Atlanta.

Well, after all the years, all the countless blog posts, all the anticipation, the worry -
The unkown is here, and it's not what I expected in the least.

It's better.

Atlanta is different. It was going to be, and I knew it from the moment that I pulled onto my new street at my new home, as "my sweet summer" by the Dirty Heads played and I pushed my sunglasses back to get a better look.
The pace of the city: faster. No more slow, sickly sweet southern moseying to be found here. The good old southern boys are gone, no place for huge trucks in a city that makes my small nissan versa feel too big on its narrow streets.
Things are open all the time.  Coffee shops don't have summer hours. The city doesn't sleep. The graffiti rivals museum art on some building walls.

This city captivates and perplexes me. It enveloped me, like a dream embraces the sleeping mind - wholly and completely,  with no memory of how it did so in the first place. It just came to be, and in that moment, became my new reality. I can see the city skyscrapers as I walk near my home, and as I quietly and calmly learn to adapt to driving and walking these new streets, I think now of how incredibly lucky I am.

I think of how I ever worried that Atlanta would be anything other than the greatest adventure of  my life thus far. I think of how much I love this overwhelming yet empowering change of pace,  surge of life, and different culture that I have found myself a part of. I am perplexed at how content I was with Macon when, compared to glittering Atlanta, Macon is but a dot on a map! If not for the people, Macon feels stifling now, too small, almost boxed in. Atlanta is a river rushing by, and Macon is but a quietly, slowly moving pool to its side.

I feel fulfilled, empowered, I feel full of potential and life. I feel whole, like a small piece of me that was missing fell into place. I feel happier than I remember in a long time. Every day brings truly new experiences, new places, new excitement. New faces, fresh air, room to breathe in this fabulously rough, earthly, grungy, sparkling, overwhelming, fast paced, crowded city. To know that this place lies at my fingertips every single day that I wake is the most incredibly exhilarating feeling of my life. In this immense city, there is a place for me, and I fit in like the missing word of a crossword puzzle: in a maze, but perfectly where I am supposed to be.

I walk places. I am inspired. I have written more poems in a week than I have in the past year. I feel challenged, but in control.

And I feel utterly, completely,  and wholly that I am right where I am supposed to be.

Hola, Low, We Meet Again.

It is 10:52, and I've just checked my blood sugar. 113. I smile, happy that I've dosed my insulin right. I'm getting good at this, no?

Spanish class begins, and I sit alert in my seat. Everything is fine at first, as we watch videos and go over drills, preparing for our next test.

Then I feel a little bit dizzy. It is 11:32. My fingertips and toes and then my whole body get a slight tingle. I'm not low, am I? There's no way. Anyways, I can just sit it out. We get out in 18 short minutes and I'm sure I'll be just fine. I sit for a while, confident that I can beat out this low until lunchtime. Besides, if it gets really bad I have a snack right?

Right?

Oh. That's right.

Not right.

In my rush to get to class this morning (having woken up late - again) my mental checklist definitively did have "grab 2 snacks and put them in my backpack" on it. That's great, except I'd forgotten. No worries, I'd thought, getting to my research methods class. At any rate, I'd probably run high all throughout the morning up until lunch.

But apparently I'd been dreadful wrong. The low was getting worse now, becoming hard to ignore. I turned to Crystal who sat next to me, a little bit panicked at this sudden realization. "I'm low and I don't have any sugar," I told her, my voice full of worry. She checked to see if she had anything in her backpack but she didn't. We were watching videos now, and it would be hard to get the attention of Professor Smotherman without disrupting the class. I really didn't want to call attention to myself, or interrupt anything. Sure, it was a medical emergency, but that would be rude and embarrassing. Ugh. My logic.

So I tried once again to ignore the low, meeting each attempt with less and less success. I finally pulled out my meter just to test and see where I was at. The meter flashed back at me: 59. I didn't need a Dexcom to tell me that I was most certainly still falling. I could practically feel it with each and every passing second. I got dizzier, the room span, my breathing grew slow and measured as I tried to control the weakness seeping through my limbs.

This wasn't even the lowest I'd ever been, but I felt worse than I ever had in a very, very long time.
I gave one last effort at waiting it out until I knew that if I stayed in class any longer it might end with somebody sticking a glucagon injection in me. Those needles looked plain nasty, but I figure if I'm ever low enough to need one, I probably won't care.

Note to readers: In case of a severe low, someone please stick me with this.

But getting a glucagon injection wasn't exactly at the top of my to-do list today, or ever. So I gathered up my belongings and quietly walked to the door, pausing by Professor Smotherman, hoping she'd turn around. When she did, I hurriedly said, whispering, "I have low blood sugar. I need to leave early and get something to eat." It wasn't as bad as I pictured it, actually. "Go," she told me, and I made quick work of leaving the room. I did my best to walk in a straight line. They say being low is similar to being intoxicated. I don't know if this is true, as I've only felt one of those sensations before, but I'd be hard-pressed to say that any alcohol drinker has ever felt as bad as I did in that moment. It felt like gravity was weighing down twice its normal pressure on me. My body shook, sweat dripped down my forehead and back. I had to grab hold of the rail to make sure I didn't fall down the stairs. Someone probably should have gone with me, just to make sure I made it to the cafeteria okay, but I managed myself. It was the longest walk of my life. 

I finally made it to the lunchroom, a panting, sweaty mess. I found an empty table, incapable of words at the moment, threw down my stuff, and walked as quickly as I could. Get.food. That was the only thing I was sure I could do at the moment, though making it to the lunch line and back to the table still seemed a pretty daunting task. Once I did, I sat down and scarfed it down as quick as I could. In the newfound heat of the coming early spring, sweat continued to bead down my back. I felt gross and sticky. I felt groggy. My tongue was numb. 

I wanted to cry, full of renewed bitterness towards what this disease had done to me. No person should ever have to feel this way. Not me, not my friends, not my family, not strangers, not other PWOD's, not my enemies. 

But I was okay. It was a close call, but I'd averted the emergency before it was too late. Yes, it was miserable, and yes, it was inconvenient, and I was upset that Diabetes had won out and made me leave Spanish class early. I hated being a shaky, sweaty mess. But I guess at the end of the day what's important is that I'm still here. Diabetes could have taken my life from the get-go, back when I was diagnosed. It very nearly did. But it didn't. And I learned a lesson. Next time, don't forget snacks. Tomorrow, give myself less Novolog for breakfast. If I'm low, don't be afraid to interrupt and leave class. 

It's a learning experience, slowly but surely. With Diabetes, more so than anything else I've ever experienced, knowledge is power. I can't always prevent lows, but next time, what I can do is be more prepared. And that's exactly where I've got the upper hand on Diabetes - so being more prepared is just what I plan to do.

New Reality

Argh what a hassle. My life is too busy to handle Diabetes. Lately life with my disease has just been... inconvenient.

Last weekend I sat, as a "Blue Princess", at the table, looking at the pizza in front of me and sighed. Someone loaded chips and cookies onto my plate. I smiled politely. The girls and guests would expect me, the princess, to eat. I had not told my customers that I had Diabetes. I very rarely do. My gloves cover my medical ID bracelet - no one ever asks, anyways. So I ate the pizza, and sighed. I worried about my blood sugar untul the party ended - thankfully, working with kids always drives my sugars down, so I was only 142.

With Diabetes, even the little things could - and usually do - become more difficult. Small things you take for granted and don't consider grow suddenly complicated with the weighted burden of (in my opinion) one of the most difficult to manage chronic illnesses there is.

Sometimes I am just so busy that Diabetes should take the backburner - I certainly have no time for it. I'm late for a show and have to drive halfway across Atlanta, while changing from princess Cinderella to a clown, in 45 minutes. But I'm low and I need to eat and I still have to input the right address into the GPS. Did I remember to grab all my paintbrushes from the last show? Hope so...

It's right before a test and I'm rushing across campus, about to make it to the classroom, but suddenly left shaking as I walk into the building. I have to check my blood sugar and make sure to treat it before going in. What if I forgot a snack in my backpack, or ate them already? What about when Physiology Lab runs late, it's 6 'o clock, and I'm low because I've had to skip dinner?

What about when you're at someone's house and they lovingly cook up a nice, delicious, warm batch of... pasta? They serve the plate for you? You can't weigh or measure it to get even a ballpark estimate of the carbs?
What if you suddenly realize you forgot your meter and insulin at home?

It's hectic. Diabetes complicates things, but I suppose that that's the nature of life. It's full of complications, but we move on. Overcome them. It's been nearly a year now --- one year with Diabetes, and it's hard for me to believe. Almost one year ago since I woke up in a hospital room and received news that forever changed my life, that forever changed me. Almost one year since I almost died. Almost one year since I've had a delicious XL 7-11 coke Slurpee.

Sometimes I wish I'd never gotten the disease. In a masochistic way I don't mind it, as it gives me a platform, something to stand up for. I like to talk about it. I like to share my experiences. But mostly I just wish that, one morning, I could wake up and be well again. I miss being healthy. I miss not having to live in Diabetes' constant shadow. I should be in charge of my body, not Diabetes.

But the simple fact is that I'm not. I'm not in charge anymore. I'm in charge of my treatment, sure - but when it comes down to it, I'm just here to try and fix everything that my body now messes up. Diabetes has changed things... a lot.
I don't want to think that I'll forget what it was like to live without my disease, to eat without testing my Blood Sugar, or never feeling the sting of an insulin needle in my skin, or having to worry about what foods will do to my blood sugar. To reminisce about what it would feel like to set the mental calculator aside and, for once, not look at the back of the packaging and see the nutrition label. To never have to keep the count the carbs in my head.
But sometimes I think I am forgetting. That kind of freedom is such a foreign concept to me now. I have dreams of eating a Chick Fil A sandwich and not having to so much as bolus for it. Eating a sandwich is something you take for granted until you suddenly can't do it anymore - not without insulin, anyways.

This life - this disease - has become my new reality for almost a year now, and like it or not, I'm in it for the long haul. My life is full of busy, but my schedule will have to make room for insulin shots, and testing, and lows or highs. But hey - I don't forget to count my blessings. At least I'm alive to complain about it. Because whether I like it or not, managing Diabetes has been, and will always be, better than my other option.

Etiquette Handbook: No One Ever Covered The "Giving Yourself Shots At The Table" Section

School has managed to engulf me once more, so my free time depends on how long I can put off the nagging "You should be doing something school-related" voice in my head. I wanted to blog about the scholarship luncheon two weeks ago, though, because I had this great blog post in my head that just disappeared as soon as I walked into my next Physiology class the following week.

It went like this:

The Scholarship Luncheon is hosted by Wesleyan and gives students with scholarships a chance to meet their specific donors, or "trustees". We all dress fancy, eat what is likely the same food being served in the cafeteria (just on fancier dishes) and get a chance to exercise our etiquette (which, in college, has likely gone sadly unused for quite some time.)

It is 12:06, and the scholarship luncheon starts at 12:30. I routinely check my blood sugar, fighting off the tiny shake of my hand. 62, and likely dropping. I sigh. I've just eaten a snack an hour earlier, and don't have anything left in my backpack. I walk up the steps to Candler Hall and figure I can hold myself together long enough to last until we eat. it can't be that long to wait, right? Inside, I receive my nametag and anxiously walk in my heels over to my assigned table. My stride is calm, as many years of entertaining screaming children in heels (AND a hoopskirt) will do to you. The table is covered in a pretty white tablecloth, with colorful carnations in a vase in the center. A basket of bread rolls, a slice of cheesecake, and cups of ominous looking liquid are set out in front of me. I sit down and take a small sip. Yep, sweet tea.

I stare at the food but know it would be rude to start eating before my donors even got to the table.

I wait a while, until a few more girls I know arrive at my table. Finally, my donor and his wife arrive. I greet them with a smile, standing to shake their hand and thank them for all they've done. We all sit down then, a blanket of awkward silence settling down for just a moment before we strike up a conversation. Mr. Bowen is to my left, and he asks me questions to which I politely answer as we wait for the luncheon to begin. Dean Fowler steps up to the podium, and speaks first. We have opening speeches from a few others before the Wesleyannes (I apologize if I spelled that wrong, Wesleyan people - I'm a Bio major, not a music one - ) began to sing.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The music is lovely, but the low is hovering around me, buzzing, annoying like a mosquito. I feel my head swimming and find my eyes lingering on the cheesecake. If only I could take a bite, I could stop feeling so bad ...

But it would be rude, wouldn't it?

Would it?

I didn't even know.

The songs are finally done, and more speeches resume. Finally, servers bring the food out. I try to wait patiently as I can, when all I want to do is yell to someone, "Please! I'm low and I need food now!" 


When the food does finally get in front of me, I am so low that the fork is shaking in my hand. I don't know what else to do. When I'm low, I get the need to just eat everything in sight. Carbs don't stand a chance. I engulf my food - the bread-crusted chicken and pasta - and leave the cheesecake alone, not wanting to tempt fate. I'm the first one to finish - likely in the whole building - and I look around, embarrassed, as I see others slowly working their way through still half-filled plates.

Well, at least I feel better now.

I exhale, feeling the low wearing off.

"You must have been hungry!" One of the students at my table remarked, staring at my empty plate. "You sure ate that fast!" My cheeks turn pink. "I'm Diabetic... " I try to explain. "I'm low, I can't help it, you see, I get all shaky and --" "Wow, someone must have missed breakfast this morning!" Mr. Bowen laughed. I turned to him, also trying to explain. "I have Diabetes," I say, but he doesn't hear me well. "I was low and I needed to eat..." I sigh and give up trying to explain. I sit, hands in my lap, waiting for everyone to finish.

Meanwhile I stare at my insulin pen, which lies on the table. I'm in a dress, my arms are covered by sleeves, I have on tights, and I don't know where I can give myself insulin. Is it even polite? I take the cap off the needle and try to give myself a shot in the stomach through the dress. It's hard - it's a lot of thick fabric to work through. "Ouch," I mutter to myself, trying to inject myself, but through the dress it just plain hurts. I look around, having no idea where a restroom would be where I could excuse myself. I shake my head, cap the pen, and throw it into my backpack. Guess I would just have to wait.

After a few more speeches, more conversation, and watching everyone else get to devour their cheesecake as I worriedly fret over what the breaded chicken has done to my blood sugar, the event concludes. It is 2:30. I've eaten an hour ago. I get up, setting my napkin on the table, and gather my things. I thank the Bowen's once again for how generous they have been to me and quickly rush out of the building to check my blood sugar. It ends up at 112, almost too good to be true, when I check it at 3:00.

It's been a long ordeal. You think you have Diabetes down, until life throws you curveballs which send you reeling. Forgetting your meter and insulin at Christmas lunch, not realizing it, and come to find out the chocolate covered pretzels have a lot more carbs than you expected. Driving 2 hours to Atlanta to find out that, yes, you've forgotten your meter and insulin again. Being paranoid about every bead of sweat, every slightly more than normal paced heartbeat, or feeling of thirst. Birthday parties where Princess Belle looks ridiculous drenched in sweat but can't start scarfing glucose tabs and rice cakes in the middle of The Chicken Dance in front of onlooking parents.

And formal events. With dresses. In all my etiquette lessons, no one ever covered the "giving yourself shots at the table" section.

(In all my expertise, maybe I should be the first.)

All In a Day's Spanish Class

Conjugations, verbs, stem changes, me gusta.
Our professor guides us through exercises and asks us questions in Spanish - we respond back with what we hope is a semblance of the correct answer.

My blood sugar is cruising at 85 - no worries here.

Me, te, le, nos, os, les...
fui, fuiste, fue, fuimos, fuisteis, fueron.


I grip my pencil in my hands, jotting down the occasional note or two.

Is it just me, or is it getting warm in here?
I push up the sleeves of my jacket and shift in my seat.

A wave of dizziness gently rolls over me, and it's easy to miss. I put it in the back of my mind and focus on class.

Tap, tap, tap.
The pencil shakes softly in my hands.

Streams of voices assuage me, abrasive, and my head spins.
A bead of sweat drips down my back.

I close my eyes and concentrate, drowning out the excess, listening to the unfamiliar words, forming them in my head and on my tongue.
I strain from the effort, working hard to grasp my fleeting focus.

My arm is shaking now, my mind a slur of voices and verbs and the blue sky outside.
Birds land on the tree outside the window. Somebody walks up the library steps. A train sounds its whistle somewhere far away.

I close my eyes, and the all-too familiar feeling of weakness closes in on me.

Silently as I can, I unzip by backpack, pulling out the meter inside.
Trembling, I grasp the lancet in my hands, gripping it hard, test, wait for the result that I can already guess.

48.
I grab the granola bar sitting within arm's reach inside my backpack, eating it and trying to keep the spinning at bay.
The 17 carb granola bar is all I have, and it should do the job, but it works slowly.
I sit, immobilized, until 20 minutes later the low finally edges off.
Class is over, and we are free to go. I gather my things and leave the room.

Lows have no language barrier, no concept of good timing. Diabetes doesn't wait. It's just another infinitesimal event in the day for most, but another battle for me - one of the many battles I fight, each day, between my body and myself. A battle that, for now, I've fought and won - All in a day's Spanish class.

Te odio, la Diabetes. Por favor, vaya.

From Knight to Pirate... Wait, Are You Sure This Is College?

I think a little bit of the stress is getting to me. I haven't quite felt myself lately, though this week I've been markedly better.

I've come to learn that stress always comes in waves. It's rarely a little bit here, a little but there, but rather it builds up all at once and pummels you at full force. This is how I felt lately. There's been so much on my mind. I apologize if this blog seems like it comes off as a rant, but, well, I suppose it is.

Organic Chemistry stresses me out. I think our professor wants to see us fail. She'll give out practice quizzes before our quiz, make us think we are prepared, then give us a quiz about nothing we've gone over in class. I am doing okay in this class for now but maintaining that "okay" status is going to make me in for a rough 2 months. I want out of this class. With a passing grade. December cannot come soon enough.

Thinking about where to go to Grad School - balancing location with finance - is stressful. You may think it's a little early to be considering this but apparently it's not. Change of plans. Registration for Spring Semester is coming up. My summer counselor at Wesleyan had previously convinced me that graduating in 3 years was a good idea. I would have more time to finish my classes, be less stressed, etc. Wesleyan's organizes its students by a class system that puts every new incoming class into one of 4 different classes. Right now it is Golden Hearts 2015, Purple Knights 2014, Red Pirates 2013, and Green Knights 2012. After the Senior Green Knights graduate this year our next incoming class will be the new Green Knight Class of 2016, next incoming class will be the Pirates of 2017, and so on. So graduating in 3 years made me a Purple Knight. But I looked over the list of classes this week that I need to graduate with my biology major, only to realize that I am easily going to finish my requirements in two years. I love Wesleyan dearly already but there's truly no point in staying, and paying for, another year that I do not need. Academically I will not feel challenged - I'll feel like I'm simply floating along. Financially I don't need to be paying for another unnecessary year when I could put that money towards grad school. I have a goal, and Wesleyan is simply a stepping stone on the way to the big picture. With this said, today I talked with my counselor and decided that I would be a Junior, graduate in 2013, and thus become a "Pirate".

So... I know this is going to be a stressful next year and a half. Being a College Junior slates me for picking out grad schools, applying and taking my GRE this time next year. I need to come up with a game plan, and I have little time to lose. One one side it hardly seems fair that I have just finished working out the stress of getting into Undergrad and now have to worry about the what comes next already. It's exhausting. And I'm scared. Did I just make a huge mistake? How am I going to make the right decision on which school I go to? I want to go to school in Atlanta but is the hefty price I will pay in student loans worth it? How can I make Grad School fit into the rest of my life, my plans outside of school? What is the best choice? What do I do?

The matter of Diabetes as well as In-State Residency really stresses me out. As I said above, I do want to go to Graduate School in Atlanta. It is a good fit for me; my entertainment business is working out really well. Most of my work is in Atlanta and I have to drive there just about every weekend as it is. In over a year I will have formed a clientele base with a job that I can maintain all throughout college. It brings in good money, and since it is only weekends, I do not have to worry about it conflicting too much with school - any other job might very well be out of the question due to the time and academic rigor that Graduate School will prove to be. My two main interests so far are Mercer's Doctorate of Physical Therapy program, which is located in Atlanta, and Georgia State University's. Georgia State University has great prices... for in state students. Mercer is private so I don't pay out of state fees, but, it costs nearly $9000 a semester for a three year program. So is it worth it to pay a high price at Mercer for a good name? After all, GSU tuition is half that. But becoming an in-state resident is complicated as I do not have an actual, non-college, address of my own with which to register to vote, get a license, register a vehicle, etc. And I really don't want to go back to Florida. Nothing against my family or friends who I love, but I literally just left and I don't want to come back quite so soon. To complicate matters is my ever-so-understanding chronic disease. Oh, Diabetes, how you irk me. Medicaid is going to run out on October 13th, 2012 when I turn 19, like it or not. And until I graduate Grad School and get a job that provides me health care finances are going to be a stretch. And though this probably sounds way too dramatic and I know in a few years things will be okay, just getting through College alive... literally... seems way more imposing than taking Physics I and II next year seems now, which basically means I'm scared out of my mind. (Especially if Grad School requires me to have health insurance like Wesleyan does. I could get the College health care, but, it is practically useless to a person with a disease such as myself. Y'know - a person who actually would need to use it to buy unimportant things such as insulin, and see a doctor, and such.) And until then, I still have Florida Medicaid and haven't seen a Dr. since June, making my Diabetes treatment far more difficult than it normally would be. Guessing how much insulin you need and what your insulin-to-carb ratio, while it changes sometimes on a weekly basis, is extremely difficult to do. And those grey zones when I have no Doctor's advice as to what to do insures that my Blood Sugar is suffering for it.

So with all of the stress of life right now... I try to be positive. I am anxious, but on the other side I am so elated to see my dreams play out. I've worked so hard and poured so many long hours into my education. You have no idea all the time I have sacrificed, all of the exhaustion I have put myself through, all of the hard work I have pushed myself to do. I have pushed my limits further than I would have thought possible before I began college back in Junior Year of High School, at 15. And it's been such a difficult journey, but never once has it not felt worth it. Some people may criticize me for perhaps rushing college too much, but I have never let their criticism get to me. I have done what I think is right for me, what I have deigned to be the best decision. It has not necessarily been the easy route, and I am bypassing a lot of experiences because of the choices I have made, but this is where I'm supposed to be. I feel like I am at the right place, at just the right time. God's timing is, after all, so perfect. And to feel so close to my goal of getting my 4-year degree - and moving on to the final step, Graduate School - gives me a rare occasion to feel proud of myself. I was a two-year college graduate at 17, and I am going to finish my four year degree at 19. Many people at my age haven't even graduated High School yet; I'm about to go to Graduate School in just a short amount of time.
There are just so many things to think about, talk about, and pray about right now. These last few days I have been praying and praying and I know that God is with me, helping me. I have prayed for inner peace, respite from my restless mind and that he will make apparent to me where I want to be. Things will work out, and I have the rest of this school year to decide all of the important things and smooth out the details. This all is such a big deal for me. These decisions are going to impact my entire life. It won't be easy, but I always knew that this journey wouldn't be easy. God has created me just capable enough of handling what needs to be done.

All I Want For Christmas is a Cure for Diabetes!

I know, I know, that's not likely to happen. But dang it. I am so freaking sick of Diabetes today.

The feeling is mutual - Diabetes hates me. While Diabetes' apparent disdain for me seems to be more of a personal issue, my feelings today towards Diabetes are mainly a snowball effect of the events of this weekend. Saturday was WOW! A Day for Macon, Wesleyan's big bi-annual volunteering event. I was placed on the Campus Cleanup team, which I did not mind because I volunteered and was willing to work where they placed me. However, as I saw other girls go off to volunteer for needy children and the elderly, I couldn't help but have a sinking feeling that my volunteering project was a very bad match for me, 1. Because I had rarely done manual labor in my life, and 2. I knew 4 hours outside was just a low blood sugar waiting to happen. But what's a girl to do? It was a beautiful day, the sun had come out after several days of rain, and I was glad that at least my project involved being outside. It was one of those days that would have been a waste to spend indoors.

We first spread out pine straw underneath the trees out by the art building, then pruned them. Then we walked over to the lake and started weeding mimosa and scraping old paint off of the bridge. It was around 11 when I sat down to take a break and started feeling a little shaky. "Are you okay?" Jenna asked. "Be right back. I need to check my blood sugar," I told her. 3 minutes later a 45 stared back at me on the screen. Oh crap, I muttered. It was as if the symptoms had just waiting behind closed doors, waiting for the cue of seeing my BG number on the screen before screaming, "OH HEY. LOOKIE HERE. LOW BLOOD SUGAR" in flashing lights. It felt like death. I stared down at the infinitesimal 4 blood glucose tablets that I had placed in my bag this morning. Why, oh why hadn't I packed more? My blood sugar was dropping rapidly and I realized what a stupid error it had been to give myself Novolog in the arm this morning. One of the obscure rules of Diabetes: If you know you'll be using the body part a lot in the coming hours, don't inject yourself there or the insulin will absorb too quickly and give you low blood sugar. Scraping paint and pulling up stubborn weeds certainly hadn't done me a favor this morning.

I frantically opened the packet of glucose tabs (orange flavored - so not my favorite), and chewed them down. It did little to help though. I shook from the low, overwhelmed by how powerful it was. "I need food," I told our volunteer leader. She looked at me. "Are you alright?" She asked. I swallowed. "My blood sugar is 45." She blinked. "Are you going to be okay? I don't want you to pass out on the way to the cafeteria or anything." I laughed weakly. "I'll be okay," I told her. I think, My thoughts echoed. This low was bad, really bad. "I just need some food. Then I'll come back." "I think you're done," she said. "You did a good job. Didn't she do a good job?" she asked the other girls, who had now gathered around. "But -" I started to say. "I volunteered, I don't want to bail or leave early or --" "I think you're done," she repeated.

I was sick. And I would always be sick. Things weren't the same for me anymore, I remembered. But it wasn't right. I was slacking. Diabetes shouldn't have to be an excuse for me, a reason for my not being able to work as hard as other people. I appreciated her being understanding, I really did. But I was mad at Diabetes for doing this to me. For making things so complicated. 6 months ago I would've been just fine, working the whole 4 hours like everyone else, doing hard work. Nothing to balk at. But the fact that I even had to consider what 4 hours of work would do to my health frustrated me. I just wanted to be carefree about my health like I used to be able to. Be able to take it for granted because I was perfectly fine and there was no reason in the world to think otherwise. Now things are so different. I might talk about Diabetes a lot to people, but honestly, it's just because it plays such a big part in my life now. Like my shadow, it follows me everywhere. And unlike Peter Pan, I cannot lose my shadow. We are stuck for life. Prepare for this next major cliche: Deep down, truth is I really just want to be like every one else. I don't want Diabetes to be an excuse. I want to be able to work as hard and do as much as normal people. I don't want Diabetes to interfere with my life. I don't want Diabetes to be a reason for people to pity me, a reason for people to say or think, "Oh, that poor thing. Take it easy on her." I want people to see me and think, "Wow. Despite her illness, look at all that she has overcome." I don't need easy, but I do wish for normalcy. I don't want pity, I just want people to listen, to understand. That's why I'm writing this blog. I want people to read this and know what it's really like. No misconceptions, no misinformation. Truth. This is life with a chronic illness.

I am in a bad mood today though. My endocrinologist told me once when I was first diagnosed, "Diabetes doesn't have to limit you. Things may be harder for you, but they won't be impossible. You can do anything that a person without Diabetes can." But I don't feel like that right now. I remember envying how put together she seemed, thinking that I could never be like that. Thinking this illness would own me and had destroyed all of my dreams. I don't feel quite that dramatic now after adjusting to my life anew, but I am so tired of this fight and knowing that life will always be this uphill battle, discourages me at times. Life is never easy, but life with Diabetes certainly doesn't help make it any less difficult.

To top it all off, my blood sugars have been absolutely dismal the past few days. It seems my insulin needs have upped themselves again. I resolved to myself at this end of the week, "Enough goofing around, time to step it up with my treatment." Lots of water, low carb foods, Novolog at every meal for even small amounts of carbs. Last night my BG was over 350 where it should not have been. I gave myself Novolog for it right away but woke up at 262. Bolused for breakfast this morning only to find 372 two hours later. With near tears in my eyes I angrily grabbed my insulin pen and stabbed myself in front of everyone in Orgo.

"I'm okay..." I told myself, walking out of class later. And then I broke down on the inside, strings of saddening thoughts filling my mind. "I'm not okay." I said to myself angrily. "I'm sick. How in the hell is that okay? How will that ever be okay? Why do I have to deal with this, why is everything so complicated now?" I kicked the stones on the ground as I rushed angrily back to my dorm, needing to be alone. I ate lunch in silence that afternoon and gave myself 2 units of insulin. I went to Spanish and felt shaky. I emerged with a BG of 55. I ran into the cafeteria diner, grabbed an apple, and ran outside to eat it. I took a bit and spit it out. It was imperfect on the inside, diseased, though you could never tell by looking on the outside.

Just like me.

I ran back in, selected an apple more carefully this time, and collapsed in a shaking, sweaty heap on the sofa outside the Hurdle Cafe. Tears fell down my face as I ate the apple, trying to recover, trying to feel better. I couldn't stand this seesaw, this, "So, will it be a High or Low this time?" Why not just normal? Why was it seemingly always one extreme or the other lately?

Life with a chronic illness is overwhelming on days like this. And it makes me so selfish. I hate to succumb to pity, but sometimes I just get so upset that it's all I can do for the time being. I think, at least with some other diseases, there is hope of a cure. I may die, but there is a chance that I will not, that I will walk away a survivor. But instead I sit here on the sidelines and watch as other, more "popular" illnesses fill the spotlight. I swear, diseases are as bad as the media is sometimes. Everyone cares about the newest, most heartrendingly sad disease stories. Aids, Cancer, Breast Cancer - things that are worth fundraising for, raising awareness for. But what about other, overlooked diseases? Every day in America, 11 people die from Asthma. Diabetes is the fourth leading cause of death in the United States. Rheumatoid arthritis, the most crippling form of arthritis, affects approximately 1.3 million Americans and two to three times more women than men. Over 300,000 children are afflicted with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis before the age of 16. But who cries for them? Far fewer than should. A cure for Type 1 Diabetes is 10, 20, 50 years down the road. There are no survivors of Diabetes, just troopers. It is a game to see how long we can live like this. I am stuck in limbo now, with an illness that I can still stay alive with - but only with a lifetime of treatment that will never truly be a cure. I spend every day yearning for a cure but so afraid to hope in case I end up disappointed. I know that all of this is an impossibly selfish thing to write, to think. I would gladly take Diabetes and be grateful over handful of worse illnesses that other people have. But Diabetes is what I have, and judge me or not, sometimes this is what I cannot help but feel.

On My Toes (Diabetes in College)

Let me start this post off with a self-congratulatory-note of... I am finally all moved in!

The past two days have been rough on me physically, though. I've been doing so much walking, and non-stop activity, that I have had several bouts of hypoglycemia ever since arriving. My insulin needs are certainly much lower, considering the level of activity I'm experiencing in college, and thus until I catch on I need to keep a close eye on my blood sugars.

I first arrived at Wesleyan on Saturday, eager to get into my room and start moving in! I had already picked my dorm in one of the two freshman residence halls on campus (Banks Hall). When I went up to the desk to get my room keys, however, I was told that my keys weren't there yet and that they would be momentarily. After some further conversation I learned that my dorm had been switched to the upperclassman dorm Hightower Hall, because I had too many credits to be allowed to stay in the freshman dorms. I was a little disappointed not to be with the rest of my freshman class, but apparently in the time between then and Summer Orientation, Wesleyan had received my final transcript from VCC and made me a Junior. So, determined to make the best of it, I drove over to the Hightower parking lot and started unloading some of my bins, elated to finally be able to arrange my room and make it my own.

I carried items in, walked out, in, out, heave, push, pull. Suddenly my legs felt weak from underneath me. I ignored it for a while, too occupied to want to pay my attention-demanding Diabetes any mind, but soon it became too much to handle. My head swam through a Diabetic-induced fog and I had broken out in a cold, skin-drenching sweat as my heartbeat raced 200 miles an hour. The world spun around me. I tested my blood sugar as I collapsed on my truck's seat. The meter stared back at me, 35. I was overwhelmed by the low, incapacitated. I breathed heavily as I sat in the heat, scrambling for my glucose tabs, granola bars, fruit cups, whatever little snacks I had left. I shoveled them into my mouth frantically, trying to stave off the low. It took nearly 30 minutes to recover, during which the heat outside as I sat in my truck made little impression on me as I tried to keep calm and gain back my strength. I bit back bitter frustration. Before Diabetes moving in would have never been such a problem...

I took a break for lunch in the cafeteria, and afterwards Donnie and Jake came by to help me unload the heavy stuff. I was so grateful as I was able to sit back and give myself much needed rest. They did in 30 minutes what would have taken me all day to do, which was haul all of the stuff from my truck into my new room. 

The next morning, as I hovered the line between sleep and wakefulness in my bed, my body suddenly sat up with a jerk. I grabbed my meter and tested with shaky hands. 45. I hurried and ate the remainder of my snacks but grew worried about if I happened to have another low. There was no breakfast on Sunday, just brunch at 12. I recovered and then grabbed my car keys, walked outside and then went over to my car. I drove to the Kroger right down the street first, a walk I would have enjoyed if I didn't have to worry about my being so low. I grabbed granola bars, two different packs of rice cakes, and oatmeal creme pies (my secret addiction, shh, don't tell my Diabetes.) I checked out and then drove to Walmart to get cheaper deals on soda, and decided to try Diet Sundrop, which is actually super delicious. I munched chocolate rice cakes on the way back to Wesleyan to appease my growling stomach and returned in just a few short moments to the school. I spied a large group of girls gathered next to Banks Hall (right across from my hall) in their pajamas. Confused, I wondered if there was something on the schedule that I'd missed. I later learned that the girls in the freshman dorm Wortham had woke up to a fire alarm, something I had been very glad to miss!

I hauled in my grocery bags, put the items in the minifridge, and went on with my day. I did not bolus for a SINGLE MEAL that day and yet I was still running on the low side. That evening after all of the events of the day I tested to find an unexpected 46. I hurriedly ate three rice cakes (33 carbs) and waited 15 minutes. I felt even worse, and tested again. 46. The rice cakes hadn't even made a dent in my apparently copacetic blood sugar. I knew perhaps I should wait a little longer but I went to the hall kitchen and popped popcorn (26 carbs), collapsed on the cold linoleum floors and waited in the kitchen as it cooked. I took it back to my room to inhale. The damage afterwards: A BG of 201. But that was better than 46. I gave myself 19 units of Lantus that night instead of 21 to hopefully stave off any more hypos.

But this morning I awoke, shaking, to once again find a BG of 46 (can anyone say "magic number"?), and thanked Christ for rice cakes as I ate more. I sighed. Thankfully, though, 19 units of Lantus has seemed to work just perfect so far, and it might be that all of my insulin needs have returned back to my pre-summer levels. In which case, I'll keep slowly backing off on my insulin until I find the correct balance again. Diabetes is keeping me on my toes this first week of college!