantly, it exists all around me, and if I spend too much time staring at a screen, that I'll miss a lot of important things.
By extension, this mindfulness - or striving to be - has helped with my Diabetes a lot. The whole dating with Diabetes is a blog post for another time, but while I'm not perfect still - I've been under a lot less stress. Stress increases your blood sugar, it's no secret. But by taking time to relax, enjoy my time, and let myself be calm - to try and take time for me not because I necessarily have more time, but making an effort to make the time I do have quality time - it helps me to focus on my numbers and has even helped my sugars become easier to manage.

This is definitely a work in progress for me, But, I think it is important, Diabetes or no, to embrace the things that are positive in your life and not take them for granted. To be mindful about them and take time to enjoy these things. Taking time out and really focusing on making your moments good ones might be one of the most healthy things you can do for yourself.

Old Diabetic Lacy and Now.

It's September, and I've been getting into the swing of my second year of physical therapy school. I was looking over my blog today, trying to find some inspiration to write something, and started looking across old drafts of posts I never published. It's weird to me, thinking back and realizing it's been 4 years and 5 months since becoming part of the very exclusive Diabetes Club. I live a pretty comfortable life right now. I still have insulin in the fridge, and although it's dwindling, I know it will be ok. I can even go see my Nurse Practitioner at school to write me prescriptions for insulin, which saves a little money, when I start to need it. I can get 100 test strips (albeit for the cheap meter) for $16 on amazon, and I still think that I've only gone through 4 or 5 boxes of needles and only a box or two of lancets since being diagnosed (seriously, I know it's bad but I never change those things). So I'm feeling pretty good. My Diabetes has seemed pretty tame with a comfortable 35 g of Lantus everyday to keep me from having to use as much Humalog to cover carbs and corrections, and my exercising more has helped keep my levels in check, too, so right now I'm coasting pretty easy. In fact, sometimes I even relax and don't think much about my Diabetes, which is nice. Except when I'm low. Then I still hate my body. But I look back at how far I've come, and I think I've made good progress in coping. Which is why I'm posting an old draft I never published back from years ago. To remember that though this disease is hard as ever, I've come a long way. Enjoy.

                                                                  

Diabetes is a largely invisible disease.

People see us and assume that because we look okay, because we appear to function normally, that Diabetes is not that big of a deal.

Diabetes gets downplayed because it is not cancer, it is not AIDS, it is not something you can often visibly see or tangibly touch. 

You could look at us and think, 'Hey, they look normal. Diabetes is not that bad." 

And if you do think those things, then you've got it all wrong.

Our struggles more often than not go on in silence. In the solitude of our rooms, in our beds at night, in our minds throughout the day, in the screen of a glucose meter.

We are largely silent sufferers, millions connected by the likeness that we share: The likeness of a single, life-changing disease.

Perhaps your view of Diabetes would be different if you saw what I see.

If you lived in my life, if you walked in my shoes.

If you felt the prick of a needle on your skin, or the weakness of low blood sugar, or the soreness on the tips of your fingers from all of the blood tests.

You don't see

The tears you cry in the hospital room, the ones you waited to cry until you were all alone. Because you wanted people to think that you were strong.

The discouragement you feel when your blood sugars are not where you know that they should be.

The guilt that even the simple act of eating a banana or half a sandwich, much less a caramel frappuccino or a piece of cake, can bring on.

The heartbreak you feel when your hopes and dreams go out the window when you learn of your diagnosis; When, suddenly, all of your plans must now be re-calculated, re-drawn, according to Diabetes and the limits it imposes. Which, regardless of what others might say, it does impose.

The worry you feel about the future, about the complications, about if you will lose your vision or need a kidney transplant, if you will ever be able to have kids, if you will ever live to be 100, or 70, or be alive when you wake up in the morning.
The ever-present desperate longing, the need deep inside, for a cure.
The calculator inside your head that carefully counts and then re-counts the carbs in every meal you are about to eat.
The potent, synthetic, bandaid-y plastic smell of insulin five times a day that you grow sick of.
The drastic difference between the bills and the amount of money you have to pay them.
The exhaustion of knowing that if there is never a cure, this will be your life until the day that you die.


Diabetes does not take a break. It does not call in sick for work, it does not go on vacations or take time off. If I am a safe, Diabetes is the 24-hour security guard.
And it is exhausting.
Diabetes doesn't wait for you, it doesn't ask you how you feel.
It shows no mercy, it has a cruel sense of humour.
It possesses biting sarcasm, it writes all of its own rules.
As much as Doctors claim to understand Diabetes, I often feel like there is so little known about it.

I don't know why, out of the millions, I was the one with the faulty immune system, with the faulty coding in my genes, why I was the ticking time bomb.
Doctor's can't tell me.
I don't know, if I ever choose to have children, whether or not they will have diabetes too.
No one can say. No one can predict.
I don't know why sometimes, even when I do everything right, my blood sugars will still zig zag up and down like a child's scribbles.
Diabetes is an imprecise science.
And I don't know if, even with all my hope, there will ever be a cure, a way to end this disease.

But I will never give up.
No matter what they say.
I will always have hope for a cure.
Until my dying day.
I may live with it now,
But I will never stop believing
That I will not die with diabetes.

You don't see what I see, most of you don't.
But we need our cure, too.
We need it for ourselves,
For the ones we love.
For our families, our friends, for the people we see on the streets.
For the millions of us who fight this disease every day.

How Swing Dancing Changed My Life.

It's been almost one year since I started to pick up swing dancing in Atlanta, and little did I know last fall just the depth of the impact that swing would have on my life.

My first class at Georgia Tech was a nightmare. Up until then, my only experience with dancing was ballet in 2nd grade, some gymnastics dance routine, the sad excuse for dancing in the clubs I did sometimes, and of course, my princess specialties, the chicken dance and freeze dance. 

I wasn't exactly a dancer. 

So as I struggled to even keep time to a simple six count, stumbling my feet and letting my partner spin me, I felt very discouraged that September night. 

But I decided to go back, because I was determined to learn.

I discovered Hot Jam, Atlanta's weekly East Coast Swing event held at a little cabin in Buckhead every Monday at 8:30. I went religiously with my friends Robert and Chelsea, doing my best to keep time and not trip as I shyly sat in the corner waiting for someone to offer me a dance because I was too shy to ask at the time. 

I didn't know it at the time, but right down the road from me, someone else was going to start swing dancing just a few months later. 

So I kept at it. I went as long as school would allow me, but I did end up skipping a lot of Monday's due to my schedule. I took a hiatus after October and didn't come back until the big dance in December. I had started to grow more confident, but there were only a few people that I was really comfortable dancing with. Still, I tried my hardest, and I'd made some improvements. And I never missed a tech dance - they were the best. Filled with hundreds of people in Georgia Tech's ballroom at the end of every month, it was always the best swing event every four weeks brought me. 

I took a break for Winter - I went home to Florida. In January, I found myself back there, and this time, I was deeply invested into learning how to dance. I started attending not only Monday classes, but every dance event I could get my hand on. Swing on Thursday's at Callenwolde - Zouk on Wednesdays - Contra on Friday's - and any swing event at Firefly or the Solarium in Decatur I could find on Facebook. I danced all the time, even with my swing friends as we hung out at home. And I got so much better. My confidence grew. I actually felt good at dancing. I felt free - I felt alive. It was a respite from Grad School's rigorous work, which made me feel as though I lived in a prison sometimes. Stifled and sad. Dance was different. Dance made life fun and colorful. I could even start dancing in the clubs with confidence because I learned how to keep a beat. I made a channel just for swing music on Youtube to practice at home on my study breaks. And I felt like learning to dance was one of the best decisions I had ever made.

The months passed by, and my dancing journey continued, even when I wasn't applying myself to classes as well as I should. That spring semester turned out to be a terrible struggle for me because I wasn't working hard enough. I had to cut back a little just to bring my grades around, which I'm not proud of. But I did it, and I changed, and I made it through. And now I know how to strike a good balance between school and fun. 

It wasn't until I started Summer classes and was able to wind down from a grueling semester that I made it back to swing dancing, and that is when my life suddenly fell into place.

It was a hot Summer night, and a live band was playing at Hot Jam. I had gotten into my favourite dress and put my hair up since it was a fancy dance occasion. I arrived to Hot Jam, confident as ever, asking my friends to dance (because I was comfortable with dancing now) and twirling fearlessly and joyfully across the floor. I had been doing this for all of 20 minutes when I walked over to the water fountain for a short break and a drink, and that's when I stumbled across a man in a red plaid shirt. He had a tattoo on his arm and a tattoo of a cross on his chest. I had thought I'd cut him off to get to the water fountain, and I felt bad. So I offered him a dance - and Kris Mason accepted. 

I quickly learned that Kris was new to dancing. This was only his second time here, and I hadn't been at Hot Jam the week before. I taught him what I knew, although I'll admit I'm not the best teacher at Swing. Being a follow is a lot different than being a lead.

We danced, and then I went and danced with some other people. Later I went outside because I was low and started eating my nasty Glucose tabs to try and feel better. (Getting low happened a lot when I danced, but it was a cost I considered worth it). 

Kris came out and sat with me. We started talking, and I was surprised with how easy it was to talk to him. 

We found ourselves on a first date to get coffee, and then we walked through a graveyard (we share a mutual love of strolling through cemeteries). 

And one starry night, we found ourselves exchanging our long, sad, happy, tumultuous stories. 

I hadn't been looking for anything. Kris was passionate about coffee, and was making a career in it in Atlanta. He played guitar and wrote stories and songs and liked to read. He liked Chvrches. He liked to go on adventures like me. Kris wasn't what I thought my "type" was at all. But I was proven wrong. He showed me something different than anything I'd ever had, and being with him was as easy and as natural as breathing. We just got each other. He understood me, and I understood him. He showed me what a truly good, Godly, healthy relationship looks like. And he's the most kindhearted person I've ever met. Kris will come over early even before I have to go to school just to cook me breakfast and make me coffee. He'll play me guitar songs until I fall asleep as he looks at me, eyes sparkling. He took me to the Jackson Street Bridge, our favourite place in Atlanta, one starry night, telling me to close my eyes as he picked me up and carried me there. "Open your eyes," he said, as he gently set me down, showing me a sight of the city lights that took my breath away. Kris read every single book I had and then some on Diabetes just to learn everything he needed to know to take care of me. Sometimes I think he can manage it better than I can. He does everything he can just to make me smile. We go to Church and worship together. We sing songs together in the car. Kris works all week, but every Saturday he's off, he'll drive me to my princess parties just to give me a chance to study and some good company on the way there. He'll come visit me at school just to surprise me when I get out of classes, iced coffee for me in hand. He'll cook dinner for me at home just to let me study and have some company. He will stay up with me until midnight just to let me practice my Physical Therapy class competency skills on him to give me the best chance of passing that I can. Kris is just genuinely good for me. He brightens my outlook on life and keeps me focused on school while giving me more joy than I've ever had, no matter what good or bad things are going on extraneously. 

And he's the best friend I've ever had. 

No, a year ago, this is not what I imagined swing dance would do for my life. Give me a passion I love more than anything and give me a person whom I love more than anything. But it did, and that's amazing, isn't it? It's incredible how life works out. I never expected it.

But I am so glad for it.

First of Fall.

As the first sliver of fall has begun to hint itself in the early September air, I let the breeze ruffle my hair as I count the years. Fall always makes me feel nostalgic.

It's been over four years since I moved to Georgia. This place has always been many things to me. It was my first place I ever moved to when I moved away from home. It's where Wesleyan is. It's where I got into my first car accident. It's where I got my first apartment. It's where I found new places, and slowly but surely learned how to make a place feel familiar. It's where I started my first business. Where I started Grad school. Where I learned to swing dance.

Most importantly though, Georgia has become home. Not because my family is there - not because my childhood friends are there or my childhood school - not because of all my old haunts - but because I worked hard to make it that way.
Coming up to Georgia as a teenager, I used to feel like Georgia was my respite. It was my home away from home, but it was also a place where I went to get away from Florida life. From work. From school. From the world I lived in. Over the last years, I have watched as my life has transitioned gradually. My responsibility has shifted from my old home - Florida - to Georgia, as I began school, started a business, made relationships.
My professor asked us yesterday if we would be able to move back home in a heartbeat. Drop everything, and just go. Could you? Could I?

The answer is no. I couldn't. I've built my life here now. My life here is hard, and sometimes it's a burden. But there's also a sort of comfort in the responsibility and work. There's a comfort in making things happen. Checking things off a list.
Florida is where I go as the respite now. Georgia, Atlanta, is my life.

I think back at my Macon roots and all of the time I spent there getting to know myself. Macon has been voted as one of the worst places to live in the country recently! But I think a lot of people that live there understand where I'm coming from when I say it was really just home to me, with its good and its bad and its crime and sketchy parts of town but its beautiful parts too. I loved the view of Rose Hill cemetary across the Ocmulgee River. And the first site of Macon, its glimmering lights as I approach it northbound at the start of the 475 bypass. I loved Tatnall Square Park and Mercer and Wesleyan's towering brick buildings. I loved Taste and See, the specialty coffee shop downtown, and the beautiful catholic cathedral I used to go pray at (even if I'm not Catholic), and I loved the librayr perhaps more than anything. Macon is charming it many ways. Just don't go to the bad parts. To me it had been home all of the past few years, and it had been a good home. I think of the friends I made and the battles I fought. My first time buying groceries for my dorm. The first day of cold air on October 1st, 2011 - and I wore flip flops and winter clothes because I didn't have any winter shoes. I remember my first entertainment gig - balloon twisting at Eagle's Landing country club in Stockbridge. I remember late-night visits to Joe's, sipping coffee across from Mercer as I studied for Anatomy and Physiology, O-Chem, and Physics for Wesleyan. I remember Libris the library cat at Wesleyan's library. My first work study job in admissions at Wesleyan, shyly being introduced to the staff and fumbling my way around.
It was never my childhood home, but it was something perhaps even more important - my adulthood home.

As I am thinking of all of these things, I can't help but feel a sense of old. I'm not - I'm only 21 - but I've lived a lot of life for 21 years, and my journey away from home started so long ago that I feel as though I was just a kid back then. You never think at the time about how you'll look back and gawk about how far away your life from back then seems. But as you get older, you see it happen more and more. See the gaps in your knowledge, the stupid, impulsive things you did, feel as though you were stumbling in the dark in comparison to how much more insight you have now.
In many ways, I was just a kid. I was just beginning my battles with Diabetes - I was messy, overzealous about getting my prescriptions, worried and unsure of what to do. I was sad. I felt like the world was a little out to get me. How did I handle it in class? What if I got low during an exam? There was so much that I didn't know. So much more I know now (and so much I'm aware that I still don't know). I can't believe it's gone by so quickly.

Now I'm here in the 1st of my last 2 academic semesters of Mercer before going to clinic. I'm so excited I can hardly stand it, even though a slew of competencies, exams and projects face me before I go. In just a year and a half, if all goes well, I'll have my Doctorate degree. I just take it a day at a time. Slow and steady.

It's almost my 22nd birthday, and I left for Georgia when I was 17. As the air grows colder and the days until I get another year older become closer, I am thinking of all these things. The ebb and flow of life. The good, the bad, the challenges. I'm calmer about things now. I'm more sure of what I want. I go to bed earlier. I guess I'm getting older, even though it's not something I notice while it's happening. It's crazy, isn't it? This blog is literally a testimony to these last few years of my life, and growing into an adult.
I'm glad I have that testimony, too. It's how you learn. Just so much as it's for people to read, my writing is for me, too, to look back and see how life has changed.

And to look back and see how I've changed so much, too.

Chicago!

Music wafts through the tiled halls while the wind picks up, the train nearing closer and breathing tunnel air like a giant, metal dragon. People are packed into the cars like sardines, the city life boasting a variety of business suits and briefcases, midriff cutoffs and workout clothes.

There are many things different about Chicago than Atlanta.

Still getting over the magical excitement of being on a plane for the first time in nearly 4 years, face glued to the window to my right, my first sight of one of the Great Lakes came into view and – Chicago through the windows to the left, massive and impressive and a sight to behold. I’d felt myself spoiled by the Atlanta skyline for the past year, proud of my city and the sights and sounds that it had to boast. However, even I had to admit that Chicago was bigger if not more fantastic and enchanting than Atlanta. The lake glowed an inviting blue green colour and boats dotted the water’s surface, looking like mere Barbie dolls and bath toys from the thousands of feet up above.

I could hardly contain my excitement as we touched down at O’Hare and I stepped foot on Illinois soil for the first time (uhh, kind of?). My first experience with the CTA was even more amazing. Having grown up in Florida, I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the concept of reliable public transportation. I’d just ridden the MARTA train for the first time that morning. I’d been warned that MARTA, which I had previously thought both reliable and impressive was, in fact, actually the opposite and was great if you didn’t have anywhere to go in a hurry. Saxophone tunes filled the CTA station and after climbing in a train on the “Blue Line” the doors shut and the train whizzed down the tracks East towards the city at speeds just on the cusp of being frightening. I was even more enchanted however, as the train emerged from a tunnel and sped right alongside the highway, where I could peep into the cars beside me.

The bus was a foreign concept too – having never taken a bus in my life, the dizzying options of places to go made me more confused and overwhelmed than my first day of PT school. When you wanted to get off at a stop, you pulled the string on the side of you, which rang a bell that signaled the driver to stop. The weather was windy and cool; I think I was just as amazed by my first glimpse of what prairie land looked like as I was by the sheer size of the city. Even the houses looked different, with bay windows for days and sandy colored stone and more flatness than I had seen since Orlando. And what is a White Castle, anyway?

My weeklong trip in Chicago is such a myriad of amazing foods, new sights and interesting people that it would be impossible to write it all down in one blog post. I was satisfied alone by merely riding the train, feeling a rush of anticipation as, sitting underground, the air started to shake and rumble and the cold air began to whip my hair in all different directions. And then the train would come roaring down the tunnel so fast that its screeching halt still didn’t seem like enough to make it stop in time to board. During rush hour, the trains were so packed that you literally had to sardine yourself into an already packed train, so close that you were hugged by bodies on all sides and you hid your purse close by your side.

Deep dish pizza was a nightmare on my blood sugar. Also, it took an hour to make. Also, it was amazing. I probably won’t be able to eat it for a few more years because my pancreas is still revolting, but I’ve never been one to complain about good food – it’ll just have to get over it.

While walking the streets of Wicker Park, one of the more hipster, grungy but inviting and eclectic neighborhoods of Chicago, there is a boarded up old building with a small yellow light above it. A tiny rusted door handle peeps along the side of the wood. You wouldn’t think much of it, but peel open the heavy wooden door attached to the handle and you find yourself in a dark, quiet entryway encased by thick silence and caressed by heavy velvet curtains. Push your way through the curtain to your left and you find yourself in The Violet Hour, the most intriguing bar I’ve ever visited (At 21 I realize this might not be saying much, but seriously, it’s really cool). All the chairs are made so that you can easily face whomever you’re with, and the only way to see is by the light of candles dotted around the small room.

Having a penchant for visiting pretty cemeteries, Graceland cemetery was also a beautiful visit right off the red line. Willow trees cast their leaves in green curtains gently down where they touched the blue-brown waters of a small lake; in the center, a bridge led to an island that serves as final resting place to the very architect who designed the city of Chicago.

After cashing in over 15,000 steps through the city of Chicago I found myself at Navy Pier, which was far enough outside the city’s downtown that if you look behind you and it’s nighttime, you are gifted by the most beautiful show of lights. The ferris wheel was even more incredible, as it rose above the lake and brought you closer to the glittering lights.

There were so many things to be amazed about. The water plant downtown is a castle. The trains are always on time. The public zoo in Lincoln Park is free. Swing dancing happens almost every night to the accompaniment of live jazz bands. If you happen to find yourself at the Green Mill Lounge, once said to be a favourite hangout of Al Capone, you might happen on one of these jazz bands. If you find yourself swing dancing to the music, the crowds will cheer for you into the early hours of the morning. The John Hancock building gives you an absolutely stunning view of the city. The Chicago dogs are the best hot dogs I’ve ever had. Chinatown has the best Pho. People give away pizza on the subways. Musicians fill the train stations with music; flutes, violins and saxaphones. Jewel Osco grocery stores sell liquor, which is truly a marvel after coming from the South.

I couldn’t have asked for a better break away from school as I approach second year. Sure, Chicago had some downsides; 7 months of winter, no carrying guns (I love my gun, not a redneck), and I gas was a staggering $3.99. As I arrive back in Atlanta today, I find myself happy to be back in a place that has finally come to feel like home, even if it means having to wake up at 6 (I say 6 but I actually mean 7) tomorrow morning.

Still, I can’t wait to visit again. I’m going to miss good public transportation, especially as I fight the long lines of traffic to get to school tomorrow. 

Long Time Coming

Atlanta whispers softly to me throughout my days here.
I see it when I leave Kroger and walk back to my car - the skyscrapers of Buckhead surround me, glimmering in the sunlight.
Just now, the evening sun sets and the clouds take on a dreamy glow, providing a backdrop to the famous Bank of America tower.
The brick walls hold stories, the graffiti on the bridges a colorful mural that claim the city as their own.

And I - I am in the midst of it all. Of the hustle and bustle that used to seem so foreign to me; of the crowds and the noise that I once feared to live in.
But I don't fear it anymore - I embrace it, and I couldn't imagine life anywhere else right now. This is, wholeheartedly, the place I desire to be. Atlanta keeps me inside of its skyscraper palace, the walls of the perimeter encircle me in a bubble that I don't even have to leave if I don't want to.
And Atlanta has changed me. I feel myself becoming more confident, more mature and sure of the things I want. Full of greater understanding of responsibility and what it is to work hard and get things done. I'm learning, slowly, I'm growing.

Almost a year here, and I've never lived in a place that feels more like home. I see my friends as I go to school each day, the hallway with our lockers now familiar, the green walls, the plinths that serve as our desks and the endless class jokes. It feels like family.

I drive with confidence through the traffic, streaming to the other side of the interstate like a pro as I sing along to new songs, music that I might go hear at Eddie's Attic or The Masquerade or The Vinyl. I rarely go to chains to eat or get coffee; there's so many new and unique places here, and too little time with too many things to try. I feel at home when I come home and place my backpack down in my little room with the sloped walls and the paintings hanging just above me.

Life is a hectic, busy mess. Grad school takes up so much time. But I love it here, and for the first time in a long time, I know exactly who I am and who I want to be.
I think 17 year old me would be proud. Unsure, scared, upset and just-diagnosed with Diabetes 17 year old me, mad at the world and worried about everything to come, grasping for comfort at every outcropping of life I could find.
I started a great adventure 4 years ago the day I left home for Georgia, and the adventure has never stopped since.
I can't help but be thankful, because my learning to be me, to be at peace with this life I live, has been a long time coming.

Retinopathy, Neuropathy, Diabetes, Oh my

Retinopathy.
Neuropathy. Decreased healing. Increased risk of infection. Slowed healing times. Adhesive Capsulitis. Immune System changes. PVD. Alzheimer's. Skin changes.

It's another day in class, and we are talking about Diabetes and its rainbow of complications. It's a favourite topic of the health field, and I'm fairly used to it by now. Even the part where the professor says "Raise your hand if you know someone with Diabetes" and everyone in class raises their hand - or, "raise your hand if you know someone with Diabetes aside from Lacy" (and still nearly all of the hands go up).

Diabetes is a big deal. The rates are increasing year by year, in both the younger and older population. I hate having Diabetes, and as much as I would like to say that managing it has become vastly easier over these past 4 years, it seems like it's still as much of a daily struggle as always.
But sometimes I am thankful because it helps me to relate to a lot of people that struggle with this disease also. I remember back a couple of weeks ago, one of my first times volunteering with a group of geriatric individuals with my class to provide an exercise program.
One of the patients I was taking vitals for was mentioning her Diabetes, and how she didn't like getting low, especially after eating Dinner. "I'm already full," she's saying to me. "I don't want to eat again right after!"
"Well, have you tried glucose tabs?" I asked her. She responded with a "Well, yes... but I don't think they really work for me. I take one and it doesn't do anything!"

I thought for a second. "You're eating just one when you're low? You have to eat 4! They're 4g/carbs each. You need about 15g/carbs to raise yourself up from a low."
"Oooooooh. Really?! My Doctor never told me that... ugh, how frustrating!" The patient explained. "It's ok," I told her. "I have Diabetes too. I know it's frustrating. But you should try 4 instead. It helps!"

We had a long conversation about Diabetes from then on, and like many times before it was almost a bonding experience. I've had this before; working with patients, I always wonder if it's ok to bring up my Diabetes, especially if they're struggling with it, too. Sometimes I feel self conscious. I want my interactions with patients to be all about them and the last thing I want to do is turn it around to myself. But I feel it helps me to relate with a patient if I mention that I am Diabetic and they are, too. Suddenly I'm not just a health care professional; I'm someone who lives and breathes and understands the same kind of struggle, even just a little of a fraction of that piece of struggling, with someone. Personally, I feel as though it helps me relate to patients. I remember sitting sad in the hospital, casually and bitterly throwing aside all of the advice that people decided to throw my way. No one had Diabetes, they didn't understand.

But then Marie walked in, calm and cool and beautiful and collected. She pulled out an insulin pen, flashing her stylish and personally engraved medical ID bracelet and showed me how much better it was than syringes and vials. Told me I had an endocrinologist appointment with her across the street when I got out of the hospital. And more importantly, gave me a sliver of hope; hope that my life could be normal, hope that I could be like her. Even with Diabetes. If she could be like that, so could I.

In that case, having someone relate to me made all the difference in the world. It makes me feel better: makes me feel that I was diagnosed with this disease for a purpose. Maybe that's silly; maybe it's just a twisted coping mechanism for trying to justify why I live this life with this disease every day.

But regardless, I know this:
When we're sitting in integumentary class and I'm up on the table, shoes off and about to have a diabetic neuropathy/foot screen exam because that's what we're practicing every day, and my heart has a slight twinge of fear; there's the slim chance, what if? What would I do? 
And the talking about losing feet sensation really gets to me; it makes it worth it. I'm not in this struggle for nothing.

And having a foot screen that comes up as "low/no risk" for foot loss sensation makes me feel even better, that I'll be able to stay healthy to someday better help other people like me. Maybe one day I'll be the one going into the hospital room, and there will be a girl just diagnosed with Diabetes there, feeling quite alone and upset and angry at the world; maybe she'll feel like no one understands. Maybe I can help. Who knows?

Full Circle.

As my journey in Atlanta has nearly come full circle now; August is nearly here; I can't help but start to feel sentimental. I think about last year and how different life was, how worried I was to leave the life I had built for so long behind. I remember one night in July before I had moved into my new place in Atlanta, taking an exit off the interstate to what would be my future neighborhood and just driving around. I stopped and exhaled as one particularly pretty view came into my sight: the city lights, big and bright and beautiful, sparkling like stars in the soft glow of the summer evening.

For the first time that July night, I felt excitement for the life that I would have. I felt excitement for the change, for the big city that would grow to be my home. Atlanta was so full of mysteries and secrets. So full of life and colour. I remembered being just a 17 year old girl, excited for Wesleyan and my big move to Georgia. It was my first move away from home, and it was out of state. I would be on my own, free to make my choices and my own mistakes.

And one August day I woke up, the life I had lived for 4 years packed around me in my now-empty apartment, filled with boxes and rolls of tape and bubble wrap. I had slept for the last night on the silver daybed that I had had since 4th grade, that was going to a woman whom I had sold the bed to on Craigslist just the day before.
Over 3 back and forth trips to Atlanta later over the course of the next two days, everything was settled and all that remained was unpacking. The first thing I did, as always, was hang my collection of acrylic paintings - paintings I had made over the years, and pictures, of all of my friends and families and past events. I laid on my newly made bed and stared at the high, white sloped ceiling illuminated by the glow of my tall paper Ikea lamp. There were no glow in the dark stars, no Christmas lights, no pillows on the floor; I guess I was an adult now, with adult decorations and adult things and a pile of textbooks for school in August almost to my knees (that had cost as much as my first month's rent).

And just like that, Atlanta changed from just a place that I drove to on the weekend for work to home.
The city skyscrapers become comforting. The lights as I drove down 85/75 at night were as picturesque as canvas. Piedmont Park became a refuge from the busy cars and miles of sidewalks and pavement stretched before me. Little coffee shops became my secret places; made Atlanta feel more like home. I marveled as even the grocery store customers seemed to walk faster; the pace here wasn't southern mosey-ing, but rather, go, go, go. The graffiti plastered buildings walls and bridges like my own personal museum. The sounds of the city and the cars rushing by and the sirens sung me to sleep at night. I found my special places, favourite restaurants - Argosy, the Vortex, Bound to Be Read, the Beltline, Inman Park (and Perk).
As the year progressed, I watched the list grow even longer. I picked up Swing Dancing for the first time as I attended my first Georgia Tech Dance Association Dance. Discovered swing's weekly Monday dance - Hot Jam - as well as Friday night Contra in Clarkston. Sweet Hut and Lee's Bakery in the Asian section of Doraville (pho!) Rock climbing at Stone Summit's incredible gym. The Vortex's The Bone Garden, countless coffee shops: Dancing Goats, Dr. Bombay's, Octane. I actually went to the Westside (and liked it).

And more importantly, the reason I came here, I've grown since starting Mercer. It's been a whirlwind year of sleepless nights and endless struggles and working until I could work no more. From being up sunup to sundown at the same building in the same classroom with the green walls and two pillars as we studiously learned new skills, dissected cadavers, tried to slow the flow of the firehose of information to make it more manageable (and usually failing). Growth is hard. I learned about sacrifice and how much harder I had to work than I ever had in undergrad.
This next year will be ever more filled with changes. As my class and I complete the last two semesters of the academic portion of our PT program and go to clinic starting next Summer, I will be one step closer to my goal of becoming a PT. It's been a hard academic year, but an amazing one of fellowship and glorious new friendships and relationships. My heart is so full of all the incredible new things I have experienced in just one year, the richness and the colour of the city around me.

 The fear of moving to a new place is all but a distant memory now. God had had everything for this year planned all along - all I had had to do was make the leap.

Old Soul

I'd be a lot more fun if I was simple. Sometimes I think I was intended to be, but life decided to get its too-rough hands on me. I became someone who had to fight, to sink or swim, to push forward or I wouldn't survive. No matter what the cost.
It gives me drive, passion. But the fight makes me rough around the edges. A little jaded. Blunt. Sometimes I want to scream,

"Look at me. I'm a beautiful human being, too..." if only you could see past these stone cold towers I've had to build to get by. Beyond them, I'm an ocean. Deep blue, mysterious, infinite. I am.
But all you see are these walls I made because I had to, because that's just the hand life dealt me. You don't know why, but they're there.
And so I'm not a lot of fun. I'm just that girl - that ever-fighting girl, the old soul, slightly removed from all the rest; removed by those too-rough fingers of the world. Those fingers that caress me, strangle me, build me a prison and a home. But it's my home; the only home I've ever known.
And once you're there, you can never truly go back.
It doesn't make you very fun.

It's just an ache that makes your soul old.

Invisible Illness.

It's one of our last days in cadaver lab, and we are going from cadaver to cadaver, studying the different parts and pieces in preparation for our final lab exam.
I am going from body to body, trying to distinguish between the greater and lesser omentum of the abdominal cavity when I feel the familiar buzz of my mind and a slight feeling of being underwater too long.
Dizzy. Lightheaded. Heartbeat. Difficulty concentrating. I am fairly confident I'm low, but there are thoughts going through my head - back to the last time I got low in lab a month ago:

One month earlier

"Are you ok, Lacy?"
Victor, Robert and Jason asked.
"I don't know... I feel like I've been underwater too long. Ugh, I'm low. I know it,"

This story in a story requires some background:
1. A month before on one of the random snow days I'd rushed to school and realized I only had enough insulin in my pen to last me the rest of the day. But if you know anything about Atlanta traffic and snow, last year was awful, and though that day wasn't looking to be bad we were under a snow warning.
I was concerned and thinking the worst case scenario - what if I couldn't go home that night? I'd have no insulin for the next day.
And so I asked my lab prof if I could leave a little early from cadaver lab to get my extra insulin during lunch for simple peace of mind since I live all the way across town. I would just feel better if I did because, it's my life and it's my Diabetes and mornings can be hectic and things get forgotten. So I got permission and I did and everything was fine, and I just gave my friend Chelsea the extra insulin I didn't use that day to keep at her place across the street in case I ever run into the issue again.

2. My sugars are weird in the morning. I don't know why, but I need amount 2x the amount of insulin I usually do. My insulin to carb ratio is typically about 1:5 - I have a protein shake with maybe 10-12 grams at most in the morning. I've been skipping the coffee this semester and opting for water or tea as coffee can spike me sometimes.
So, theoretically, I should need 2 units, if any, for breakfast in the morning.
But I don't - no matter how good my sugars are when I wake up, I consistently need at least 8.


I gave 8 the day before but still ended up at 220 mg/dL for my protein shake. So since my correction bolus is 1 unit for every 35 mg/dL I wanted to go down, and my goal is 130 mg/dL, I need about 3 correction units.
So that morning on the way to school, I gave 11 units.
Then I went to school and had my morning snack (15 g/Carbs) during break. I remember prepping my bolus before I actually gave it and went to my locker to get my snack in an attempt to pre-bolus for better control; which I just started trying to do to better control my sugars that week or the week before.
And that's when I got confused, because then Chelsea came up to me with pralines from her trip to Savannah that weekend and I just remember knowing I was definitely going to need more insulin since the pralines are pretty much straight sugar and so I couldn't remember if I'd already pre-bolused at that point but either way I gave more for the pralines. I didn't know how many carbs were in them so I had to guess. I ate my snack and we went down to lab.

And so 30 minutes later after wondering why I felt weird, and my lab partners asked me if I was ok and I wasn't, I went into the hall to check my sugar: It was 40. It might have been because I overdid it on the insulin that morning for my breakfast, or on the pralines, or had even accidentally double bolused for snacks that morning. Either way though, this was one of the worst I'd had in a while and I felt like absolute shit. I didn't keep food in the cadaver hall so I went to the locker room, slid down the wall and ate a granola bar and waited to feel better, which was taking a while. Lows can be indescribably bad sometimes and it's hard to describe how debilitating it is.
I had told my lab group I felt low and I was sitting there worried because what would I do in the clinic if this happened? I was mad at myself. My sugars weren't bad but it was frustrating when this happens. No one likes to feel limited by their body when they have no time to be limited, when they want to excel.

Chelsea came out to check on me after about 5 or 10 minutes when I was still feeling awful, and I was expressing to her this frustration and my worries about clinic when my professor - the same one who I'd asked permission for on snow day earlier that month - came out.

She looked at me as I told her I'm sorry, I feel awful and this was a bad low and that I was just waiting to feel recovered and I couldn't remember if I'd bolused twice that morning or if it was just overbolusing on accident. She looked at me as she said,
"Lacy,"
"You do an awful job of managing your blood sugars."

Those words hit me like a train as I furrowed my brows, not sure whether to laugh because it was a joke or if this woman - who saw me 2 times a week and didn't know my blood sugars and wasn't an endocrinologist - was passing a judgement on me in one of the lowest states I could be in, right after I'd just told Chelsea how worried I was and how I'd have to step things up for the clinic as a professional to try hard and not have random lows like this. But lab was different also because you can't exactly eat around dead bodies, so I had to leave to treat versus just keep glucose tabs in my pocket, which I always did on clinic days.

My confused face turned into disbelief and my heart sunk like a rock. I looked at her and said,

"Excuse me?"

"Seriously Lacy, you are not doing good. Forgetting if you gave insulin... forgetting your insulin that one time...you're in your 20's, you need to have a handle on this."

I just looked and looked at her and my voice cracked as I whispered, "I've only had it for four years. You don't have any idea how little time that is to adjust to a complete change in life. And then take that life you've gotten used to and go to grad school which is full of schedule changes and stress and hours of school at a time and ask me if it's going to be hard to adjust. Lows are a side effect of insulin, No matter how hard I try to manage my sugars they will happen sometimes."

"Well have you thought about getting a pump?"
My head fell, "I can't get a pump," I said softly. I couldn't explain to her why because the reason why I couldn't get one (aside from not wanting one) was one that was a well-kept secret currently. I tried explaining how hard my sugars were to manage for no reason in the morning. "Well have you tried greek yogurt in your protein shake?"

Note: Greek Yogurt usually has about 20 additional grams of carbs per serving; the amount of protein it has doesn't really negate that.

"No." I told her. Tears were pouring down my face at this point and I was more or less sobbing. I felt like total and absolute shit - lows make you irritable and emotional and vulnerable physically and mentally as it is and then cue someone coming in and then unintentionally shaming you because life doesn't stop for Diabetes and you have to treat it amongst everything else going on in your life.

And you are Going to make slip ups.You just ARE. It happens. And I can't always help it. Sometimes I can and it's my mistake, sometimes it's just because I get low or maybe my sugars are high even when I've done everything right.

Your life is a scale always with Diabetes, and even when you're balanced, it takes only on slight movement to send you toppling down again.

And so all I could do was cry and cry because I felt like a failure. Would I make a bad clinician? How could I express what I feel? I felt judged, and I felt hurt, because when I first came into this program we received a whole speech about how we should never judge patients for their condition. And I guess this is overreacting but I did feel judged, because I live with an invisible illness and it's so complicated that even in class all I ever hear from professors teaching about Diabetes is,

This stuff is complicated, guys.

Try living it and then being expected to never show that weakness because you're ok. You SEEM normal. And when you're not it's because you're not taking care of yourself right; because the doctor gave you a prescription and you have insulin and you just treat yourself easy as that, right?
But when there's no one size fits all for insulin dosage and it can change on a dime or the morning's are just tricky to treat....
It's not that easy.

And when I show it and I get low all of a sudden I feel shamed for it. I shouldn't have lost track of my bolus but it was a simple mistake, I promise you, and it happens. We are humans and we make errors.

I was angry and hurt and devastated. But all I could say was "I'm sorry, lows just make me emotional," as I sobbed and told the professor that I'd be back in lab soon, that it was nothing, that her words didn't hurt me even though it felt like a slap to the face.
When it's you living with the invisible illness, it's different. When it's you struggling to not let the disease define you, it's different. Because in that moment I was defined as the girl who, according to the professor who told Chelsea before Chelsea came to check on me,

was as she stated, "That girl who never manages her blood sugars,"
I went back into lab wiping tears from my face and experienced a lecture later from the other lab professor who asked if I was ok. "Clinic is better," she said. "You have more freedom. But be careful. I know your illness makes you more... vulnerable to doing poorly."

No. No. When I do poorly it's because of me, it's NOT because of my illness. No.
That day struck me hard, and I've carried it with me since. I've even tightened control over my blood sugars - but I didn't forget about how that day made me feel.



So cue back last Friday when I thought I might be low. I creeped quietly to the hallway, tested, saw the 50 and ate 5 glucose tabs. Then I went straight back in, pushing through the lightheadedness, and smiled at one of the professors as I went back to my table.
Like nothing had happened.

Like my low was just as invisible as my illness.

Happy Almost-4th Dia-versary to Me: I'm Writing a Book!

When I was first diagnosed with Diabetes, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know anything... I didn't know there were two types of Diabetes, and I thought an insulin pump was a sticker you put on your body that somehow cured your Diabetes. 

It's a week out from four years now, and sometimes I still don't know what to do. Sometimes I sit and cry because I feel defeated, I feel angry or mad or sad because I feel that Diabetes has one that day.

But there is something I know to do, and that's write. And I wrote when I first started - I still write now.

Four years ago, I started back on writing this blog with a fresh outtake on life. So, in honour of my almost-4th Dia-versary, now I guess is a good time to say that, I'm writing a book. I really, really am. I'm over 100 pages in! And I don't know when it will be finished, but it will be. And I want to share the first (very rough draft) intro and chapter with you.

Intro

          “I have Type 1 Diabetes” seems both an unfair and obvious way to start a book. I mean, for a Diabetic, that's almost outright laziness. Yes, I have Diabetes! Thank you, Captain Obvious. You knew that this book was going to have something to do with Diabetes when you decided to pick it up and read at least the title.

P.S. I feel like I need to disclaim from the get-go that I have the tendency to be very snarky.

Ok, so, how do I start adequately? How about...

“When I used to play the “when I grow up” game as a child, “growing up to have a chronic disease” was never what I envisioned.”

Now we're getting somewhere. Sentimental, a little bit over dramatic, but poignant and true.

Or,

“Irony: your biggest fear is needles, and you end up getting a disease that requires you to stick yourself over 5 times a day.”

Yes, it's just that. Ironic. Diabetes is a very ironic disease. More on that later.

Well, the truth is, there are infinite ways to begin a book. I've never written one, and I don't claim to be particularly good at it. Writing is my heart and soul, though. I feel like I can accurately take my thoughts from my head and transcribe them into words. I've always been good at it. As a child, I was obsessed with keeping diaries. Through thick and thin, writing has always been a part of my life.

So, whether it ends up being good or bad, there is one thing I feel that this beginning should accomplish, along with clarifying that this is, in fact, a book that is largely to do with Type 1 Diabetes. Well, it is, and it isn't. This book is my way of proving to you and to myself that Diabetes has impacted every single part of my life. But, on the same note, this book is a way of proving that Diabetes has not come to define me. Or limit me. Or control me. To say that Diabetes blows is entirely and unequivocally true. Diabetes is such a hard disease to live with because it is so taxing both physically and mentally. 24/7, you become a walking, talking carb counter- blood sugar monitor – insulin administrator – in short, you are an unpaid, overworked and over-tired pancreas. You're also a guinea pig. Do you think that Diabetes simply requires a set regiment to treat? A shot of insulin, and you're good to go?

Let me briefly walk you through it -

You sit down and have a meal. Ok, you have to count to carbs. You give insulin based on how many carbs you are eating, which implies that you have counted correctly. But wait. There's more! Are you going to do heavy labour or exercise-intensive activities afterwards? Have you done any prior to eating? Are you going to take a shower? Go running? Are you eating fiber or a high-fat meal? All of these things can affect the way that insulin effects you. What if you counted the carbs right and gave the insulin and you still have high blood sugar, or you wind up low? Are you giving too much 24-hour insulin? Do you need to lower your insulin to carb ratio?

Things don't go according to plan with Diabetes, almost ever. To a Diabetic, we learn to expect this. It becomes second nature, but still, it's hard, because a lot of the times we do mess up. We get it wrong. Living with Diabetes is like living on a see saw, and you are struggling to always stay balanced between high blood sugars and low. It is you who has to listen to your body and pay attention and problem solve. Sometimes, doctors can only do so much, and the rest is up to you. Sometimes, doctors are downright jerks, and they forget that you are not only a patient, but a living, breathing human being who has to manage this disease alongside all of life’s other challenges.

But now, back to the first point. Long, long ago, in a hospital far away...

I am sitting in my hospital bed. I have been in the hospital for a few days now, having been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes after going into Diabetic Ketoacidosis*. My friend Erica and I have been best friends since freshman year. We are closer than can be, and Erica and I spend a good time during those days just sharing the too-small hospital bed and sitting in silence, occasionally uttering deep and poignant things. Looking back at this time, I don't number the days because I realize that they took on a life of their own. Those few days in the hospital – and honestly I couldn't tell you how many those were any more – were a world unto their selves, where the rest of the outside world ceased to matter any longer. Within the fog of this other world, my conscious parts to reveal the memory of the time that Erica came to visit and handed me a small blue journal and pen. There was nothing special about this journal, except that it was given with the knowledge that Erica knew the deepest way in which I could express myself was through my writing. Writing had seen me through all of my past times of trouble, and Erica had been there to witness the hardest of these. In my self-pity (there was much of this after my diagnosis) it hadn't really occurred to me to seek writing as a form of therapy for my shiny, brand-new chronic disease. I looked at Erica appreciatively but looked at the journal ruefully. It was in my nature to make snarky (told you) and humourous responses, trying to set my mind on the optimistic route so as to curtail the emotional damages of the situations I faced. What I'm trying to say is, I looked at the journal and laughed. “I am going to be the worst Diabetic ever,” I told Erica. “And to play fun at this disease, I need to make not a self-help book, but a non-self help book. Everyone here has tried to give me enough help, and I’ve had so much I’m sick of it.­” Erica laughed and agreed with me. After she had left that afternoon, I began the rudimentary journal that would serve as the gateway to my true therapy – the blog that was born of the “Non-Self Help Book”. My blog became my oasis from Diabetes – it became my salvation. I arrived home from the hospital, 90 pounds, physically and emotionally drained, and armed with a mini pharmacy of medications. Every day was a new challenge that began with the number that reflected on the screen of a glucometer. Every night ended with a wet pillow as I cried myself to sleep, begging God the question of why I had been the one in millions who was cursed with this disease. The beginning was rough for me, which I suppose was to be expected.

I came home writing in my little journal, funny quips about how there should be sugar free milkshakes, and the steps to give an insulin shot (1. Open pen cap 2. Inject insulin 3. Do not chicken out from injecting insulin).

I had experienced depression before, and Diabetes came with its own set of emotional pathology, it's true. I felt isolated from humanity. I didn't know any other Type 1 Diabetics. I struggled with a very real fear of needles, and a sense of being limited by my body. I sat down at the computer one day and opened up my metaphorically dusty online blog. I think most teenagers probably went through the self-realizing “start a blog” phase. Then comes the phase of writing a few decent posts. And the subsequent phase of forgetting they have a blog for an unspecified amount of time. I actually kept up with my blog well in comparison to most of these cases, but before diabetes, it honestly lacked specificity or a solid theme to hold it together. I mean, I’m interesting to me, but there was really no interesting reason for others to read it aside from knowing me. But now, I watched things click together in my head as I began to open up a new draft and document the series of events leading up to my diagnosis. And things really clicked when I saw how many people read it. Bad as it sounded, I realized that having Diabetes made my blog more interesting. People wanted to hear my story and my struggles. And writing them out helped me to cope with things. Everyday struggles of Diabetes became new material to blog about. Humour could be found in funny catchphrases and titles I thought up to summarize my posts.

And what's more... I watched myself begin to change with every post. Secretive, subtle Lacy, who bottled everything up, realized that life was too fragile to do that. And so I opened up and spilled all on my blog. My deepest emotions, my worries, my insecurity about my no-makeup face and concerns for how Diabetes would impact my dreams. What college in a new state would be like, alone and with a disease I was still stumbling to learn about. I began to open up, and with it, I realized how emotionally stable that my blog began to help me to be. What a sense of purpose by blog helped to give me. Diabetes had changed my life, but Diabetes also gave me a platform to stand on, an issue to follow and fight for.

1. Things More Preferable Than Death: Needles, and Writing.

I am looking at my body right now. It's spattered with a myriad of bruises varying in size, shape and colour. If you look closely, sometimes you can see little red pinpricks. My fingertips are callused over and covered in little red dots on the sides. This is my everyday reality: Diabetic. Broken. Bruised. Callused. Pain. Inconvenience. I live with it, and I am not madly unhappy. The truth is, you learn to become content with the lot that life throws at you. You accept it as inevitability, you make peace with the reality, and you push onward. At least, in my experience, that's how it works. So many people tell me (much to my annoyance), and I quote, “Wow, I could never have Diabetes. I hate needles too much.”

            Just think about that statement for a second though. One, I find it slightly offensive that you insinuated that I, oh, don't know, wanted to have Diabetes? And two, needles are slightly more preferable than death. But maybe that's just me.

But, I also look at myself from an outside perspective – like the outside looking in on me – and, allow me to be self-serving and sentimental about myself for a moment. I see a driven and passionate woman that fights every day for her goals and dreams. And suddenly, she is faced with this disease that makes her feel as though she is sometimes pushed to the wayside, a side actor in the limelight that Diabetes steals. Her fingers are hurt and bruised, and sometimes the insulin stings. And I think this:

My story deserves to be told. I don't want to go through this struggle silently, feeling like a martyr for a disease that tries to destroy me daily. This book is also my way of standing up to Diabetes. It may be a struggle I ultimately face alone much of the time, but I take comfort in the fact that I can share this struggle with others. Which, oh maybe-captivated reader, is precisely what I aim to do.