Savannah Trip Part 3 - Finis

Sunday. Our last day in Savannah.

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

I didn't want to leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Me too." he said softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Playing Make-Believe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will always keep moving forward.

Taking Off My Medical ID Bracelet

There is a heart-shaped bracelet that always rests on my left wrist. On the back inscribed in tiny letters, it reads:

Lacy Ball

DM Type 1

Insulin Dep

It is a sentence for me. I don't mind wearing it, it's necessary - but the bracelet is a reminder, a chain placed on me by a disease known as Diabetes Mellitus Type 1.

I know Diabetes on a much more personal basis than just a name, though. There is so much more to a disease than just the name that labels it. The symptoms, the heavy-hearted worry, the finances, the physical, emotional, and psychological effects of it.

The way it alters your life.

I take off my Medical ID bracelet and stare at my empty wrist. Small indents from where the bracelet had rested still marked the area, but it was the first time that I had taken it off for months.

I was surprised about the feelings that arose from staring at the blank skin where metal, turned warm from my skin, had adorned it but a moment ago. The absence brought back memories - memories that aren't even long ago but feel as if they are remnants of a past life.

When I woke up in the hospital bed at 2AM on April 3rd, 2011, I woke up into a life entirely changed from my own. My world had suddenly expanded to twice its normal capacity, and with it came a flurry of new emotions and struggles and experiences that I never, in all of my childhood dreams or plans made on the cusp of adulthood, thought I'd encounter. I remember thinking the only good thing about getting Diagnosed was that I no longer had to pee 3 times an hour.

Since then, never once have I really looked back on what my life had been like before my diagnosis with Type 1 Diabetes.

It was,

That was my life then -

- This is my life now.

I've been so busy trying to just adjust and learn how to cope with this illness, looking back is an entirely different and foreign experience to me.

It makes me sad, even now, to think about my old life - like the only thing it ever was, was a dream.

I'll always mourn what I lost. Diabetes has had time to sink in now - I don't pity myself, and I don't burst into tears anymore. I take things one day at a time and don't over think things. I don't think about my next shot 3 hours from now, or how much the lancet hurts when the calluses on my fingertips are too tough for a lighter needle setting. I don't think about the discomfort of blood testing, or the Lantus when it stings me, or the bruises the Novolog leaves behind.

But sometimes I get glimpses of daydreams, fragments of both what my life used to be and what I now can only wish it would one day be again. I think of how carefree life would be without my illness. I think, with a wave of immense sadness at this very moment, how I used to go into a restaurant and order whatever I wanted without thinking twice, or take a bite - or two - or three, what did it matter? - of chocolate cake. How did I ever take that for granted? Why, in all of my prayers, had I neglected to thank God for letting me so much as eat a meal, carefree and healthy?
I remember sunny Summer days with chocolate chip cookies dough ice cream, and late night snacks. I remember all-you-can-eat buffets, ice cold soda, Steak n Shake milkshakes, and happy, lighthearted family dinners that didn't consist of begging waiters to let me have vegetables as a substitute for rice and arguing about this entree or that having too many carbs. I miss being able to not worry about skipping a meal and never getting low. I miss being able to wash a car in the hot sun and not worry about the shaky, heart-pounding feeling sneaking up on me. I miss sleeping without fear of not waking up every night, not just some of them. I miss blemish-less skin and unpricked fingertips.

In short, I miss a lot of things. What an experience it would be to eat some meal, just one meal, without the presence of a glucose meter or insulin pen and the worry...!

Lost in daydreams, dreams, hopes, memories, feelings - time all but stopped and faded away in those few moments.

That's what it was like when I took off my Medical ID bracelet.

But of course, those were daydreams only.

I clasp the bracelet back on my wrist and go on with my day.

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.

What My Betta Fish and I Have In Common

Some days, I feel like my betta fish.

I live in a clear, glass box - one that a disease has singlehandedly constructed for me.

I was thinking this today as I was working at my job in admissions, mundanely shredding paper - as I reached for yet another pile to shred, one of the papers caught my eye.

On it was a short essay, and in that essay it said,

"I hope one day to someday do something great, like find the cure to Diabetes." 

I stared at that paper for what seemed like a long time, wondering if the author of that sentence ever thought that it would reach, of all people, a Diabetic's hands. Lancet-scarred fingertips and all.

I felt like somehow, God had meant for me to find that paper - one out of hundreds of others I could have found. It was as if he was telling me,
"See? I think of you - and others do, too. You are not alone."


And it's true - I am not alone. In fact, I am constantly astonished at the support base I have. Joshua - who has researched Diabetes so much that he probably knows more about it than I do. Laurie - who gives me all the syringes and medical care I need! Tonya - my insulin drug lord, who frequently gets insulin for me in mayhaps shady but effective ways. My mother - who patiently gets my prescriptions and mails them to me each month, who has never complained about taking me all the way across town to the Doctor's, who always makes sure that I eat regular meals each day and understands my need for counting carbs. My father, who taught me that living with Diabetes doesn't mean living a life without happiness - on the contrary, it means thriving, and learning to be ever more joyful than before, despite the obstacles in my way.

And those that support me even without knowing me quite as well - the people who I am surprised to learn actually find my blog interesting enough to read, who give me a reason to keep writing. The people that stick around to have an intelligent conversation about my illness with me, giving us both an opportunity to share knowledge and experiences. And those coincidental, anonymous people who unknowingly write things about hoping to find the cure to Diabetes someday that make me smile inside, knowing that there will always be people trying to find a cure.

And oh, how I hope they do.

Diabetics can enjoy a wonderful life - full of all the perks and freedoms of normal, healthy people.
But Diabetes also means sacrificing a lot of freedoms.
My silent disease places me in a glass box that no one but myself seems to ever really be aware of - but that I always am. Others notice only what's inside the box - often never realizing what it's like to be on the other side. It imposes on me its boundaries, a constant reminder that while I am free to see the world there will always be something that separates me from everyone else. Leave me without insulin, and suddenly I can't eat. Without a glucose meter - both bolusing and eating become dangerous games. Alone, and without any carbs - if I get low, it could be life-threatening. All reminders that I am free - but, in my insulin-driven world, I am not quite free at all.


And in that respect, my betta and I have something very much in common.

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.

Living With Diabetes Isn't Easy... Thankfully, Complaining About It Is

If I had a brand new beta cell for every time somebody told me, "I couldn't do that" in response to my telling them about having Diabetes, I would no longer have Type 1 Diabetes.

I do not know why people tell this to me. Do they think that it makes me feel better? Is it pity? Sympathy? Just a nice way to say, "Man, I'm so glad I don't have to deal with what you do"?

It does not make me feel better when people say this to me. It does not make me feel like a superior human being in the fact that I handle Type 1 Diabetes. It does not make me glow with self-satisfaction. It makes me feel separate from "normal" people. It makes me feel like I'm some nerdy freak who actually enjoys counting every single carb of the food that goes into my mouth, saying no to alcohol and testing my blood sugar multiple times a day. In fact, it really just make me want to strangle whoever it is who just said that to me and say, "Don't you understand??"

Still, I have to be fair. If someone had actually sat me down and explained to me the life of a Type 1 Diabetic before I ever got diagnosed, it is very likely that I would have said the very same thing. I couldn't do it. Needles were my biggest fear in the entire world. I could imagine no worse fate than to have ever gotten diagnosed with such a needle-loving disease. The one time somebody tried to test my blood sugar I ran screaming through the house at the top of my lungs until they finally gave up and left me in peace. And if I had known the bigger picture, that there is so much more to Type 1 Diabetes than just testing one's blood sugar and giving injections, I don't think I could have ever possibly fathomed having to cope with such a formidable illness.

But Diabetes didn't care about my inhibitions. For some reason forever unbeknownst to me, I was one of the few destined to have a faulty pancreas. It was not a choice - it just was. Which leads me to my point: saying I couldn't do it to living with Diabetes, to me, is an illogical statement. It doesn't matter whether or not you think that you could do it. The fact of the matter is, choosing to live a life with Type 1 Diabetes is not an option. It was both the hardest and simplest choice that I ever had to make: Life, or death.
Diabetes is a terrible disease. I never wanted to have to live with Diabetes. When I was in the hospital, I spent a long time thinking to myself, sure, living with Diabetes was possible, but what kind of life would that be? Was it one truly even worth living?

And you know what? It was. Life became immeasurably harder than I could have ever imagined, but I had been given only one life to live, one life to make the best of, and I couldn't let Diabetes ruin that for me.

I didn't choose a life with Diabetes, it chose me. Counting my carbs, giving myself daily injections, keeping glucose tabs on hand for lows, handling the physical, mental and emotional turmoil of an incurable disease, testing my blood sugar often, attempting to act the part of a pancreas in the place of the one that failed me... it's all part of the inconvenience that I must now deal with in order to enjoy the things that other people without my illness can enjoy. I will never get used to my life with Diabetes, nor will I ever enjoy the burden that it places on my shoulders. But I have adapted, and accepted, my condition - when before, if faced with the same obstacle, I would have never thought that I could. There is something about having Type 1 Diabetes that makes you realize how fragile and weak of a person you are; it happens when you must deal with the reality of your mortality so often on a daily basis. But having Diabetes, and conquering it, also teaches you valuable lessons and makes you so much more of a stronger person than you were before. Diabetes has completely changed my life, has changed my personality, has changed so many things about the person that I once was. But not all in bad ways. Diabetes has shown me that I can do things that I never thought that I could. It places fear in my life but gives me the strength to conquer my fears. Type 1 Diabetes has shown me that if something truly matters to you, it doesn't matter what stands in your way. You'll face it; if only to be able to hold on to that one precious thing that you treasure so dearly which, for me, is life.

Life with Type 1 Diabetes is harder than a life without, but I think that if others were faced with my disease, they would make the same choice that I did: which is to not only survive with Diabetes, but to thrive.

Kudos to my father for not only that last line, but for inspiring me to live, even with the struggle of having Type 1 Diabetes.
(And thanks to my awesome mom, too, who helped me learn how to kick Diabetes in the butt!)

If Having Diabetes Was Easy, Chuck Norris Could Handle It

Pinpricks.
Tears.
Needles.
Highs.
Lows.
Diabetes has become a part of me, taken a part of my life forever. And I can accept that.

But lately that hasn't been enough. Lately Diabetes has been... kicking my butt. The month of June was fantastic for me - near perfect control, excellent numbers, steady blood sugars, minimal highs and lows. July, however, has been a different story. Diabetes is different for everyone and my Diabetes has been acting particularly special, in the most retarded way possible.

It all started the weekend before July 4th when I started noticing a gradual string of swiftly raising blood sugars. 110... 120... 156... 250...
Stranger yet was the fact that I was regulating it with Military-like precision. I am probably the nerdiest individual with a faulty pancreas that you will ever meet. I literally carry my CalorieKing Nutrition Book around in my purse to count my carbs almost everywhere I go. I am not afraid to whip it out and start consulting it halfway into an order, despite the stares I often get from waiters and customers alike. If a particular restaurant's nutritional info isn't in my book, I'll research my meal choice online ahead of time based on how many carbs I find are in it. I make it a point to eat healthy food and shy away from items such as Birthday Cake milkshakes, Donuts by the dozen and those delicious Subway Cookies that used to completely nullify my attempts to eat right. I diligently give myself the right amount of insulin each day and before every meal, despite my obvious distaste for needles. I do my best to fit at least some amount of exercise in every day. And when my Blood Sugars hit the fan I went from checking my BG 5 times a day to about 10 times a day. I swam about an hour EVERY DAY. And yet it was as if all of my hard effort had no effect at all. Diabetes didn't care if I was playing the part of picture-perfect patient. Diabetes was still laughing in my face.

These strings of highs have continued for about 3 weeks. My average BG went from 87 to 133 during this time. Words can't describe how disappointed and frustrated I became with myself, and with my disease. I've already been there, done that with the whole Diabetes pity-party phase, but this was round 2 as I began to question the point of life, what I did to earn such apparent bad luck, the long haul of Diabetic living for the next 50 or so years, and whether or not survival was possible if I could hardly take 3 months of Diabetes. "I'M GONNA DIE BLIND WITH NO LEGS BEFORE I TURN FIFTY!" I wailed. I went from a hardcore Diabetes pwn-er to a volatile Diabetic basketcase. I continuously abused my Diabetes supplies by throwing them all over the carpeted floor to my hearts content. (I'm sorry, Meter. Can we still be friends?) At one point I started silently chugging a Yoo Hoo as Josh onlooked. With a serious face, I placed the drink down and said, "Take that, Diabetes," as we both started bursting out laughing.

It's frustrated me though. A common misconception for Diabetics is that treatment is a simple matter of giving insulin shots. Easy, right? But it's not a simple matter at all. Diabetes is a balancing act where you are towering hundreds of feet above the ground on a half-inch wide rope. The stakes are high - they are your life. And quite frankly I have never cared for high-stake games. These days I am just so tired. Tired with my body, tired with my disease, tired of my nagging thoughts. If my Diabetes would cut me some slack, and stop all these ups and downs, it wouldn't be so bad. But this past month has made me realize firsthand just how unpredictable Diabetes is. Just when you think you've got it down, you don't. There are numerous factors all working against you to make Diabetes management difficult, from fluctuating insulin sensitivity to different reactions to different foods, to different moods, times of day and times of the month. I am beginning to think that I will never understand this elusive, impossible disease. I hope that I am wrong.

Hypothetical Wall-Kicking Session

UGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Warning: This blog is purely a rant.

Today is one of those days where I just want to kick and scream, cry, and throw something at the wall, all at the same time. Because today is one of those days where, no matter what it seems that I do, Diabetes has bested me.

This morning was perfectly fanfreakingtastic. I woke up with a Blood Glucose of 76 and was happy with where I was at. I've been eating cereal for the past few breakfast's, as opposed to my usual breakfast of eggs and toast. There are no eggs here, in Statesboro with Josh, hence eating the cereal. I should probably go get some but I am stubborn. So this continuous eating of cereal was probably my first mistake. Ever since getting Diabetes I have tried to stay away from eating cereal because I like to eat copious amounts of the stuff. I love cereal. And when you have Diabetes this is a problem. If you bolus for a certain amount of cereal, then you should only eat said amount of cereal. Eating more than Bolused-for amounts of cereal leads to higher-than-intended blood sugars. I tried giving myself 3 units of what Novolog I have left to cover me, however this usually leads to mid-afternoon lows and so I switched it back down to 2. However, 2 is usually too little, and what I really need to be giving myself is 2.5. However, my Novolog pen only does insulin in whole units. My new Humalog pen does half units, however, if you know how frustrating insurance companies can be (namely Government-owned ones) then you can sympathize with me when I say that by no means do you ever want to be wasteful because there's no way of saying how much crap you'll have to put up with before you can get your next prescription refill. So I'm doing my best to make do and use what I have in order to avoid having to deal with *shudder* CVS and their God-forsaken special people any sooner than I have to. What a mess.

I've found that Diabetes is usually a good indicator of what is and isn't good for you. Special K usually leaves my blood sugar reasonably happy if I bolus and eat accordingly. On the other hand Captain Crunch Crunch Berries usually turn my Diabetes into the equivalent of a PMS'ing Bipolar woman. You can guess which cereal I had this morning when I checked 4 hours later and my BG was at 157. Perhaps it may seem like I'm being too hard on myself, 157 isn't that bad after all, but I have enjoyed near-perfect Diabetes management for the past month and had managed to bring my BG average down to 87. Now I have watched as all my past month's work has been undone in the last week and a half after a string of respective highs has sent my BG springboarding back towards an average of 108. Thanks, Diabetes.

So Josh, his roommate who's name is coincidentally also Josh, and his girlfriend Kara and I go to a Mexican Restaurant (this word brought to you by spell check -- why can't I ever spell that word right??) today for lunch and in an attempt to be good I order the taco shell-less salad instead of a burrito and chips like everyone else. Another question - why is the most healthy item on the menu always one of the most expensive? I give myself one unit of Novolog to cover whatever carbs might be in the salad and to calm down my raging blood sugar and I feel really good for the rest of the afternoon. I check my blood sugar again at 6:30 and smile to see that it is at 82 - hurrah! I've done something right! Lunch was late today so I didn't really feel like having a whole other meal for dinner. I opt instead for a 19-carb ice cream bar and decide not to give myself any insulin, seeing as, being full, I'm not planning on eating for the rest of the night, and I'd end up going to bed lower than I'd like. 1.5 hours later I feel a little funny. My heartbeat is racing a bit, I feel kind of shaky... am I low? That would make absolutely no logical sense. I go to check my BG just in case.

187.

W.T.F?!
That can't be right. I wash my hands again.

150.
Come on, One Touch, what is your problem? What kind of excuse do you have to have for a margin of error like that?

I check again.
Error 5: Not enough blood on the test strip.
So much for not being wasteful.

Take 4.
177.

I end up feeling frustrated and defeated. I have no earthly clue what the hell my Blood Sugar really is, why I feel funny, and I do not  understand why a 19-carb ice cream bar that would usually have no negative effect on my Blood Sugar sent it skyrocketing over 100 points. I just want to collapse on the floor into a ball of self pity and cry.

Diabetes is a mystery to me. Sometimes my Diabetes behaves perfectly, responding to my careful treatment with respect and good behavior. And other times, despite my best attempts, I get days like this, where it seems that no matter what I try and do, I can do nothing right. I don't know why my Blood Sugar is acting so crazy lately. Is it because I am nearing the end of my honeymoon period and need to up my basal? Is it because is is nearing a month since I started using this pen of Novolog and the insulin has now lost its potency? Is it because it's that time of the month? Is it because Diabetes is a freaking lunatic? Are the Diabetes Gods looking down on me with a magnifying glass in the full sunlight and laughing loudly amongst themselves?

I do not understand.
I could be less hard on myself but I cannot afford to. I want to be one the few to live over 50 years with Diabetes, to experience no complications. It is a near impossible task, but if I am one of the few to have gotten Type 1 Diabetes, than why on Earth can't I be one of the few to live a long and healthy, complication-free life despite of it? But it is so much easier said than done. I have to up my efforts, have to prevent myself from slipping up. I do not want to go through days like this. I do not want these highs to happen. I realize they are sometimes unavoidable but why, how, when I am trying so hard? Diabetes control isn't rocket science. But sometimes I think that it's harder. There is no set formula to figuring out Diabetes, no tried and true way to manage it, that works for everyone. Like fingerprints, everyone's Diabetes is unique. And eating low carb can work but I want to live my life, too. I can't just live my whole life eating only salad and broccoli. What kind of a life is that? I want to enjoy food like I always used to, but it is so hard to find the balance when you have to continuously try harder to count carbs, stay on top of your swinging basal rates, emotionally manage the stress of all the bad days. Watch out, Diabetes. If I have to deal with another week of this, first thing I'm doing post-Fourth of July is going to the store, buying myself a nice food scale, and counting my carbs like it's nobody's business.

I hate Diabetes.
The feeling appears to be mutual.

Diabetes: Episode at 2 AM - The Hypoglycemia Strikes Back

Yesterday was a highly productive day, as far as Summer Break days go.
I spent the morning blogging and then drove over to our moonwalk warehouse down the street to wash my truck.
And boy, did my truck need washed.
I got my truck in September of last year -
I have not washed it once.
It actually didn't look that bad, all things considered... well, so I thought, until I actually started washing it, that is.

After I got it hosed off and got a good coat of soapy cleaning solution rubbed in, I realized that my truck had been so dirty that you could hardly tell how white it really was. The difference was akin to the difference between a pothole and the Grand Canyon. I didn't even know that white could feasibly be that dirty while still managing to be white. The start of my cleaning left streaks of pearly white crisscrossing all over the tepid grey coat of dirt that had settled on my truck for far too long.

I had figured I wouldn't be out there too long, so I didn't bother with sunscreen. I just stayed out in the brilliant, blinding hot Floridian sun with my white-white pale skin.

And fried, unsuspectingly enough, as I scrubbed and windex-ed, washed out the tailbed, vacuumed, waxed and launched an all-out offensive attack against any lovebugs that dared settle on my newly-cleaned car -- err, truck.

Sure, I could have saved myself the trouble, the effort, the slight hypoglycemia, and the searing sunburn by just running my truck through an automatic car wash for $5. But there's something purely satisfying about a clean, hand-washed truck. That and I was being a total cheapskate. That and I'm clearly a masochist because I just love getting highly painful sunburns in addition to testing my blood glucose and giving myself insulin shots.
I felt a little shakey after being out in the hot sun for at least two hours, so I took a break to let my car dry before applying the waxing spray. I tested my blood sugar and it was at 67; not too bad, but I didn't want to let that 67 slip into anything worse since I planned on being out there a little longer. I munched on a small granola bar and sipped a Diet Coke that I had brought along with me in the shade.

After I was convinced that my car was clean enough to be presented to the Queen, I stood back, admired my work, and drove home. It wasn't until about an hour later that I started to notice the painful sunburn developing on my arms, shoulder, neck and upper back. My blood sugar had also dropped to 57. Don't you just love your body sometimes? So I went ahead and made myself a quick dinner; tuna sandwich and an apple.
Low corrected, I let dinner settle and then was off - I have finally been inspired to work out again. I packed my meter and strips, lancet, water, a couple of snacks, glucose tabs, and glucagon kit into a backpack and biked over to the track. 2.5 miles of running-jogging-walking later, I biked back home. I ate a rice cake to stave off any low blood sugar and relaxed for the evening.
I tested before bed: 167. Kind of spiky. Hmm. I will admit to having snacked a little more than I should have. I only had a piece of fruit for bedtime snack since my sugar was that high, then gave myself Lantus, then went to bed.

My eyes flew open.
Mmmmphhhh. I muttered. Ugh.
The AC hasn't been working and the house is literally hotter than it is outside. But I am not much of a sweater, and I had woken up drenched - seriously drenched - in sweat.I felt like I had just been swimming in a pool of it. Conscience-Lacy suggested that perhaps I should check my blood sugar, just in case - now that I'm not waking up 5 times a night to use the bathroom anymore I usually sleep soundly unless low blood sugar wakes me up, which it has done only a few times before.
I turned on my bedside light and then realized how shaky my hand was. It all started to hit me. My heart was beating in my ears. I could hardly hold the lancet steady and it was two or three times before I could get a pinprick and slip the ruby red dot onto a test strip. 35. Mmmmkay, tired Lacy thought groggily.

Waaaiiit. Wha?

35? 


I had never been that low before. I had exercised at 5:30 pm. Maybe this was delayed hypoglycemia from the exercise.

But ohmygosh.

35.

OHMYGOSH.

WTF.

My body suddenly seemed to realize, "Hey, woah, wow. 35. I'm gonna be a real pain, as I always am, and start freaking out on you now. More than usual." And I suddenly felt so weak that I didn't think I could have gotten up to get to the kitchen even if I had wanted to. It was paralyzing. I thanked God I had decided, on one of my OCD cleaning raids, to put my rice cakes in the drawer in my nightstand next to my bed. I whipped the drawer open, struggled to undo the plastic, and munched on one as fast as I could.

Then it was official. The beast had been unleashed.

NEED.FOOD.NOW.

I waited a sec to regain some strength and was off to the kitchen like a marathon runner.

FOOD!

I grabbed peanut butter, I grabbed cereal, I stuck cereal in peanut butter, I ate the cereal in the peanut butter, I grabbed graham crackers, I ate graham crackers with peanut butter and graham crackers with peanut butter and blackberry jelly, I ate scoops of peanut butter with jelly, I ate just scoops of peanut butter, I ate just scoops of jelly.

Oh, how I ate.

In actuality, I didn't actually eat all of that in such copious quantities as I made it out to be, but yeah. I still ate way too much. I over-corrected. And I knew it.

As I scooped spoons of peanut butter in my mouth, I knew that I had no business eating food anymore, I had already corrected myself more than enough.

But it was like... I didn't care.

I have divided my excuses onto two hands:

1.) On one hand, hypoglycemia makes you want to shove all food, any food, in your mouth, as soon as you can get it.

2.) On the other hand, as guilty as I feel to say it, hypoglycemia is the closest I can get to feeling like a normal person again.

To feeling like you.

To feeling like I can eat what I want, when I want, without inhibitions, without the constant carb-calculator, counting away, in my head 24 hours a day, without the nagging: "DIDYOUTAKEYOURSINULINYESITOOKTHEDAMNINSULIN" conscience of mine.

And it's a really crappy feeling.
I hate it.
I feel degraded, I feel defeated, I feel beaten.
I feel like diabetes wins in moments like that.

I HATE IT! Can you possibly understand how intolerable it is sometimes? I hate feeling guilty every time I eat something. I used to feel guilty about eating because of the amount of calories, what it would make my body look like, but that is no longer top priority! I still care, but that can no longer always come first!

Now it is because of the carbs, the blood sugar, the amount of insulin I'll need, my meal plan, what my Doctors will say, my A1C, my entire well-being. Every time I eat, it is not just the carb calculator in my head but the consequence calculator, adding up all of the consequences of my actions, what I have chosen to eat, advertising my shortcomings, blaring them in my face, on full-screen TV.

I hate that Diabetes, like an unwanted guest, has entered my life uninvited, unasked for, has taken over everything. I try my best to control it but it is times like this that I feel like Diabetes is the real boss. I hate that Diabetes makes me feel bad about doing something that I am naturally supposed to be allowed to do - but because my body has failed me - I can no longer do, well, naturally. I cannot eat a sandwich without thinking of it. I cannot mindlessly spoon peanut butter into my mouth any longer. Gone are the days when I can eat free cookies at Publix like I always used to, even though I am no longer 12. And then that makes me want to cheat, because not being able to eat normally makes me want to pretend like I can eat normally any chance I get.

And you know, Irony would have it that I would have never done those things if I hadn't gotten Diabetes. I never wanted to. But now it's not because I don't want to, it's because I can't, and I no longer have the choice.


Live or die Lacy, Live or die? Is sometimes the only option that I seem to have now; the one and only, terrible question that Diabetes will ever ask of me. What kind of a choice is that?

Now that I can't, I wish from the bottom of my heart that I had dared to live more before my diagnosis. Even if it was living in that simple way. Even if I had appreciated my good health more, my ability to eat without the hassle, the strain, the calculators, the insulin, the guilt, The Diabetes.

Yes, I over-corrected for my low. I knew that I would get a high from it. I knew better. My mind was telling me I knew better the whole time I sat there, over-correcting. I knew the consequences. I knew I would wake up and my blood sugar would be something along the lines of 229. UGH. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,

And yet I did it anyways. 
I am human, I do stupid things, I succumb to weakness.

And I don't want it to happen again, but I can't honestly tell you if it will or not.
Because I am new to this, I am full of mistakes, I am Lacy Elizabeth Ball and I hate having Diabetes but I have to suck it up and live with it anyways, because to not live with it is to die.

So yes. This time, at 2 AM, the hypoglycemia struck back.
Who knows when it will strike again? Will I be ready?

What Do You Think I Am, a Pancreas?

I have been out of the hospital for over two weeks now.

Currently, life has fallen into a steady rhythm, and for the first time in a long time, it feels almost normal.

Sure, there are those times when I sit down to eat my lunch, finish my sandwich, and realize I forgot to take my Novolog Insulin.

Times when I'm chilling out, listening to music, and realize I'm 30 minutes late to take my Lantus Insulin.

Times when I'll sit up and my heart starts beating fast, my legs grow weak, my arms grow shaky as my body begins to battle hypoglycemia yet again.

The moments I get frustrated because I know that I shouldn't eat as many carbs in that meal as I want to; when I have to skip out on the sweet tea or get guilted into getting a salad instead of fries on the side.

The tiring moments when I have to search my room for extra test strips, remember where I put the cap to my needle syringe, and poke my finger three times with the lancet before I can get enough blood for a meter test.

And then there's the worry.

The worry of how I'll ever be able to pay for all of this stuff.

The worry that though life seems normal now, there are serious long-term complications that can arise - and are more likely to arise - the longer I have diabetes.

Lately it's been this second one that's been nagging at me. I guess in a way, it might be a blessing that I didn't get diabetes until I was older. My hope is that perhaps it will bide me sometime before any possible complications start rearing their ugly heads. Beyond that is my hope that complications will never arise at all. I just want to be healthy. Is that so much to ask? Apparently, it is. You never realize what a blessing it is to be in good health until you aren't anymore. Until you can never go back.

If I was back to my normal life and didn't have diabetes anymore, I would wake up every day thanking God and thinking that life could be a whole lot worse: "At least I don't have Diabetes."

I think the hardest part about having it is knowing that there is no cure.

Guess I'll have to think of a new terminal illness to be grateful about not having.

Truth: I'm scared. Still.

I'm scared I'll lose my vision, or die of kidney or heart failure. All possible complications.

I want to be a mother someday, and I'm afraid that I won't be able to ever manage my blood sugar well enough to be safe to have children. That I'll mess up. That I'd be putting an innocent life in danger, that wanting to have kids with diabetes is selfish because it is very difficult and complicated. That alone just makes me want to cry sometimes. Why, why can't I be normal and healthy like so many others? I just wonder that sometimes. I know it is not my fault, I know it is not what I did. But sometimes I wonder why I had to be the one, out of so many healthy billions of people, to get diabetes.

To err is to be human - it is impossible to explain to someone without diabetes how difficult it is to manage for yourself what the body is supposed to do for you without a second thought.

It comes down to the fact that: I am not a pancreas.

How I wish I could go through life again, without a worry for my health!

Now it is a constant worry.

I know that I can't and shouldn't let worry get ahold of me.

And it's all part of the process of first being diagnosed.

But will the worry go away?

Or will it always be there, always nagging, always in the back of my mind, or in the front, like it is today?

Am I justified to worry?

I think so.

I just pray that God watches over me and that I can overcome it...

I could use all the prayer I can get right now.

Caution: Fragile.

Death is patient, death is deep;

Death is slumber, peaceful sleep

Death is equal, death is kind

Death's of subtle, cunning mind;

Death caught me once, how could I forget

Dear Lord, please do not let death take me yet.

My life is fragile.

A string, a feather, a blade of grass -

Easily stepped on, snuffed out, blown away.

All of our lives, so easily broken.

Sometimes we forget, sometimes we remember.

But our lives are also so much stronger than they seem.

Each of us, imbued with a passion to live, a love of life.

Don't ever lose that passion.

When I first got diabetes, I felt like I had.

I had my life, but it hardly seemed like a life worth living.

But that's selfish.

There are so many people who prayed for me, who loved me, who took the time to tell me they care.

It would be selfish to not have a passion for living, to face life with the same drive and courage that I always had.

And I will face life like that - if for them even more than for myself.

Whoever is reading, please don't ever forget that God loves you.

That God made you special, that the reason you are alive right now, at this very moment, is because God has a very special plan for you, a plan made just for you, a purpose that ensures that your life is never in vain.

It could be something as great as changing the world.

Or something as simple and poignant as falling in love, which changes the world in its own little way.

You are here for a reason, a reason that no other person here on his Earth is alive for.

Cherish it.

Disclaimer: No, Not Low - Just Annoyed!

Herm... lately I have been hearing a lot of debate over whether or not Type 1 Diabetes should be considered a disability.

Well, I don't know what the general consensus is, but here's my opinion:

yes.

I think that diabetes should be considered a disability, absolutely.

This might sound weird, I know. Why would I actually WANT to have an illness that is considered a disability?
Honestly, it has nothing to do with being angry about having diabetes or feeling sorry for myself. Nor is it a matter of pride.
I'm not saying it because I hope to get special treatment, or perks for having a serious - or at least potentially serious - medical condition.

It's just, what irks me is that many people would write off diabetes type 1 as a non-disability out of ignorance.
Out of this ignorance they have no idea what Type 1 diabetics have to go through on a daily basis, the complications that can inevitably arise simply for having diabetes, and the consequences of what would happen if diabetes was not treated properly. Diabetes is a lifelong condition, and it does have restrictions. I cannot enter the services, I cannot drive a public bus, and there are some careers that I would be restricted from entering or would not be suitable for me to pursue. I need to take breaks from my schedule to check my blood sugar, eat, give insulin injections, etc.

Doctors honestly don't know why a person gets Type 1 - but it is generally agreed that it is not because of lifestyle, as is usually the case with Type II. Yet Diabetics type 1 are pooled with the high-risk groups in insurance companies as if it were a punishment; as if it WERE their fault that they got Type 1. This is ridiculous! Type 1 diabetics can help becoming diabetic no more than cancer patients can help getting cancer. (Note: I'm drawing a line between getting cancer and sitting in a tanning bed every day.) I understand, yes, insurance companies are a business, and it isn't very good business sense to insure a diabetic. But charging me three times as much as a normal person? That's not even reasonable. That's more than it would cost to buy the insulin myself from Canada. Really?

Back to disabilities.

A disability is defined in the dictionary as:

a. The condition of being disabled; incapacity. Something that disables; handicap.
b. Something that hinders or incapacitates.
c. A disadvantage or deficiency, especially a physical or mental impairment that interferes with or prevents normal achievement in a particular area.
4. The condition of being unable to perform a task or function because of a physical or mental impairment

Diabetes is typically not considered a disability. This is understandable; with insulin, diabetics can pretty much function like normal.

But let's face it - Diabetic Type 1's are COMPLETELY insulin-dependent. Insulin is NOT a cure, it is only a treatment. But without it a diabetic type 1 will die. As of now there is no cure for diabetes - there may never be.

A pancreas that does not function is quite the disadvantage, isn't it? Isn't it a deficiency? A vital organ in me is not working properly, if it is even working at all any more.

When I was lying on my bed sick, throwing up every few minutes, unable to keep any food or drinks down, I felt pretty disabled. When I passed out on the floor and had no strength to get up and get back to bed, I was pretty incapacitated. When my legs were turning blue and I had lost so much weight that you could see my ribs, my elbows, my hip bones, when I looked emaciated - that wasn't normal. When I was going into a coma and dying because my blood sugar levels were through the roof, I was restricted from doing much of anything. And you know what? That could happen again, any day, if I were not to take my insulin.

Without insulin, I have a condition that renders me unable to eat without killing myself - unable to perform a task or function because of a physical impairment. A faulty pancreas is, indeed, something that disables, since it will kill you if it goes untreated.

Granted, there is no infallible test to determine disability. There is no golden standard. However, an individual is considered to have a disability if it significantly limits one or more of an individual's major life activity. People tell me diabetes doesn't limit me - well, I'm not trying to gain sympathy or pity for saying this, but it does. Diabetes does limit me - or has the potential to limit me - in several major life activities. Without insulin, I could do nothing.

Life is usually like normal for me, as long as I remember to bring my little cooler of insulin with me wherever I go, and make sure I never forget it. That little cooler with JDRF (Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation) printed on the side is like a constant reminder of what I now have to live with, telling me, "Hey, remember me? Yeah, I'm your diabetes. Don't eat too many carbs or I might have to kill you. P.S. don't forget to take your insulin injection. Have a nice day!"

Insulin is like the diabetic's version of the wheelchair, and without it we are paralyzed. I think if you are so dependent upon something that you need it to function in normal life and you need it to live, that that's quite a disability.

Perhaps what I'm asking for is simply a little more respect from people and places like insurance companies for what I have. I wish people would stop treating diabetes like it was something that deserved a punishment because it was my fault for getting it. I wish people wouldn't stereotype diabetics, I'd love it if people became more educated before opening their mouths and saying un-educated things.
For some reason lately, this subject has just seemed to rile me up. That's all.


What are your opinions? Do you think that diabetes should be considered a disability, or no? I won't be offended if you disagree or completely bash my opinions - it's expected, I am perfectly capable of agreeing to disagree. So please, feel free to leave your thoughts - simply be respectful when you do. I'd love to hear them all. Thanks!

I'll Take The Diet Coke Instead...

It's been one week since I got out of the hospital.

I've come a long way.

My first day getting out was a trainwreck. After seeing the endocrinologist (for all terms and purposes known as the Diabetes Doctor), getting my finger pricked for the 500th time, establishing a meal plan, and learning the ins and outs of masochism-via-insulin-shots for dummies, mom, Dad and I celebrated and went to our favorite sushi restaurant in town, Fuji Sushi. It's always a bit strange, all of us being together. But it's nice to have the rare occasion of being out with both of my parents and I enjoy the novelty of it.

We sit down, I with my massive bag full of prescription glucose meters, strips, and insulin pens. I grab the nutrition book and flip to the "sushi" section. Dad and I used to come here all the time before I got sick.

The waitress comes over. "Aren't you that girl who used to come in here with her dad?" She asks me. "Yeah..." I said.

"You look different," she remarks.

No duh. I've been in the ICU for the past week, not exactly looking my best.

"I know. I've been in the hospital.." I reply. "She got diabetes." Dad said.

I was an emotional basket case. I promptly burst into inconsolable tears.

The waitress seemed panicked, like she didn't know what to do. "I'm sorry -- I'm sorry!" She cried. "Can I get you a drink?" "I'll-- I'll take-- the Diet Coke." I stumbled out. She took everyone else's orders and shuffled away.

I must have sat there 5 minutes debating whether or not I was going to prick my finger. I finally pricked it, tested my blood sugar, which was on the high side at over 300. I took an insulin pen. I screwed on a needle and held it to my skin, but every time I tried to plunge the needle in, I just froze. My utter and complete terror of needles along with my overly-emotional mental block was making it impossible for me to give myself that shot, which I had spent 15 minutes in the hospital last night gathering the courage to do myself. Which wasn't helping me now, because the more I thought about that, the worse I felt about not being able to do it now, and the more tears poured down my face, blurring my vision and throwing me into further hysterics.

I finally just gave up and had mom give me my two insulin shots.

I spent the rest of the time sniffling and eating my sushi.

It was not a good night.

Last night we went to have dinner with my grandparents, who are in town for the weekend. We went to Bahama Breeze and picked a nice table outside, where the band was playing and the breeze was blowing. People chatted, laughed and ate at tables and waiters darted about. I had my insulin pens, book and blood glucose testing supplies subtly tucked away into my white purse and I looked much more put-together than a week ago. I opened my nutrition book but found out that Bahama Breeze was not in it. I was a little panicked. How many carbs did everything have? The waiter came over. "Unsweet tea," I ordered courageously. I miss sweet tea terribly. I pondered over the menu some more, debating over which had more carbs, the salad or the chicken (If that seems like a stupid thing to wonder, consider that I've seen salads at restaurants that have upwards of 100 carbs - they can be deceiving). I settled on a chicken dish that seemed like a good balance of protein, vegetables and carbs and ordered that. My first glass of iced tea I put two artificial sugars in. Icky. Too chemical-sweet. My second glass I ditched the sugar and just squeezed lemon in. Thanks Coop; what a great tip! It wasn't sweet tea, but, well... it didn't taste completely like un-sweet tea at least, either. It was pretty good, from a diabetic's point of view.

Our food came. I rushed to the bathroom to give myself insulin shots. When at a restaurant, if you are a diabetic, always wait before your meal is in front of you to give yourself an insulin shot if it is the fast-acting kind. I take two kinds of insulin; Lantus, the slow-acting insulin that will last for 24 hours, and Novolog, the fast-acting insulin that will cover me when I eat and that I take before every meal. Novolog starts working in 15 minutes and is finished working after 2 hours, so you want to take it as close to mealtime as possible.

I pick a stall and prepare to give myself insulin shots in the leg. The door doesn't shut all the way; oh well, I figure. A lady accidentally opens the door. "I'm sorry," she says. "Oh, it's fine, I say casually, needle in hand, shorts lifted up. "No big deal."

Goodness, I'd hate to know what she was thinking.

I give myself my shots and casually hurry back to the table. My meal looks like the healthiest thing on the table and I devour it quickly. Over the past week I've built up quite an appetite. I don't know how many carbs are in my meal but I hope my blood sugar will be okay. I wonder if maybe I should have given myself another unit; but my blood sugar had been only 65 before eating and I'd been feeling hypoglycemic. I had taken two glucose tablets (basically pills of sugar that diabetics always carry around in case of low blood sugar) because I get very shaky and weak when my blood sugar is low. I could always tell when my blood sugar was low, even before I became a diabetic. I thought that I simply had hypoglycemia, but now that I think about it, perhaps I should have taken the wacked-out blood sugar as an indication that something else was afoot, and should have gotten tested for blood sugar issues long ago. But no use dwelling in the past. Unfortunately, for some reason I am not yet good at telling when my blood sugar is high. I can't hardly tell at all, and I wonder if I will ever be able to tell - well, before I get sent back to the hospital because it's too high, that is. (Which will hopefully be never).

Overall, it was a good night. I was a bit emotional still about the whole diabetes thing, because I had to do a lot of explaining to my grandparents about giving myself shots before every meal ("Yes, I have to do that for forever") and why I had bruises all over me ("Insulin shots often leave bruises").

And, at 9:30 when I tested again, my blood sugar was 201! I know that is a little on the spikey side, but for eating out that isn't bad considering what my levels have been like lately. So I feel that I am making a bit of progress.

Now I am eating out again tonight - wish me luck?

Fear.

Fear and I are well-acquainted with each other.

There are many things I fear.

I fear spiders. Watching scary movies alone at night. I fear tornadoes. Failure. Car accidents. I fear being alone.

We could spend our whole lives consumed, developed by fear.

We could try and lead safe, secure, scheduled lives, all in hopes of avoiding our worst and deepest fears.

We could avoid jumping all together, never risking the fall that is the potential cost of even the seemingly most simple of things.

But fear won't do.

Fear won't save your life; it will take it from you.

Fear, if you let it envelop you, could take hold of you completely.

What we have to fear is, indeed, fear itself.

I will admit that I am scared, sometimes, ever since I found out that I had this disease.

I read so many stories, hear so many things.

People who go to bed fine and never wake up; their bodies simply give up on them, despite all of the care, despite the precautions and cautious careful monitoring of blood sugar levels.

People whose hearts give out on them, people who pass out because of low blood sugar or go into a coma.

Like I know I very well should have a week and a half ago when my blood sugar levels were over 900 and I was mere inches away from death.

I know there are horror stories like this associated with nearly everything, but it's hard to just ignore them when you are faced with the fact that they ARE still a possibility when you have a health condition like mine.

I am scared I will never live a long life, that I will never be able to manage diabetes, that no matter what I do, it will never be enough.

I am scared that it will beat me, that I will not win.

I am scared that I will never be able to afford insulin or the price it takes to keep me alive.

I am less than 6 months from 18.

I will no longer be a child, but an adult.

This isn't a good thing in the health care industry.

I have bad eyes, my back has been fractured, and I have Type 1 Diabetes.

I have no health insurance, and let's face it, even if I applied for health insurance: what health care company would take me? I would be pooled into the high-risk group and most likely face sky-high premiums simply because I have a disease I never intended to get.

It's not unfair, it's business. If I were a health coverage provider, I wouldn't take me either. Because let's face this: I am a bad investment.

No matter how healthy I may be able to make myself be, I will never be as healthy as the majority of you reading this.

And it terrifies me.

I can't even afford college, let alone the hundreds of dollars a month insulin or doctor's visits will cost.

I've applied for Medicaid, though I have always hated entitlements and preached against them. That tears me up inside and makes me feel more awful than you can imagine, to have to be dependent on the Government like that.

It gives me a sinking feeling in my chest, makes me feel hopeless and lost.

Dear God, I feel like such a hypocrite, talking about how much I hate big government and all that we should provide for ourselves;

Yet if it weren't for Medicaid, I could be dead next month.

Medicaid, which faces cuts now that we are facing sky-high budget deficits.

I don't even know how to feel about cutting it now.

Sometimes I don't even know how I should feel anymore.

My life is now full of fear, full of uncertainty.

I couldn't tell you what I might expect in the weeks, the months, the years to come; I don't even know what to expect tomorrow.

I can only take one thing at a time. I must not let fear grab ahold of me.

I can only commit my fears to God and take comfort in the fact that he will provide for me. I am so scared. I am learning what it truly means to be deprived and helpless and be forced to depend on God.

Somehow, despite my fears, I know that will be enough for me.

Diabetes-Vanity.

I have never been the kind of girl to roll out of bed, brush my hair, put something on, and be ready to go in 5 minutes.

I feel gross when I don't take a shower in the morning, brush my teeth, and make myself look presentable.

I have always taken pride in appearing neat and well-put together. Rarely will you find a day when I don't smell good and have my hair done at least decently.

I always, always wash my face and take great care to manage my skin.

I like to wear makeup in public, as I think that for women it is professional to do so and shows that you go the little extra mile to look good and take care of what you look like.

I will admit it, because I'm being very honest these days:

I am very vain about my appearance.

Last week when I got into the hospital, it was a bit of a routine-shock to me.

It was the least of my worries, I didn't even think about it -

But I possessed no soap, no skin lotion, no makeup, no blowdryer, not even a hair elastic.

I probably looked terrible, as I was completely unkempt and in the hospital.

But for the first time in a long time, I didn't care.

My first day in the ICU, and my mom brushed my hair and gave me a hairband.

That was a big deal.

The rest of the week I would take a shower with the one kind of soap I was provided, brush my hair, put it in a hairband, and be ready to go.

In a way, it was refreshing.

I enjoyed my week without worrying about my skin, my hair, my makeup, my appearance.

It was like a bit of freedom.

No one expected me to look pretty or even look good, for that matter.

But despite that, it was a boost to my self confidence because it gave me time to remember that appearance doesn't make the person.

That there are so many more important things.

I would stare in the mirror for a few brief seconds at the hospital, looking at a girl I barely recognized.

Fresh-faced, young-looking for her age. Too skinny; at only 99 pounds now, I looked practically emaciated. Bruised from IV's and illness, covered in red-tipped pinpricks. Mousy hair, chapped lips, sad eyes. A blemish on my chin, a scar above my right eyebrow. Band-aids lining both my arms.

Sometimes it takes courage to face who you really look like, who you truly are behind the makeup, the fancy clothes, the confidence you wear like an accessory; only to take it all off at the end of the day.

This was me, at my worst, facing my imperfections.

And it's funny.

I would gladly give up wearing makeup or looking pretty or even caring about my appearance, for the rest of my life, if only I could be healthy again.

It's funny how easily your priorities are realigned.

Nowadays I find the one thing I am particularly vain about is no longer my appearance. I care less about makeup and nice clothes and doing my hair. I care less about following a militarily-precise skin care regimen or that my teeth are two shades less white than I'd like them to be. I see the minuscule laugh lines around my mouth, the creases on my forehead, the lines under my eyes; signs to remind me that I, too, will age someday and lose the beauty of youth that I still possess.

I exercise now, and it is not merely because I want to look nice in a bikini.

It is because I want to live long, be healthy, and control diabetes; NOT let it control me.

No, the one thing I am vain about is my diabetes itself.

Every time I hear someone say I have diabetes or ask me if I have diabetes, I always specify after the word diabetes: Type 1.

Not Type II.

This was not my fault, this was not my lifestyle that caused me to incur this illness. I was born this way. I cannot help it.

I worry about things such as ever getting an insulin pump because of what people might think when I go to beach, or go swimming with a computer attached to my bathing suit. "What the hell is that?" They might ask.

Or what the waiter thinks when I order from the menu, my nutrition book in hand; I can imagine them saying to themselves, "what a snob!"

Or what people think when I now specify: diet or sugar free, please. "She's too young to be worrying about her figure," I imagine them thinking.

I am not free of vanity, and I doubt I ever will be.

So I still try and look nice, well-put together, pretty.

I still try to manage my life as if it were perfectly normal, as if pretending will give me back what I have lost, or at least make me forget.

I try to make people see that I, too, am a normal teenage - almost-adult - girl. That I have the same capabilities as anyone going off to college, that I can manage the same schedule that they can despite the full-time-job-without-pay I now have of managing my Diabetes, Type I.

I am still human, I am still imperfect, I still possess vanity.

But it is incorrect to say I have not changed.

Never again will I take things for granted, never will I forget what a blessing it was once to be able to be normal.

I hope I will live long, I hope I will one day be able to look back on my life and say: "Wow. That was all worth it."

It's going to be hard, it's going to be a struggle.

But I hope that Diabetes will at least teach me how much life really means.

I have Diabetes, but it will not beat me.

It shapes me, it changes me.

But it does not, will not, ever define me.

The Non-Self Help Book for Diabetes

Erica and I deliberated and came up with an idea which will help get my mind off the doom-and-gloom of having diabetes, and focus more on the humorous side of it. I don't like self help books, so my "book" is the opposite; it's basically just a new journal I have started documenting all of my new adventures, like how it is to learn to give yourself insulin shots when your biggest fear IN THE ENTIRE WORLD is needles. These days I need all the ways to rant and rave that I can get, and I figure it will help me to feel better. So I have my book (who knows? maybe I'll publish and become a gazillionare one day, create an artifical pancreas and ka-zam!, no more diabetes for me) - and I have this blog, and both will sort of follow that "non-self-help" theme. So a lot of things I write in my book I will put down here for y'all to read if you are interested - which I don't know if you are, but if you are, I'm honored!

Hey, at least now I have a lot to blog about.

The first chapter of my book is titled,

1.

Diabetes is for Masochists

This is a suitable chapter title. In fact, the term "masochist" is a suitable adjective for Diabetes.

For those of you who were like me just a week ago, allow me to educate you a bit on Type 1 Diabetes. Doctors do not really know why you get it, which kind of frustrates me because I'd sure as hell like to know what I could have NOT done in order to avoid getting Diabetes.

Anyways, moving on. Diabetes Type 1 is basically a disease where your pancreas attacks itself, fails and causes you to stop creating insulin, which is necessary because it allows sugar - food for cells - into the cells. It is not to be confused with Diabetes Type II, which has more to do with genetics and unhealthy lifestyle. You can be perfectly healthy and just "get" diabetes type I, though you usually do when you are younger. There is no cure, and Diabetes Type 1 MUST be treated with Insulin or YOU WILL DIE! Afterall, when a bad pancreas causes insulin production to stop, sugar can't get into your cells, and this is, as you might imagine, very bad.

So, imagine your pancreas has now stopped functioning properly. Let us walk through this experience.

You will notice that you have to drink water about every .012765 seconds and then about 5 seconds later you will have to use the bathroom - what water weight?

You will lose a ton of weight because your cells are basically being starved - a revolutionary diet plan!

Even though you're POSITIVE that you are full, you will still feel like you have plenty of room for that extra slice of pizza or birthday cake - but don't worry, because remember, you're losing weight! Eat whatever you want! Calories don't count!

However, the fun, unfortunately, must come to and end. All of those sleepless nights from having to get up and pee, all of those insane calorie-laden food-eating escapades; no, I am afraid they do not go on forever. You might just end up like me; strapped to a stretcher and whisked away to the ICU.

So now, insulin or death?

"YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT BEFORE I EAT EVERY MEAL?!"

Two nurses corner me on my first day back to consciousness, needles on each side, and jab me. Tears stream down my face. I am usually well put-together but needles ... those hold a very deep-rooted place of hate within me.

You have no need to worry of my ever being a heroin addict, or any kind of drug that involves needles (well, nor any kind of drug, of course).

Because I fear the needle.

Let me say that again.

I HATE NEEDLES!

Ever since I was a little girl, I knew that needles and I did not get along. I dreaded every school shot, cried every time I had to get one, and if I saw anyone as a potential threat to my needle-less life I usually fled the room STAT, even to this day. I abandon all maturity, the blinds come off, and I am a freaking baby when it comes to getting shots.

So imagine my ecstatic joy when I found out I was diabetic.

For Diabetics, eating is quite a process.

1. Diabetics must first test their blood sugar before every meal. This requires a handy device called a lancet, which is basically a fancy word for "sharp object from the stone age required for pricking finger". Seriously. I can download an app for my phone that detects metal, but the best thing they have come up with to test my blood sugar involves a freaking needle? Where is the technology here?

2. Then, depending on my blood sugar level, I give myself a dose of short-acting insulin into an area of fat on my body. This means on my belly, my thighs, my butt, or the back of my arm (how I am supposed to give myself a shot on the back of the arm while pinching fat I have yet to figure out). I have these handy "insulin pens" I set up so I can inject myself. I have to clean the area, then pinch it, then insert the needle. Hold 10 seconds and enjoy the pain. Remove. This injection will cover the amount of insulin I need to digest my meal, because everyone knows that shots before meals are the perfect way to build an appetite!

3. So now I am all ready to eat. YUM! But wait - I can't eat just anything; I must carefully study the nutritional labels first. Previously I really only scanned these labels for the calorie count - yes, I will admit to being quite figure-conscious - but now the important thing to watch here is the carbohydrates. I challenge you to do that at your next meal. Count your carbs. I'm supposed to eat roughly 45 carbs per meal. Items higher than 60 carbs will probably send my blood sugar through the roof... but we have yet to test that on a milkshake yet!

I have eaten my meal. Now I am done with that whole ordeal, until my next meal, where I must do the process over again. So I get a minimum of 4 shots a day plus Blood Glucose tests. I am a walking, living, breathing, overused pincushion. For masochists, this would be a very fun and exciting experience. You get to hurt yourself AT EVERY MEAL!

Unfortunately, I do not have the good favor of having been born with masochistic tendencies. Only diabetic ones. This past week I have had to brave the needle and, let me tell you, if you have seen me (especially after all the weight loss) it is tough to keep finding fat to inject needles into! (This is not to say I want to be fat - come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever seen a fat Type 1 diabetic).

Rest assured all you masochists and non-masochists out there, there's sure to be more updates on my learning to shoot up later (No - still not a druggie!)

So I hope you've been reasonably entertained enough to want to read more. More later...