"I Swear, This is the Worst Outfit to Get Into a Car Accident In."

There are certain events that come into our lives, like blips on the radar that stand out from the rest.

Happy ones - birthdays, graduating, falling in love.

And tragic ones. Sad ones. Scary ones. December 8th falls into the latter category.

I've thought heavily about writing about this, because for me it's so soon. It's hard. It puts a pit in my heart. Being in a car accident wasn't the worst thing that could happen to me, but it was one of the worst things that has ever happened to me in my life. As hard as writing about it will be, I will, because I've always tried my best to write it all down on my blog - that way I get it all out, that way it's therapeutic like it's supposed to be. 

My day on December 8th, 2013:  

Dressed and ready for work, I got in my truck and started the 90 minute sojourn to Columbus. It was an overcast day; drizzling a little, and cold. I was in my long blue princess gown. One of my friends texted me to wish me a safe drive before I'd left. I thought that was funny - I made the drive weekly for a Tuesday gig, and had done it countless times. 

As I drove down Highway 96 just out of Reynolds, I let my mind daydream as it always does. The roads were largely empty, as backroads here often are. My truck hit the grass on the median on my left side a little. Suddenly, what was intended to be a simple matter of straightening out went terribly, terribly wrong. My adjustment to the right turned into a swerve, and another, and another.I was swerving all over the road, and I'd never had a defensive driving class, I didn't know what to do. This isn't too out of control. I can still straighten this out. Just give me a sec... 

I couldn't do it. My car was out of control, and it all happened so fast, it took a big swerve to the left, over the median, and flipped. If you want the precise logistics of what happened, I can say this: I can't tell you. It was all glass and noise to me as I watched helplessly.
From there on, it was a deafening melange of tumbling, rolling, screeching, shattering, shuddering, and fear.
In my mind's eye, the moment that stands out most is the moment where I see myself hurdling towards the guard rail on the opposite side of the road, the incoming traffic side. It is happening so fast that all I have time to do is watch in horror. I am a puppet, a doll, merely a side effect of the terrible accident happening around me. I had no control. The guard rail separated the road from a large drop off. I thought I might go over. I saw a huge concrete pole looming above me. Would I hit it?

I thought all of this in a split second, and I thought I was going to die. They say you have flashbacks of your life. (Who says that? The dead?) I didn't have flashbacks, but it was a moment that I'll remember for the rest of my life. The feelings and scars might heal in time, but I'll always remember the feeling of truly believing that I am going to die. What I felt was... acceptance.I was terrified, but in the moment, I felt acceptance of what was happening, I felt that I was going to be okay, whether I died or lived. I felt surprisingly little fear just then. I could have screamed, I could have said a million things, but I only said one thing, and that was
"Help, God." And I left it in his hands.

Then the moment speeds up, and the car is still rolling but I'm not moving, there is something all around me holding me still. I guess the airbags have come out, because something big and white surrounds me, but I'm so shocked that I can't even remember them coming out. Glass is shattering around me and I see my car tumbling back onto the wrong side of the road again. I've ping ponged, and then I hear screeching, and I'm rolling around and around and around, and then suddenly eerie silence. I feel as though I've been swinging on a swing set and suddenly I fall off on the midswing upwards: I have no bearings and I've tumbled down and the ground suddenly comes out of nowhere. The road appears in my vision out of nowhere as the car has stilled. I'm sideways. Everything has stopped. My car has stopped. That is when the fear truly began.

The smell was sickening, like burned rubber and exhaust and gasoline. I knew I was in shock. I could feel it, and I was aware of it, but I couldn't stop myself from feeling that way and couldn't stop the way I acted during the shocked stage. Even now recalling these memories makes me sad, bring emotions pouring through me.

"Shit, shit, shit, Oh God, how did this just happen, why, why? God, help, God, why, please, please, no, no, this can't have happened, no..." 
My face paint brushes were strewn across the asphalt, my balloons everywhere, all I could think of was that I wasn't going to make it to my party, and Oh God, my car is totalled, how am I going to drive, how am I going to drive to school, to work, how did I fuck up so bad? 
I was dry sobbing as I got my bearings and tried to get up. My car was laying sideways and kind of face down, at an odd angle that it wasn't supposed to be in, and what was once my driver side window was laying above me, and my windshield lay shattered and on the ground. I try to get up, but my long dress is stuck, and I can't get free. I am trapped. Humorous in hindsight, not so much at that moment, I think: Shit, am I going to have to crawl out of the car into the road in my underwear?
I manage to yank my dress free, and I pull myself up to the window.
A woman comes running up to me. Oh my God, are you ok, are you ok? Are you the only one in there? Is there anyone else? 
I cry back that I'm the only one, I'm ok and I'm alone. I crawl out. I am sobbing now, and suddenly a crowd of people surround me, and I sob harder. "I DON'T UNDERSTAND!" I yell, angry at the world. "How did this happen? Why God, why did this happen to me? How does that just HAPPEN? I DON'T UNDERSTAND."
"I was just... driving... and then  was swerving, and then this happened, and Oh God, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life, God, God," I sob, into the arms of a complete stranger. And then the shock sets in more. "Sweetie, sweetie, hush, shh, it's ok. You're alive." the woman whose arms I'm in says to me. "It's a miracle. You're alive."
I couldn't hush. I started to panick. I was in such a state of shock that I didn't realize I'd lost my shoes in the accident. My crown was askew. Mascara ran down my face. I was running on glass, on the shattered remains of my windows, while the remains of my truck and the scattered contents of what were in it lie hodgepodge across the road. It felt post apocalyptic. Glass dug into my feet as I ran to the remnants, panicky, searching for my phone. I peered inside the cab, but I only saw my phone case on the ground, and no phone attached to the charger... my phone was missing, my shoes were missing, my jacket was missing, but I saw my glucometer lying on the ground, and frantically picked that up, knowing I'd need it later but not finding much comfort at all from having it. "Honey, you need to sit down. You're in shock. You need to stop running around." Someone said. "I can't!", I cried back. "I CAN'T. I can't. I have to DO something. There's so much to do... so much to do...I can't find my phone and I HAVE to let my boyfriend know. He'll be so worried. I just need to find it... I need to... I have to tell him..."
In my shock-worn mind, all I could think of in that moment was the unrivaled NEED to find my phone and call Joshua. I didn't want to talk to anyone else, he could help and he'd know what to do and he'd take care of everything. The problem was... the only phone number I knew by heart at the time was my mom's. I tried calling my mom on someone's phone that they had lent me several times, but no answer. If I couldn't find my phone, I was stranded out here, and didn't know who else I could call for help.
An ambulance arrived, but I was still running around, crying, screaming that I had to talk to Joshua, I just had to talk to him. Someone escorted me to the ambulance. "You HAVE to at least let them check you out," a woman said. Even in my shocked mind, I avoided medical bills like the plague. (I am a well seasoned Diabetic at this point and familiar with medical costs). I know that sounds stupid, but I started yelling "Am I going to get CHARGED if I let them check me out? You are NOT taking me to the hospital! I'm FINE! I don't have insurance..." I was assured I would not be charged, so I let someone help me up. I was still freaking out. "Please," I told one of the women. "Please, someone try and find my phone. I just want to let my boyfriend know what's going on. He'll be so worried."
I was next to inconsolable, but I allowed the ambulance man to check my blood pressure (it was ok), and use a stethoscope on me. "I'm Diabetic," I told him. He took out a meter. "I'm sure it's fine, though. I just checked it before I left for work." "Type 1 or Type 2?" He asked. "Type 1," I said. He replies with a "Yeah, that makes sense. Type 1's always know what their blood sugar is. Type 2's never do."
That got a laugh out of me.

He approached me with a lancet; "I'm using my own," I said, "I don't like other people lancet-ing me!" And he laughed. My sugar was sitting pretty at 100, as I'd predicted. "That's one good thing I guess," I said. He sat down next to me. "Well, if it's any consolation, you look mighty pretty," and he winked. "I did," I corrected him, wiping away a tear. "I was going to be a princess at a little girl's party." Someone approached the ambulance. "Sweetie, this reverend here would like to pray with you." She said. I was still distraught, and my heart pitter pattered in my ribs, but I acquiesced. Someone put their coat over me and told me to keep it.
The three of us: a reverend, an off duty cop, and a disheveled princess, made a ragtag group. We prayed. The reverend thanked God that I had made it through safely. "Don't worry about material things," he said, when we were done. "They are replaceable. You are not."
He was right. I had made it safely through the accident. It's just... now I had to deal with the consequences left here in the land of the living.

Someone found my phone, amazingly enough, and it was working. I'd cracked my phone from dropping it a year ago on the ground; yet it had made it through a car wreck with not a scratch. (WTF?)
I called Joshua right away. I told him what had happened, and him and Travis were on the way to come get me. I called my client and told her what had happened. I felt so bad.
After deeming that I was OK, I declared that I was getting out and climbed out of the ambulance, still running around in shock, but the buzz was wearing off. My dress dragged through the mud and glass. I didn't care. Someone had found my shoes and handed them to me. "I swear," I told them, trying to have a sense of humor.

"This is the worst outfit to get into a car accident in."

I brushed off the glass best I could and put my feet, scratched and bloody, into them. I guess it was ironic, for little Cinderella had lost her shoes, and stepped on glass.

The shock was starting to wear off but was replaced by still inconsolable heartache. And I could feel pain. My feet now hurt, but the rest of me miraculously felt ok. Tears still fell down my face, but I did my best to gather what I could of my belongings. Paintbrushes, balloons, dresses, car parts, the contents of my purse - I found my jacket, lodged underneath the hood, dug into the mud. I couldn't pull it out under the weight, so I was glad for the jacket that had been given to me. I hugged it for warmth. The cops showed up. I tried to hug one of them, in distress and not thinking. "What are you doing?" He said, pushing me away. I stumbled back, sobbing again.
Joshua and Travis finally arrived in Travis's big red truck. I had never been happier to see anyone. I thought Joshua might be upset, I thought everyone would be upset, but he merely hugged me and rubbed my hair comfortingly, doing his best to make me feel better. I collapsed in his and Travis's arms and sobbed uncontrollably, hiccuping and blubbering as they carried me to the back seat and finished grabbing what they could of my belongings. A tow truck came and took my truck away. The policeman I had tried to hug gave me a ticket. I guess he didn't like hugs. As we drove home, Joshua held me in the backseat until I had sobbed literally every tear that was physically possible. I mumbled random phrases. My head felt like it was in a fuzz. Despite my bitching about no insurance, the boys took me to the hospital to have me checked out, where I got ahold of my mom. They ran X-Rays on me and I was, miraculously, cleared for anything wrong with me.

The only thing I had on my arm was a red scratch from the airbag, and a deep slice on my index finger, which is still healing and bright red, but healing nicely nonetheless.
Miraculously, I had survived the second near-death experience I'd ever had (the first being my Diagnosis). I guess maybe God wants me around. The boys took me home and I was ordered into the shower, and banned from sorting through my stuff, which had been jammed into boxes, bins and bags everywhere. Thick shards of blue tinted glass fell out of nearly everything I picked up. Closing my eyes as I washed my hair, the images came into my head again... the guard rail... tumbling around... I snapped them open.

Go away, I whispered. "Go away".

They won't go away. Not for a long time. But as a friend told me, the emotions and memories will ease in time, eventually.  I hope so. I really hope so, because sometimes I drive my car now and I'll hit a pothole and get startled, or someone will be driving and hit a curb and I'll get shooken up. Sometimes I'll dream of it. Sometimes I'll close my eyes and see tumbling and hear glass again. I'll be cooking and imagine the awful wrecked car smell again. I'll see a rainy day and think of December the 8th. I'll close my eyes, and the familiar guardrail looms. Driving down 96, I always see the dent in it now. The masochistic part of me looks for it every time. I've gotten a lot of scars, and most of them weren't physical. But what can I do but move on and try to forget? It is, as one of my favorite quotes in the Great Gatsby, like this:

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” 

An Odd Science

I am sorting papers upstairs for good 'ole Office of Admissions.

I feel it - if you've read my blog before, I don't even see the point in describing it anymore, because I've written about so many lows. I ignore it for a second, but quickly acquiesce - I can't fight this one, even though lunch break is just 20 minutes away.

I scramble downstairs to my bag to grab a snack and test.

Test first - other hand is sorting through bag for granola bar. 

World is buzzing. Can't focus. Number is 42 mg/dL.

"You alright?" Boss MaryAnn asks. 

MaryAnn has been more than nice with me. I'm low a lot - and she always sympathizes and gets me juice and lets me go to lunch early. But I've already done that twice this week, and I feel bad for having to do it again. I don't tell her, because it doesn't seem fair to do that and take time away from work again. 

"I'm fine." I say. "Just getting a snack."

I run out of the office and back towards the stairs to the sorting room upstairs.(and blah blah blah oshie was here - don't leave your unfinished blog up. hehe - love you baby, by the time you actually read this I will be in the laundry room - outside of your influence. ~Oshie) (That's not funny baby. I'm not good at laundry, but I can get it done... and get the washer replaced before anyone finds out I broke it) I have the wrapper torn open and I'm eating the granola bar, but as I'm running towards the stairs I am overcome by weakness and suddenly climbing those stupid stairs seems equivalent to climbing Mt. Everest. I have to stop mid way, and I lean against the wall, wiping sweat away from my brow. 

"I hate this," I mutter to myself.

I manage to climb up the stairs one at a time, then use a last burst of energy to make it to the couch just around the corner. The third floor of Wesleyan College's Olive Swann Porter Building is what we call the "furniture graveyard"; old antique couches, desks, rugs and chairs are scattered around the landing, and the offices and sorting rooms are through a door situated on one of the walls. The couch I plop on is not comfy, but my low self doesn't really care. 

At the moment, to me it is simply: couch. 

This low hits me hard. Lows are an odd science: some you don't feel, and others will knock you off your feet faster than being shoved will. I lose track of how much time I sit there, but instead sit and wipe sweat from my forehead. Susan comes by and I sit up, slightly embarrassed at my current state.
"I'm just low. I'm resting until I feel better, I don't feel so good."
"Oh, dear, are you ok?" She asks. "Rest as long as you need to."
I feel like crap but know I'll be fine, this has happened before, and so she walks down the stairs.
5 minutes later Mary Ann comes up the stairs holding a glass of juice. Susan has clearly told Mary Ann (as any concerned person would do) that I was laying upstairs looking pale and drawn. I don't say anything, just "hey" and drink the juice. It touches me that Mary Ann cares, but I wish that Diabetes didn't interrupt my life like this so much.
I don't want to be the sick kid, the liability, the one that has to interrupt a campus tour because of a low.
I don't want to have to leave work early, or take 30 minutes off, to treat. In truth, it makes me a little ashamed.
I have so much I'm capable of - being driven is one of my strongest traits.
It sucks when you feel like Diabetes limits you, no matter how much drive you have.
But such is life, no?
"Take care of yourself," she says.
I promise, I'll keep doing my best. 

Survival Mode: Near-Semester's End Edition.

The school year is finally winding down, and I find myself able to breathe a sigh of relief as I only have one impending Physics final left before I can enjoy three weeks of freedom. I need it: this semester has been hell, to put it frankly. I got way more than I bargained for with Genetics, Physics, work, work and more work. I'm tired. I'm stressed. I don't sleep enough. My blood sugars suffered for it earlier this semester, with hardly a day going by that I didn't get at least one 200+.

Actually, this year in general has been rough, and I mean seriously. From relationship to family drama, trying to apply to Graduate school, the midnight cry-sessions about how I can't seem to get my brain to understand a lick of Physics, to all the times I couldn't get to my face painting gig on time... it's been really hard. And Sunday made it all harder, because the most terrifying thing in my life happened: I was in a terrible car accident and managed to total my Ford F-150, walking out with barely a scratch when I shouldn't have been able to walk away at all. I can't describe the feeling without cringing, because all I can think of is seeing the guard rail hurtling toward me as my car is rolling, and I'm scarcely understanding what is going on - it happened so quickly, that at least I know that had I died, I wouldn't have had time to feel fear. I simply lived in the moment, I didn't have flashbacks of my life, I just thought: "I'm probably going to die. Ok. God, please, help, God." And then it was over, and the smell was horrible, and I crawled out the window, adrenaline coursing through my body.

I'm going to devote a blog post to this soon, but I'm trying to write it now and the memory is so fresh in my mind and heart that it's like trying to peel a sticky, wet bandage off a fresh wound - it physically hurts, it terrified me, and I don't think I'm ready to face the emotions that go along with writing about this experience yet. Not yet. Soon, but now it's enough to think about it and feel sickening fear, and try to push it away again. I pour my heart and soul into writing - I write better than I express my own emotions and thoughts verbally - and so I feel a lot of emotions when I do it. This week has been a melting pot of trying to recover and terrible emotions and trying to simply survive through finals when really I've been a zombie of myself, and each day I discover some new bruise or wince because there is a piece of glass still in my foot that I can't get out. I don't think I'll even be able to drive down Highway 96 for a while, I'll take the other way, because I don't think I can mentally handle seeing the crash site again, even if there's nothing special about it that would point out that location in anyone's eye but my own. I need to chill, so in the meantime I close my eyes and think of images that don't have to do with guardrails or the awfulputridsmell or the glass or the rolling or any of it. I need to stop writing about it now because if I really stop and think about it I feel physically sick.

On the bright side, my sugars have been better - OK, so I've had a lot of lows, but very mellow, <180 mg/DL for the most part, with a few highs speckled in between. It's been good - Diabetes is on the backburner right now, I'm testing and giving insulin and carb counting like a good little Diabetes robot, and I haven't exactly had the biggest appetite lately, so actually I'm eating pretty healthy and sparingly and it's nice because my sugars show it.

So, that's what's going on in life right now - keep an eye out for that other blog post soon.
Merry early Christmas.

You Can Pick Your Battles, But Not Your Genetics. (This Title Seems Kind of Funny and Semi-Relevant).

My Genetics Exam Thursday went a lot like this:

I stayed up countless nights, countless weekdays, mashed in study time after work, poured over powerpoints and generally worked my Senior butt off, to study for my Genetics Exam.

Thursday I walked in to the lab. I had my pencil, glucometer and snack by my side. I was ready! I was gonna pass! My grade was not going to be shredded by Professor Schroeder.

The tests were distributed. I glanced at the exam and wrote my name on top. Read the first question. Read the second. I chewed my eraser gently. Scratched my head for a second. The clock ticked by. I removed my jacket. Was it hot in here?

I called an answer to mind, chased after the thought for a bit, tried it on for size, and then... my mind let it slip. I tried again. Failed. My thoughts were like wet soap: and the harder I tried to hold on, the faster they slipped out of my grasp. 

I knew what was coming. I checked my sugar and it was 60. Ok, not so low, but not high enough that my brain could focus. I could only answer the easy questions, the ones that skimmed the information off the top layer of my memory, not the ones that required me to dig closer down to the bottom. I was frustrated. I literally could not focus, could not think: lows rob you of that ability. 

30 minutes passed. The first granola bar had only kept me level at 60; I ate another. I could be mad at the fact that I had had to eat 3 granola bars that afternoon, which for me was too much. I could panic, but instead I told myself, stay calm: this will pass. I knew the answers - my brain simply needed sugar in order to process and retrieve them.

I finally did climb back up the blood sugar ladder, and the answers came, like you begin to feel hot water gradually pouring out from a faucet that starts out all cold. 

I wasn't mad, not this time. Just tired of my body, and wanting to pass my genetics exam so that I could go home and relax. 

Sometimes in the fight with Diabetes, you simply have to pick your battles. 

A Silver Lining with a Side of Insulin

I had something incredible happen to me last week. I've been busy with class and not had time to blog about it, but all week I carried it around with me in my mind, because small little breadcrumbs of Diabetic-happiness like these come not often enough and too far in between.

It goes like this:

At Wesleyan College, I work in the office of Admissions.

I.Love.Admissions.

I ended up Work-Studying there by chance, because one day my first year I had stopped by the office of one of the faculty and was casually mentioning that I hadn't found a work study job yet. "Well, admissions still needs student workers!" said Amy, one of the Directors of Admissions at, yep, you guessed it - Wesleyan. Still a rather shy, quiet and un-forward freshman/sophomore/Junior (I dual enrolled for two years and didn't really know what I was), I went right up to admissions, applied, stumbled through a slightly awkward interview, and was officially an employed work study student. Every year, students have the opportunity to pick wherever on campus they want to work, provided there are openings - I've never changed where I work, because I couldn't picture working anywhere else.

Admissions is work - any one that goes to any college, I imagine, will tell you that it's not just sitting at a desk, like some work study jobs. I stuff envelopes - I enter data for hours at a time - I handle random drop-ins and give tours and sell the school and handle the phone and print 25,000 postcards to mail out and plan events and arrange flowers and write letters and peel oranges and diagnose beta fish on the fly. It's organized chaos, but mostly a bunch of chaos. Someone once told me Admissions is like the MacGyver of colleges, and it's true. We do it all. It's exciting, it's funny, is frustrating, it's hectic. But I love the work, and it's so fulfilling because I get to outreach to incoming students and talk about my school and be social and creative at every opportunity. I can't wear jeans and I hate giving surprise tours in heals in the cold, and stuffing 10,000 envelopes according to each specific name really bites it, but those are small matters compared to the ultimate love of my job that I feel, and the appreciation I feel for all of the wonderful counselors and workers in admissions and students that work with me. No one would believe me if I described all of the funny conversations we've had, or the things we've laughed over. In the course of 2.5 years, I have changed from this awkward, shy whatever-class-level-I-am, to a slightly less awkward (but still awkward sometimes!), less shy kind of grown up who is about to go to graduate school if someone decides to accept me. I can give tours without blinking. I can talk on the phone confidently. I can deal with people. And hey, I even own more than one pair of slacks and dress shoes, now. (Florida flip flops every day as I grew up with just don't cut it.)

And so I was at work last Monday, utilizing all of these skills I claim to have acquired over the last few years, when the phone rings. Expecting an ordinary phone call from an applicant or perhaps someone needing to be transferred to another department - God forbid it's a male asking about his transcript (Wesleyan is an all women's college) or someone calling for information about Wesleyan University - I answer.
"Wesleyan College, how can I help you?"
A young woman answers. She's clearly an applicant, and she tells me that she is in the process of applying and that Wesleyan is her first choice college. That's always an exciting thing to hear! She has a few questions about when she should pay the deposit and I answer, telling her that the earlier you pay the deposit, the earlier you also get to choose which dorm room you would like.
She hesitates. "Well... do you have to live on campus?"
I explain to her that Wesleyan is a residential campus so that, yes, if you do not have parents or guardians within 25 miles of the school, that you had to live in campus.
She goes on. "I'm just worried," she tells me. "About living on campus and going to college. You see... I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes last October."

My professional veneer immediately falls away as I'm jolted from worker mode to ... well, myself. Without hesitation I reply, startled, "No way. I'm Type 1, too!" I was so startled and excited I could practically have jumped out of my seat. "I was Diagnosed the April before coming to Wesleyan. It's hard..."

We jumped immediately into conversation. I had never met this girl, and yet the connection I felt with her was one that I felt talking to all Type 1's - understanding. Sympathy. Knowledge. We know the intricacies of Diabetes that no one without Diabetes can ever understand. And we support each other. Throughout my walk with Diabetes, I have never had the opportunity to talk with many Type 1's. I met that man in the card shop in Savannah - which was amazing - I've met Type 2's, I've talked with Type 1's over email correspondence, Facebook, groups, blogs, etc. And that's a valuable source and priceless link to others who I can vent to and ask questions and who know how I feel.
Never had I talked to someone who had had Diabetes for less time than me. And aside from the instant connection of knowing inherently what many of this girl's struggles and challenges were, it was nice to be able to help her, or try to, anyways. She was interested in knowing if anything was going on for Diabetes month. I told her to check out some awesome Diabetes blogs online, told her about some Diabetes summer camps she could volunteer for, and told her about JDRF's website and all of the events they advertise, such as walks for Diabetes. I told her to look on Facebook for support groups. I told her that life with Type 1 at college was hard - but that professors were understanding, and that your friends could be a powerful support group for you. That your roommate could make sure to know the signs of a low and watch out for you. That you could educate people so that they would have your back. I told her that blogging was a powerful way to cope and spread awareness, if she liked to write. We sympathized with each other, exclaimed at how hard Diabetes could be, and how few people without it understood. I told her the same advice my dietician had told me all those years ago - that Diabetes is going to make things harder for you. Sometimes a lot harder. But it doesn't have to limit you.
It was amazing.

And a good feeling too - maybe this conversation was a way bigger deal to me than it was to her. Maybe she went on with her life and it faded out of her mind. But maybe, I like to think, maybe this girl rushed to excitedly tell her mom that she had called Wesleyan with a question and the person that answered the phone was Type 1 just like her, out of all of the people that could have answered the phone that day. Maybe it touched her life in a small way just like it touched mine. When I got off the phone, I excitedly told Mary Ann and Amy, who worked in Admissions. Mary Ann thought it was amazing coincidence too. I told my friends - I told my family - I totally nerded out about it and made a way bigger deal out of it than most people ever would.

Because every once in a while, you get those breadcrumbs, like meeting men with insulin pumps at card shops in Savannah and receiving phone calls from Type 1 Diabetics at work. Every moment like that is special, because every moment that your life is touched in that way - where you find someone that understands - or someone asks a knowledgeable question - adds a silver lining to the disease you suffer with each day. And it makes all the difference.

Ringing in World Diabetes Day With a.... Low?

Hypoglycemia: it's probably one of the biggest things that I write about on this blog. Naturally - it's one of the biggest side effects of being on insulin. One of the worst feelings in the world. Each low feels different, every experience unlike the one before: sometimes I don't feel them at all. I'll casually test, see a 50 and say, "Oh, wow, I'm low. I don't feel bad at all," and casually saunter to the kitchen or wherever to grab a snack. Others, I'll be in the middle of Walmart, feel low and have to start eating something out of my cart because I'm out of snacks. Sometimes a little girl will look at her mom and whisper, "Is she supposed to be doing that?" Confused, because lows are those sinister, invisible monsters that sneak up on you and rob you of the right to control your own body movements. Or think properly. And you feel it - but to others, you're acting funny, or thinking irrationally, or you're just plain weird, because they can't feel what you feel. When I'm low, I can't focus - even simple tasks such as trying to write something to someone have to be set down for later because the words I mean to transcribe fly right out of my head. Try as I might to catch them, they slip away, farther and farther away until they are distant echoes of my consciousness.

This low was different, too. I went to bed, as usual - I'd been low before bed (72, so not bad) so had a snack and then went off to sleep. I wake up at some time during the night undisclosed to me - I don't know the time, I don't look, I just know that it's dark and quiet and IcanfeelthatI'mlow but I do not test.

I'm tired.

I want to go back to sleep.

But... I'm low.

I should test, I mumble blearily to myself. Go... get something to eat, I will my body.
But sleep feels so good. I pull the cover up over my head and sink deeper into the pillow. Mmm, it can wait til morning, I think, irrationally. You think but it doesn't always make sense when you're low. When I'm sleepy, I think a lot of things that don't make sense, too. I roll over and doze off. Somewhere in my subconsciousness I knew, just knew that it was imperative that I wake up and go eat something. If I didn't, I could fall even lower, and then I might die.

Maybe that seems overdramatic, but when you live with Diabetes, you live on the edge of constant close calls every day. You live on the edge of panic - like walking on a cliff edge, and one stumble can topple you. I have Diabetes - I have my meter - insulin - test strips - I'm prepared. No big deal.

And then life happens.
You forget to put an extra insulin pen in your purse and you're away from home, far away, traveling for the day.
You just used your last test strip and neglected to put in extra strips in your meter bag...

You're low and in an unfamiliar place, and realize you have no snack.

Suddenly, your sense of security, which turns out to be false after all, flies out the window. You panic - you're blind - as though you're in a car behind the steering wheel and someone has covered your eyes and you can't see where you're going or where you're headed and you're confused and don't know what to do and you're powerless.

Maybe you think, "well, those are all really stupid. You shouldn't ever forget those things - they're important after all." And that's true. It is stupid. But how many times have you left the house and forgotten something? Are in a rush to get somewhere? Get lost in life? It happens to all of us yes, even Diabetics - because on top of all of the things I have to do for my normal life, my Diabetes life is there, life a separate life on top of my existing one, and I have to make time that I don't have to take care of it, too. I'm running late for class? Guess I'll have to check my sugar eat my breakfast and give insulin in the car. Need to test but I'm running late for work? Too bad. I'm low and I'm entertaining at a party - that's a fun one. Bottom line: you have to make time for Diabetes, but Diabetes doesn't make time for you. It's constant, never relenting, always there. No break. Ever.

But that's a tangent - I startle awake again, after what might have been 30 seconds or 30 minutes, for all I know. The low is humming in my consciousness still, I'm sweat-drenched, hot, my body is tensed and shaking, my limbs feel like Jello and my mind is once again blank fuzz, like static on the TV. My mind knows what I should do but doesn't want to act and my body doesn't want to listen. There's a distinct lapse between what I tell my body to do and when my body actually decides to do it, as though every movement I make is me trying to walk in the ocean near the shore against the waves, and they're pummeling me, and they're throwing me back, pushing me, further away from where I need to go, not letting me move how I want to.

But this time I roll over, out of the bed, in the dark, I don't test, I just know I'm low and need food and I stumble through the dark until I'm in the kitchen and I've grabbed a bar of ice cream and I'm eating it, and I'm low so I just want to eat the entire kitchen so I get out the chips and salsa and ketchup and I'm sitting on the floor eating because I don't have the strength to stand myself up and ---

This is what my life has come to, I think, in my bitter, cranky and clouded hypoglycemia mind. The haze of the low is still settled over me like a film, clouding my senses but making me hyper aware of the panic my body is in as my brain searches for sugar and isn't finding enough to give me energy - but the anger is sharp, not dull, and I'm mad, because I don't want to be on the floor eating stupid ice cream because I went to work out that evening which was stupid because I'd gone at 9:00 PM and this was a delayed low from that and I was so frustrated and I was even scared because I almost had gone back to sleep and hadn't woken myself up to go treat my low and could have gone back to sleep and never woken up like others with my disease have done before me. I hated it. Nor had I ever done that before - just fallen back asleep nonchalantly. Lows were EMERGENCIES. Not something you tell yourself to go back to sleep for. Stupid. Stupid! You could have killed yourself! I thought angrily.

When I had the strength to stand again, I set the kitchen back in order and then walked slowly, resignedly back to my room to sleep. It was only 2:36 a.m. I was angry, but I tried to console myself: the important thing, I tried to remind myself, was that I had woken up and I had treated and today was World Diabetes Day (11/14), in which we Diabetics try to hope that enough people will care someday and keep trying and trying and trying.... so that maybe someday, I can eat a sandwich. Just eat a sandwich. No testing, no insulin. So I can sleep easy without worrying about my sugar. So that I don't feel the guilt of a high... so we can all be normal... someday. We dream, we live, we rejoice, we cope, we suffer, we falter, we try - we are imperfect human beings trying to live our difficult lives and be a pancreas at the same time. It's hard. We'll keep trying. We'll keep living through little battles such as these. And, always, we'll keep hoping for a miracle - the seemingly impossible, the dream of a dream. A cure. Always and forever, hoping for a cure.

Diabetes Day.

Today is a special day: It's National Type 1 Diabetes Awareness Day, and November marks the start of National Diabetes Awareness Month.

It's funny how in the course of 2.5 years you can go from never having heard about such a day, to living it every year, marking the day with blue clothes and perhaps a blue circle on your hand. Do I expect this day to have the same kind of significance to others as it does to me? No, of course not. But still, I'll wear my blue and share the significance of the day with others, if only because it makes me feel as though I'm not going through this journey alone.

Every chance to educate another person and spread awareness is important, after all - important to a cure, to more research, and important to simply letting people know that Diabetes isn't simply a disease your grandpa got from eating too much sugar. Type 1 Diabetes is so much more - it permeates your life, coloring everything from the food you eat to the thoughts you think in your head until you live, eat, sleep, breath Diabetes all of your living days. Yes, I talk about it too much. But if you're constantly barraged, day by day, with thoughts such as:

My heart is racing. Am I low?
Did I forget to put new syringes in my meter case?
How many carbs does this fast food meal have?
Should I really eat this?
Did I change my lancet? Note: just kidding about that one. Diabetics rarely change their lancets. I don't feel bad - we all do it.
My mouth is dry. Is my blood sugar high?
How much insulin do I need to bolus for the pizza now, and how much should I bolus for later to account for the fat? Should I have two slices? Maybe just one? Will that affect my sugar more?
Can my levels afford to eat a slice of cake tonight?
What is my endo going to say about that 450 mg/dL last night?
Did I remember to grab an extra insulin pen before leaving the house?
Did I pack my lancets, syringes, extra pens in a cooler, extra meter, glucagon, ketostix and test strips for my trip?
I'm low during an exam and I can no longer concentrate.
I'm at work and I'm low and I need to find a time to treat.
I had to run out of the house this morning with breakfast and have to find time to give an injection before class, which I'm late for, so I'll have to do it in the car. 
How many carbohydrates does that pineapple casserole have?
All of my friends are eating it, and I don't want to seem weird for not eating it, either.
How do I politely turn down the huge bowl of pasta the host just gave me?
What is the etiquette for giving an insulin shot at a fancy dinner?
That huge bruise on my arm is from insulin, I swear. 
I need to give an injection but my stomach is all bruised, I'm in jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Where am I supposed to inject?
My sugar is high and I'm to blame. I feel like a failure.
How is the new health care law going to affect my ability to get medicine?
Will I have to have a high paying job for the rest of my life just to afford health care and medicine?
Does my employer care that I have Diabetes?
Will people treat me differently if I tell them?
Will the waiter look at me funny if I request the menu's nutrition info?
Please, for the love of God, if I have to head "I could never be Diabetic!" or, "I know exactly what Diabetes is like, I have low blood sugar sometimes!", I just might overdose on insulin because I'm sick of hearing it.
How did this test strip get there???

This is just some of what Type 1 Diabetics live with every.day. So yes - I mention it a lot. Because every hour, at minimum, thoughts such as these enter my head.
For Type 1's, Diabetes is our life, which creates an interesting paradox. We live our life trying to be as normal as possible, not letting Diabetes define us, and yet almost all of the actions we do seek to help us continue to be healthy and live in spite of this disease. Our actions are often defined by what we do to continue to live with Diabetes, and thus our actions require constant thoughts like the ones above. It's a heavy burden to bear - the price of Diabetes includes many things. It costs us freedom. It costs us time. It costs us health. And it costs us our very minds, which are sometimes consumed by this disease and all that it entails. And it's difficult.

So... days like this are special. They are a big deal. Maybe not to everyone, but to us individuals that know, and our loved ones, and perhaps the ones we can spread awareness to. Because they remind us Type 1 Diabetics of something important - that although this disease has such a high cost, that we can over come it. We are not alone, we are more than this disease, and although I may spend 18 hours of the day thinking about Diabetes, not counting all of the midnight lows, I am still my own person with and in spite of Diabetes. I work hard to treat myself so that I can still enjoy the quality of life that I desire. Paradox or no, this is the life I strive for - a life of living with Diabetes but also living in spite of it.

So here's to my 3rd year of celebrating National Type 1 Diabetes Awareness Day and Diabetes Awareness month. And here's to wishing all of the Type 1's out there many more years of observing this day to mark another year lived in spite of Type 1; and, perhaps, more importantly: many more healthy, perfectly normal days in between.