Diabetes is like... caving.
That seems like a weird metaphor, but bear with me.
My friends from high school are a little wild.
Last week during Spring Break we drove out to Fawn Run, Georgia - a little town nestled between the alabama and georgia.
I'd been caving before back in high school, but it had been a long time. Garbed in Goodwill jeans and my cadaver lab shoes, our group of 11 donned headlamps, knee pads and hard hats. We made sandwiches for lunch and then began the trek up the mountain, which I had been warned got a little intense (we Floridians aren't used to elevation).
I was a fairly experienced hiker, so I could push through, but the rainy weather made it muggy, my hard hat was hot, and before long my legs were burning and sweat was dripping down my back.
Exercise! It's a joy. (Truly though, I love it.) I savoured my opportunities out of doors, and loved exercise that stimulated my senses on a variety of levels - that's why I love things like dancing and rock climbing so much. They're healthy exercise and they're fun. They're colorful for the senses. The people - the colours - the fact that both are like having to put together a puzzle in your head as you do them. This rock leads to this rock... no, that one... or, "that step after this twirl... and rock, step, rock, don't trip, stay on rhythm!"
That seems like a weird metaphor, but bear with me.
My friends from high school are a little wild.
Last week during Spring Break we drove out to Fawn Run, Georgia - a little town nestled between the alabama and georgia.
I'd been caving before back in high school, but it had been a long time. Garbed in Goodwill jeans and my cadaver lab shoes, our group of 11 donned headlamps, knee pads and hard hats. We made sandwiches for lunch and then began the trek up the mountain, which I had been warned got a little intense (we Floridians aren't used to elevation).
I was a fairly experienced hiker, so I could push through, but the rainy weather made it muggy, my hard hat was hot, and before long my legs were burning and sweat was dripping down my back.
Exercise! It's a joy. (Truly though, I love it.) I savoured my opportunities out of doors, and loved exercise that stimulated my senses on a variety of levels - that's why I love things like dancing and rock climbing so much. They're healthy exercise and they're fun. They're colorful for the senses. The people - the colours - the fact that both are like having to put together a puzzle in your head as you do them. This rock leads to this rock... no, that one... or, "that step after this twirl... and rock, step, rock, don't trip, stay on rhythm!"
It's truly a delight for the soul.
We hiked for about a mile, and finally reached the top of the peak - revealing a beautiful vista of trees, and tiny farms with barns in the distance. Mountains surrounded us, and nestled in the side of our little mountain was a large cave opening. We rested for a moment before donning our gloves. A lot of us left bags at the front as well as any electronics, but I kept a small bag on me with my glucometer and glucose tabs, ever-weary of my Diabetes and the danger it could pose. (Still building up to the metaphor! Promise!)
Finally, it was time to crawl into the darkness. I was faced with a thrill of anticipation as I started in after Keeleigh, one of the other girls on the "guys trip".
About 7 feet in, however, headlamp on, the cave entrance narrows to that of a small tunnel. I've been warned there's a cricket problem which is ok - I don't care too much about crickets - but what I wasn't prepared for was the SPIDER problem.
And holy hell, were there spiders. Quite a lot of spiders actually. On the cave walls. All over. Enough to make me queasy and claustrophobic-feeling, despite the fact that claustrophobia had never bothered me. I experienced a moment of hesitation as in my head I battled my inner fears. "This is what pushing yourself is all about, Lacy," I muttered to myself as I pulled my long sleeves down lower and kept crawling. I pointedly kept my eyes ahead, trying not to look at the wall with the gross, spindly black spiders on it.
Push through, push through, keep going...
Finally, I saw the cave widen out and there was a rope on the ground. We had to grab the rope and lower ourselves down a slippery rock, and finally, we were in a large open space, the spiders farther away from me. The rest of the group started crawling in.
And...wow.
We hiked for about a mile, and finally reached the top of the peak - revealing a beautiful vista of trees, and tiny farms with barns in the distance. Mountains surrounded us, and nestled in the side of our little mountain was a large cave opening. We rested for a moment before donning our gloves. A lot of us left bags at the front as well as any electronics, but I kept a small bag on me with my glucometer and glucose tabs, ever-weary of my Diabetes and the danger it could pose. (Still building up to the metaphor! Promise!)
Finally, it was time to crawl into the darkness. I was faced with a thrill of anticipation as I started in after Keeleigh, one of the other girls on the "guys trip".
About 7 feet in, however, headlamp on, the cave entrance narrows to that of a small tunnel. I've been warned there's a cricket problem which is ok - I don't care too much about crickets - but what I wasn't prepared for was the SPIDER problem.
And holy hell, were there spiders. Quite a lot of spiders actually. On the cave walls. All over. Enough to make me queasy and claustrophobic-feeling, despite the fact that claustrophobia had never bothered me. I experienced a moment of hesitation as in my head I battled my inner fears. "This is what pushing yourself is all about, Lacy," I muttered to myself as I pulled my long sleeves down lower and kept crawling. I pointedly kept my eyes ahead, trying not to look at the wall with the gross, spindly black spiders on it.
Push through, push through, keep going...
Finally, I saw the cave widen out and there was a rope on the ground. We had to grab the rope and lower ourselves down a slippery rock, and finally, we were in a large open space, the spiders farther away from me. The rest of the group started crawling in.
And...wow.
I'm sitting there in this cave - it's so much more than what you'd expect, so much more than a mere hole in the ground. It's beautiful, it's fascinating, it's wild and mysterious. There's so much more than meets the eye.
We progress onwards through the cave, winding through tunnels and rooms throughout this giant system of underground caverns. The boys thankfully had caved here before and knew the way, as well as how to read the directions - had I been alone, I think I easily would have gotten lost.
I passed on climbing through the tunnel affectionately named the "birth canal" after learning how narrow it was - the thought of spiders shied me away from it.
The climb through did require more squeezing through narrow tunnels, so narrow we had to army crawl and even I wasn't sure my hips would make it through. It required spanning small chasms, and I was thankful for my experiences rock climbing that year. The cave floor become wet and full of clay in some places, and we built sculptures and threw clay at each others' helmets just for fun. We scratched our names into the cave walls and the year, and read old messages.
But one of the coolest things was sitting in the cave and then all turning off the lights.
It's then that you suddenly realize how deep underground you are. How out of league you are with nature. This labyrinth - this unknown - this darkness, surrounds you and the light almost provides a false sense of comfort. You realize that without the light, without others there for you, you'd be no match for ever getting out of the cave.
Which leads me to my metaphor: Diabetes is like caving, and insulin and my glucometer - my Diabetes super-tools, you might say, are my light in the darkness. And Diabetes is the wide, sometimes scary and incredibly huge, cavernous depths that are the underground caves. They aren't fully known, even by the most experienced of trekkers. You can never fully anticipate everything that will happen. There are scary things - chasms and dicey rope climbs down rock formations - spiders on walls and dead ends that lead to frustration. There's questions about what lies around the corner. And it's more complicated than you could possibly imagine.
But with the light and with the help, you manage. With a support system and insulin and your glucometer, you get through. You don't necessarily know what lies around the corner, but you have trust and keep going. One little step at a time.
We progress onwards through the cave, winding through tunnels and rooms throughout this giant system of underground caverns. The boys thankfully had caved here before and knew the way, as well as how to read the directions - had I been alone, I think I easily would have gotten lost.
I passed on climbing through the tunnel affectionately named the "birth canal" after learning how narrow it was - the thought of spiders shied me away from it.
The climb through did require more squeezing through narrow tunnels, so narrow we had to army crawl and even I wasn't sure my hips would make it through. It required spanning small chasms, and I was thankful for my experiences rock climbing that year. The cave floor become wet and full of clay in some places, and we built sculptures and threw clay at each others' helmets just for fun. We scratched our names into the cave walls and the year, and read old messages.
But one of the coolest things was sitting in the cave and then all turning off the lights.
It's then that you suddenly realize how deep underground you are. How out of league you are with nature. This labyrinth - this unknown - this darkness, surrounds you and the light almost provides a false sense of comfort. You realize that without the light, without others there for you, you'd be no match for ever getting out of the cave.
Which leads me to my metaphor: Diabetes is like caving, and insulin and my glucometer - my Diabetes super-tools, you might say, are my light in the darkness. And Diabetes is the wide, sometimes scary and incredibly huge, cavernous depths that are the underground caves. They aren't fully known, even by the most experienced of trekkers. You can never fully anticipate everything that will happen. There are scary things - chasms and dicey rope climbs down rock formations - spiders on walls and dead ends that lead to frustration. There's questions about what lies around the corner. And it's more complicated than you could possibly imagine.
But with the light and with the help, you manage. With a support system and insulin and your glucometer, you get through. You don't necessarily know what lies around the corner, but you have trust and keep going. One little step at a time.
In that cave with 11 other people around - a whole support system - back up, someone helping guide us along the way, lights with extra batteries and water, glucose tabs and a meter in my bag - I feel comforted. Safe. Secure. I'll be fine.
But stop and turn out the lights, and you realize just how real the situation is. How precariously "safe" and "secure" you are.
Without insulin and my glucometer - and I've been in those situations before - I am stuck in the darkness. My glucose meter tells me where in the wide world of possible blood glucose numbers I am at. It's my direction. My insulin is my light - without it, I don't stand a chance. It's what keeps me going at the end of the day.
We spent hours in those caves, and we finally crawled out, back through the spider-riddled entrance through which we came. I again, tried not to look at the walls. Thankfully as we had gotten deeper in the cave, there were less creepy-crawlies to bother me.
I guess one way in which Diabetes isn't like caving is just that there was an out with caving, and then we left it behind with nothing but fun memories and mud that washed off our bodies later that evening as we spent the night in Desoto State Park, AL.
There isn't an out with Diabetes, and it's not something I can leave behind.
But I was humbled by the experience nonetheless. I was humbled as I felt myself grow low from all the climbing in the cave and was able to test my BG - 50 mg/dL - and pop some glucose tabs. I was humbled as I thought of how lucky I am at least to have insulin and test strips, and a job that will enable me to buy them as needed - even if I don't currently have insurance.
My life is a precarious one and I am ever-aware of my mortality, as morbid as that sounds. Diabetes isn't the most serious illness you can have but it IS serious, and Diabetes is fatal if not treated - and, sometimes, fatal even if it is treated. Some people go to sleep and never wake up from lows. It's a scary world of testing, a tenuous balance on a scale that teeter-totters constantly, and it's 24/7 effort.
Diabetes is HARD.
But at least with the support, and the tools I need to keep me alive, I stand a chance.
And for that, I am grateful, humble, and I am strong - every day is a learning experience to treat better and live life to the fullest, no matter how big and scary and cave-like Diabetes might be.
Without insulin and my glucometer - and I've been in those situations before - I am stuck in the darkness. My glucose meter tells me where in the wide world of possible blood glucose numbers I am at. It's my direction. My insulin is my light - without it, I don't stand a chance. It's what keeps me going at the end of the day.
We spent hours in those caves, and we finally crawled out, back through the spider-riddled entrance through which we came. I again, tried not to look at the walls. Thankfully as we had gotten deeper in the cave, there were less creepy-crawlies to bother me.
I guess one way in which Diabetes isn't like caving is just that there was an out with caving, and then we left it behind with nothing but fun memories and mud that washed off our bodies later that evening as we spent the night in Desoto State Park, AL.
There isn't an out with Diabetes, and it's not something I can leave behind.
But I was humbled by the experience nonetheless. I was humbled as I felt myself grow low from all the climbing in the cave and was able to test my BG - 50 mg/dL - and pop some glucose tabs. I was humbled as I thought of how lucky I am at least to have insulin and test strips, and a job that will enable me to buy them as needed - even if I don't currently have insurance.
My life is a precarious one and I am ever-aware of my mortality, as morbid as that sounds. Diabetes isn't the most serious illness you can have but it IS serious, and Diabetes is fatal if not treated - and, sometimes, fatal even if it is treated. Some people go to sleep and never wake up from lows. It's a scary world of testing, a tenuous balance on a scale that teeter-totters constantly, and it's 24/7 effort.
Diabetes is HARD.
But at least with the support, and the tools I need to keep me alive, I stand a chance.
And for that, I am grateful, humble, and I am strong - every day is a learning experience to treat better and live life to the fullest, no matter how big and scary and cave-like Diabetes might be.
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