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.

Regular Routine.

Good morning, world!

Today is my half-birthday and I am only six months away from being 18!

(Hey, gimme a break here, I needed to have something interesting about today).

I am on here to write a quick blog before working on my homework for the day.

It feels great to be up early.

I woke up at 7 this morning, my cat passed out on the pillow beside me. As soon as I rolled over she took that as an "OH! LACY'S UP! TIME FOR FOOD!"

So, naturally, I had no choice in the matter.

I fed my piggy of a cat (I swear, she has more of an appetite than I do) and made some coffee.

It's such a pretty day out.

(Notice I say this before I've gone outside to feel the lovely Floridian humidity and heat. The day won't seem so pretty then).

I checked my blood sugar - yesterday evening I went to a party and though I was careful to watch my carbs and eat mostly protein (chicken and beef and cheese) I couldn't help but to have a couple of cookies and some cheesesticks. I gave myself a bit more insulin last night to cover it but apparently I didn't give myself enough...

I prick my finger and slide a test strip into the meter. My blood sugar was 413 this morning. "Holy crap!" I resisted the urge to say any bad words and grabbed a towel. Time for a shower.

After getting ready I gave myself my insulin shot, a whole 7 units before breakfast. I will definitely be going on a walk today.

Of course, at this rate, I might need to spend the whole day doing all-out sprints.

I had breakfast and went skimpy on the carbs this morning, and am trying to adjust myself to (shh - almost -) sugar-less coffee. Thankfully the coffee creamer only has 1 carb per serving, so I don't have to skimp on that. I used to drink my coffee all black but all the time I spent up in Georgia gave me quite the sweet tooth. I suppose I should get some artificial sugar but I really abhor the stuff. I just can't make myself believe it tastes natural. I know sugar is not good for you but I really have a hard time believing chemically-made sugar is any better. That is a battle for another day; finding an artificial sugar that I like! Any suggestions, anyone? And does anyone have any suggestions for good tasting sugar-free foods and brands? And what am I going to do about the sweet iced tea dilemma? I LOVE iced tea! If you are reading, please leave some comments! I need all the help I can get here!

Now I am listening to MuteMath and hoping my blood sugar goes down by lunch time. I'll give y'all an update then. Later!

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.

One Large Milkshake and an Artificial Pancreas, Please.

It's been a week since I ended up in the ICU at Florida Hospital.

Life has changed, and it really isn't the same in any respects.

It is settling into a more normal rhythm for me, though.

This morning I woke up at around 8.

*Whhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee*

Hi-pitched buzzing filled my ears.

I almost miss the hospital - no mosquitoes. (And I had a big screen TV!)

Sleep impossible, I rolled over, feeling happy and luxurious in the same little day bed I've had since the 4th grade. My comforter was comfy, my pillows were fluffy, and sleep has just felt so GOOD lately - it was nice, even with the insect alarm-clock.

It is at this point that I remember I am diabetic and it is time to test my blood sugar. That always nags at me a little in the morning now - I am a little hesitant to sleep in too late, worried my blood sugar might be off and I'm slowly killing myself with my laziness.

I open my eyes - perfect vision without glasses, again - the doctor said my eyes would be strange for a while and he is definitely right about that.

Well, that was nice. You have no idea how amazing that is to me. I usually cannot even see my hand in front of my face without it being blurry but lately my eyesight is close to - okay, not quite - perfect. Isn't that so... WEIRD?! Unfortunately, I seem to be having a hard time focusing on close-up things - so it's like I've gone from nearsighted to farsighted literally overnight, after suffering from myopia (nearsighted-ness) for eight years. I hope my eyes get back to normal soon (Or better yet, I don't need glasses/contacts anymore!) I'd be perfectly happy with that - tit for tat, you might say, as if gaining back perfect vision might compensate a little for having diabetes now. I wonder if diabetes has always affected my eyesight for the worse or if this is just my body's way of evening out again. Probably the latter. Anyways, for the record, I would rather be nearsighted than farsighted. All this straining is giving me a headache. But I digress.

I get up and pick up the familiar black case with my blood-glucose testing supplies. My room is like a walk-in pharmacy now. Ketostrips, alcohol wipes, lancets, extra blood glucose testers, diabetes textbooks, calorie and nutrition fact books, syringes, needles, glucose tablets, insulin pens, emergency glucagon kit - you name it, I probably have it. I clean my finger with alcohol and make sure my lancet is ready to go - I pick a relatively un-pricked spot on my finger, press the lancet down, hesitate for a second. This is going to hurt. But the longer I wait, the harder it is, so I brace and press - there now, that wasn't so bad. Hardly hurt at all. I squeeze my finger until the blood pinprick pools and then slip a testing strip into the meter. Test. My blood glucose is 107 this morning, nearly perfect. (Normal blood sugar is 80 - 110 for a person without diabetes). That is probably the best it has been in weeks. I felt great, and now I had the blood sugar to prove it. "Mom!" I yelled excitedly. "My blood sugar was only 107 this morning!" It is amazing what manages to please me now.

Ah, the little things.

I take a shower first. This may seem random but this is actually a well-planned strategy. If I take my insulin first, I have to eat, but then I can't take a hot shower for at least 90 minutes because the insulin might not absorb properly. So I take my shower first, get ready, then make my breakfast. I get out the ingredients, counting carbs on the nutrition labels. I plan to start making a list of my favorite Diabetes-friendly foods so I can better control my blood sugar in the future. For now I am still experimenting. This morning I decide on an egg sandwich. I need to be careful and try and eat lean meats when possible, as diabetics are susceptible to heart disease. So I try to get the yolk out and only eat the white; but when I fork out the yolk, there is just about nothing left to eat! That can't be right. I sigh, give up, and just crack another whole egg into the bowl. Screw lean meats, I will eat my egg this morning. I fry it up, toast some bread and plop the egg onto the bread. Ta-da; a yummy sandwich! I prepare to take a bite.

"Oh wait," I remember.

I forgot to take my insulin shot.

I sigh and grab my dose table, alcohol wipe, needle, and insulin pen. Picking a suitable place and swabbing at it with the alcohol, I press the needle to my skin, wince, and pierce it. I press down the button to inject all of my insulin, careful to hold the needle under the skin for at least 10 seconds to make sure I got it all. Yesterday morning I accidentally missed a few drops of insulin and my blood sugar had to high levels to show for it. I am now free to eat my breakfast.

I spend the rest of the morning enjoying myself and playing catch-up on the week of school I've missed. Finals are this month but as stressed as I SHOULD be, the rest of life has taken to the backseat for now as diabetes seems to come first these days. It's funny, I am so much more mellow about things than I used to be. I find I am far less easily irritated, stressed, or upset. I just sort of roll with things now. They don't seem to be as big a deal as they once did.

In a way, it's a blessing - it's like I've matured 10 years in the past one week. I find myself appreciating blunt honesty nowadays rather than beating around the bush like my old, bottle-it-up self used to do. I find I am far more willing to be vulnerable and open up with people about my emotions and my life, whereas before I treated my private life as one big, exclusive secret under lock-and-key. I am thankful for every little thing, from my heart beating another day to my wonderful relationship with my boyfriend, which has felt so fluid and easy and happy these past few days it's really been impossible for me not to be in a good mood. Even my relationships with the rest of the people I live my life close to seem to have improved. I'm easily happy over the little things and brimming with topics to have a conversation with. It's funny and strange how diabetes has warped my perspective and changed who I am - but not in a bad way. I feel as if, even though it is a terrible illness, part of me was always waiting to find out I was diabetic so that I could grow up and learn from it. I am learning and changing and shaping again, hopefully for the better.

I check my blood sugar for lunch. It is over 300. "Ugh." I sigh. And I was doing so well. A little disheartened, I adjust my insulin and give myself a bigger dose to cover my higher blood sugar levels. Lunch is a tuna fish sandwich and an apple. Tuna is a very heart-healthy meat, I've been told, so we will likely see a lot of each other in the years to come.

My mother and I leave for a clown job. I grab my usual face painting supplies and this time, my "diabetes kit", which is a pack I put together holding all of my insulin and necessary testing supplies, nutrition book, and emergency kits. We face paint for three hours on a hot field, where the kids are sweating faster than we can stick the face paint on. The sights and smells of the festival are tempting and I find it is hard for me to look at many of the teens my age on the field, living perfectly healthy, non-diabetic lives. I enviously yet subtlety observe people as, carefree, they enjoy hotdogs and treats of cotton candy and popcorn, things I cannot eat unless I carefully fit them into my eating schedule and check to make sure they do not have too many carbs. I sip my diet coke in quiet and go on painting faces. I am hot and sweaty and sure this will make my blood sugar go down.

When we are done I test my blood sugar and I am right, it is now down to only 85. I am due for something to eat so we stop at Panera. Insulin pen and nutrition book in hand, I peruse the menu to find a meal not too high on carbs and then sigh as I go over to the drinks and get myself some UN-sweet iced tea. I pour in artificial sugar, try it, and make a face. "Gross," I say, dumping the concoction out, and settling for an equally less-satisfying diet pepsi instead.

One of my biggest regrets is not pigging out more before I got diabetes.

Our order comes up, and I excuse myself to the bathroom. I walk into the handicap stall, lock the door behind me, and hitch up my clown costume. Prepping my insulin pen, I pull it out of my pocket and give myself my quick and necessary injection before going back out to the main room. I am getting the hang of insulin shots but I still mourn the ease and simplicity of a normal life.

Truth is, I am terribly jealous of all of you reading this - most of you, hopefully, perfectly healthy individuals. It is hard to watch people be normal and then exhaust myself over making my body pretend to be. And still that is not always good enough. I am prone to kidney failure, heart disease, blindness, feet problems, and many complications if I do not keep my blood sugar in check. I need to start getting my highs and lows in check and stop having my blood sugar bounce all over the place. I do want to live a long and healthy life and I am learning that one of the hardest part about diabetes is not just simply getting used to needles and a strict diet, but doing what is necessary to keep my blood sugar in check as much as I can, at all times. It is very exhausting to manage that through a balance of good eating, correct amounts of insulin, exercise, and yet not overexerting myself. I feel like I am on a scale and I just can't get it balanced - it keeps rocking back and forth, back and forth, and I can't get it to hold steady in between.

So now I have concluded my day and I am craving an entire box of Krispy Kreme Donuts.

No, not just one donut.

The.Entire.Freaking.Box.

Screw calories, screw however pig-like and utterly disgusting it might be, give me a day without diabetes and I would freaking eat the ENTIRE box of donuts simply because I CAN. No joke. I would STUFF MY FACE WITH JUNK FOOD!

So go. Go out there, and go live. Here's my advice: go get something extremely calorie-laden, extremely unhealthy, and go eat it. Go ENJOY it. Right now. Because you never know if you will ever be able to enjoy something like that again. Because, trust me, life-changing things can happen literally in a day's time.

Never take milkshakes for granted.

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...

Continued.

Life has slowed.

It's been a week, and I am learning.

This whole experience has been a crash course.

Things have to be taken one step at a time.

Diabetes has slowly seeped into every bit of my life, affecting all of me.

It affects how I think of going off to college. Hanging out with friends. Going out to eat. Exercise. Bedtime. When I take my showers. So many things.

I mourn the easiness with which I once led my life, only a week ago.

It's strange to have a terminal illness.

To be, as overly dramatic as it sounds, so close to death.

I live with death every day now it seems, depending on insulin to take the place of the pancreas that failed me. I don't even have health insurance; we're still waiting to get federal aid. Without it, I couldn't even afford the very thing it takes to keep me alive.

If I skip an insulin shot, I could die.

Tomorrow, my life could end.

I suppose that could happen to anyone, but it feels odd to know there is no cure, that my disease is fatal.

Death does not scare me. You'd think I'd be terrified, but I figure if God wants to take me tomorrow, or 50, or 80 years from now, let it be. I've just sort of resigned myself to that fact. Death will come when it does.

It's strange to think I was a perfectly healthy girl, and this is me now.

No one really knows why you get Type I diabetes. I certainly don't.

A week ago I knew nothing about it.

Now I know more than most doctors.

Needles are my greatest fear, and now I have to give myself shots before every meal. It makes the day seem to much longer.

Now eating is a hassle, a process.

Look up carbs, carefully count them, test my blood sugar, look up my dose, inject Novalog. Dinner time? Inject Lantus as well. Bedtime? Do I need more insulin? What's my blood sugar? 2am? Is my blood sugar okay? Will I be alive in the morning? Want to go for a drive? Sure, let me check my blood sugar first. Want to go out to eat? Gimme a sec, I have to go give my shots...

Life has taken a lot of adjusting to. These past days I have been so emotional, so up and down. I don't know what to think, I am feeling so many things.

I don't blame God for this happening to me. I don't feel resentment. But there are times that I am sad, I am exhausted, I am angry. This is such a learning experience. This will take so much time.

The Beginning.

Warning: This post is a very detail-heavy description of my going into diabetic ketoacidosis (then unbeknown to me.) I'm just letting you know so that you can read at your own discretion.


---


This is the beginning of my new life.

My life with Type 1 Diabetes.
And I hate it.

Last Friday was prom. It was a wonderful night. I'd never felt so beautiful. I had a gorgeous red mermaid dress, my hair was curled, I did my makeup all nice, and I just felt all around lovely. We got there and it was so nice to see everyone. The Seniors went to Macaroni Grill, we took tons of pictures, laughed and smiled and the girls exclaimed how beautiful everyone was. We got to prom at the beautiful Longwood Community Center. But something felt different this year. I'd get up to dance, but... I just... wasn't feeling it. I'd go through the motions, have fun, move around, but my mind and my body seemed like two disconnected entities. And I just felt like I lacked the energy to do much of anything. It was so strange. I hate to go to dances and just sit. But I must have ended up sitting for the better half of the dance. The food looked so great; cookies, cheesecake, ice cream, fruit, punch. I would love to eat it now. But I found I had no appetite. No desire to eat, no desire to dance. And I was so thirsty... I must have downed about 10 bottles of water, and that's not an exaggeration.

I got back to my friend, Kaitlin's house afterwards, and didn't even have the energy to unpin my hair or take off my makeup. I felt ill but figured I'd be fine in the morning, if I just got some sleep. A few glasses of water later I collapsed into bed and was out like a lamp.

The next morning I woke up feeling the same; ill. But even worse so. I got up and nursed some water, then sat on the couch and just... well, sat. Staring out the window, breathing slowly, deeply. Sure I'd feel better later. I had some toast and some orange juice and convinced myself that I felt okay, so I left Kaitlin's for my own house. I had to get ready for work. I got dressed, got in the car. I was late. I felt ill again. Weak. And thirsty. Why was I so thirsty? I tried to drink water but my mouthy felt furry and fruity. Water was gross. I drank some Ginger Ale, but though it wasn't as bad as the water it did little to quench my thirst. My nerves were frazzled. I got to work and spent 2 hours face painting kids, sweating and shaking. At least I had a chair to sit in. Someone brought me water and I tried to drink it again, but that fruity taste wouldn't go away, and it felt rough on my tongue, like the equivalent of liquid sandpaper.

Then I went home, got changed, and went to go see my best friends whom I hadn't seen in years. It was supposed to be a happy day; a wonderful reunion between us. I was still feeling strange, ill, but I had an appetite at least. I was thinking some protein or something nice and solid would be good. Like a chicken sandwich. We had barbecue chicken pizza for dinner instead - not exactly my ideal choice considering the state I felt in. The sweetness made me feel a little more sickly, but I ate it. I felt better for a while, the illness alleviated. Water still felt a bit funny, but I just ignored my body and had a good time with friends. 


Then later we had these giant eclairs; yum! But suddenly, the feeling came back again. The illness. The more I ate, the worse I felt. I drank more water. It wouldn't do. Felt even funnier. I was so thirsty. Cheese. Cheese was good. And juice. That might help. I drank about half a carton of orange juice. I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up and I just knew I wasn't feeling well. You know what I'm talking about. The feeling you get when you wake up on a morning you're sick, and you're body is telling your mind, "Oh boy, you're really in for it today."


Yeah.


I knew that if I got up, one of two things was going to happen. a.) I was going to feel like I had to puke and most likely end up puking some time that morning. b.) I was going to puke my guts out immediately. I groaned inwardly. This was such an inopportune time to be sick.


My friends got up and made waffles which sounded fantastic. They tried to get me up but I pretended to still be sleepy, while in reality I just felt sick to my stomach. I stalled getting up for as long as possible, but at my friends' urging I did, slowly and painfully, emerge from my sleeping bag. 


I stumbled to the kitchen, poured some more orange juice, and a hot, delicious looking waffle was set in front of me.


I did not want that waffle.

Something wasn't right.

I got up slowly, then quickened my steps.

Right to the bathroom, where I threw up, over and over again.

I sat on Taylor, my friend's, floor. It was all I could do. She brought me club soda (disgusting) and I fell asleep with a pink snuggie over me.


Kelle had to leave to go back to North Carolina. I felt so bad I couldn't give her a better send off except for hugging her weakly and telling her I was so glad to see her, and apologizing for being sick. If apologizing for being sick sounds strange, you should know that I have always apologized a lot, for everything, even if an apology isn't necessarily due.

I woke up after napping on the floor, hoping to find some respite from the sick. Taylor was leaving, which meant I had to go to. I dragged myself to the bathroom for a shower, then got out and laid on the bathroom floor. So weak, so sick. I felt pathetic. Worthless. Helpless. 


When I drove home, I stopped at 7-11 to get drinks because I felt terrible. I stumbled into the store, grabbing a coke and a lemonade, not sure which would help, if either. I took my drinks to the front counter. "How are you?" The cashier asked. "Terrible," I said, handing her the money, grabbing my change, and running outside. I literally ran - and threw up, at least ten times, into the bushes next to my truck in the 7-11 parking lot.


A group of people passed me squatting on the sidewalk and I'm pretty sure they thought I was drunk. 

That experience was one of the most undignified moments of my life.

Through some miracle, I managed to make it home without killing myself.
I don't think I'll ever truly know how I managed to do it, either. God was really watching out for me that day.
I spent the rest of the day sick at home alone.
I lied on my bed, downing the coke, the lemonade was gross so I tossed it.
4 pm. Mom texted me angrily about not doing the dishes.
Euuuggghh. I heaved into the trashcan.
I had no strength to reply and defend my case, as to why the dishes had not been done.

I spent the whole day in bed and just hoped I would be better the next day. I had had the stomach flu two weeks ago and I honestly just thought that this must have been a relapse of it. I never for a second thought that anything else was wrong.
I never even had stopped to consider the two weeks' worth of random bouts of nausea throughout the day, the insane thirst, the having to pee literally 5 times an hour, it seemed. I didn't think about how strange it was that I got random stomach cramps, fell asleep in the middle of the day for no reason at all, that my legs kept collapsing in on me when I tried to go running on the track in the mornings, that I felt completely exhausted at even the slightest bodily exertion. That even carrying my party supplies, my face paint and games, into work was a difficult effort.
That I had lost so much weight that my bones were sticking out in all the wrong places.

It sounds stupid now, but I didn't stop to think of any of that.
Diabetes is not what you expect to grow up and find out that you have

My mother has always done a good job of supporting me and her through a brilliant work ethic and managing of finances. But we've never had a lot of spare money, not anymore, at least. We didn't go to the Doctor's, we didn't see the Dentist, we don't have healthcare. All of those things were luxuries we couldn't really afford and even if we made room for them in the budget, neither of us really felt that we needed to. We were fine, we were healthy. If we got sick we waited it out. We always got better. Hell, the last time I had been to the Doctor was when I was 8 years old. It might have even been longer.
So I figured this was the same. Just wait it out.
Like I had always done.

But the next day, I was still sick.
And not even slightly better, like you often are the second day.
Worse. Much worse.


I crawled to the kitchen in the early morning hours, convinced that the one panacea that I needed, immediately, that very second, was:
1.) Crushed ice
2.) A crushed ice Gatorade Slurpee.


I crawled on my hands and knees to get everything I needed to make it, then lost all strength by the time I got to the freezer. I threw up in the kitchen trash can and started crying. I must have woken mom up because I made it back to my room somehow. 

The whole day I couldn't eat, no fluids seemed to help. I thew it all up. Even the Gatorade. I kept vomiting, even when I was sure that there was no possible way that there was anything else left to puke - I through up over 20 times. So many times that the acid burned my mouth and throat so I could hardly speak without terrible pain. 


I texted my mom for a coke slurpie and then fell into a vomit-induced stupor, trying to sleep, drink, throw up, stumble to the bathroom, throw up, get drinks. I got my coke slurpie, my little piece of heaven, and managed to drink the whole thing. Then I began to get terrible stomach pain. I stumbled to my mother's room with my trash can. I was home alone. I couldn't find any medicine anywhere, I had no strength. I grabbed some Nyquil and took some of that; if I couldn't relieve the pain, at least perhaps I could sleep. I went back to my bed to await peaceful slumber.


But it didn't work. Because by then my stomach hurt so bad I couldn't stand it. I laid on my bed, literally begging God to make the terrible pain stop. I don't know what going through labor feels like, but if it's anything like I felt, I am in no hurry to have children. I actually remember convincing myself that people stopped by my bedside. I told them to go get me medicine that would make me feel better. Part of me knew I was imagining it, but scarily, another part of me had literally convinced myself that my neighbors had stopped by and they would shortly be returning with Maalox. 


I remember stumbling to my mom's room for some reason, but then I couldn't return to my bed. I sat there on the carpet. I remember being picked up and carried to my bed again. My legs started turning blue. I was bruising. Why was I bruising? Was this the flu? i had never had a flu like this. The stomach pain had worsened. The pain of it crushed me. Tears poured down my face. My mom had returned and I cried and cried and begged her and asked her when it would stop.

And then I remember very little.

I remember being picked up and put in the car. The world was spinning. A glimpse of sunlight, of green tree leaves, of a blue and cloud-speckled sky. We pulled out of the driveway and that's all I remember. Everything was black after that, and I must have lost consciousness. I have never lost consciousness before that day. I think I might remember making it to the CentraCare, but I simply don't know. I had strange hallucinations, dreams, memories, whatever you want to call them. I was on stretchers and there were doctors and everything was a mess, oh, everything was so tangled and messed up and nothing would ever be fixed. No one could fix this. It was impossible. What was this? That's what I actually remember thinking during that time. That something with me was so wrong that it could never be fixed.

And then there was black, then lights, and then an ambulance. I remember the dark night and a paramedic talking to me telling me I am at the hospital. I think I talked but I don't know. She asked me questions that I don't remember answering. She put an oxygen mask on my face.

And then I woke up.
Emergency Room, the sound of carts rolling through the hallways, multiple IV's hooked to my arms.
My weight, now only 99lbs, and the words "Diabetic ketoacidosis", then a foreign term to me, written on the whiteboard beside the bed.

Inches from death only hours before, with blood sugars over 900.
I had woken up, and I was alive.

Except that I had woken up into the wrong life.