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.