Humble.

Well, this is my life lately, you guys. And for me - detail-orientated, planning, dreaming, goal-driven me... this is unimaginably hard. 

For those of you that didn't get the news, I was waitlisted for the Doctor of Physical Therapy Program at Mercer University, and I was also waitlisted for UCF. So naturally... there's been a wrinkle in some of my carefully laid plans.

I guess I always imagined that graduate school would come, maybe not easily, but it would come, and getting accepted wasn't a matter of if, but when, and what I really had to deal with was what happened next. But it would seem that, perhaps, that isn't God's immediate plan for me. And I have been greatly humbled for having learned this. My perfect plans did not come to fruition.

So what's next? I have had to confront the possibility that Grad School isn't happening this year, and that for a year or so I will possibly be stuck in limbo, grabbing up more physical therapy experience to beef up my resume and trying to figure out how to get a "real" job (because princessing is nice, but just it alone won't pay the student loans or tolerate my love of buying clothes).  

Truth is I'm not quite sure, and that's a scary feeling. The "real world" was supposed to still be three years away, and suddenly I find myself about to be immersed in it, and kind of unprepared. Where do I look for a job? Will I get hired? Will that factor in to my ability to qualify for Medicaid? So many questions, so few answers. 

On top of that it's just hard, because I have built a life here at Wesleyan and truly love the people and places I have come to know. The crisp winter air, the yellow leaves of the gingko tree in fall, the geese walking on the quad. I savour and treasure every precious moment, realizing now what they say when they tell you that college years are some of the best years of your life. Yes, I'm stressed, pretty much all the time. Yes, I work, way more than I should. Bills come before fun purchases, and dining hall food gets a little old after a while. But the experiences.... the relationships built with people, even my love for working in the office of Admissions at Wesleyan make me realize that I hesitate to say goodbye to my cherished title of undergraduate student in just 3 months. 

But the Lord's purpose prevails, does it not? I am excited. There are so many possibilities before me, so many opportunities in which to test the waters and discover my niches and discover what is hopefully an even greater appreciation and love for life. I readily embrace the future, as scary, and uncertain, and delightful as it is. It's going to be a great adventure! And success will come... in some way, in some form: I know that it will. 

A Shift in Perspective

I rant a lot about Diabetes on here. I talk a lot about myself - fair, ok, it's my blog - but I want to share with you all something different today, that's had a big impact on my life in the last year.

I started interning at Nursing Homes with different Physical Therapists last year, and it really started to pull at my heart and change my perspective on things.

You look at all the troubles you have... and then you look at them. These tired, these weary, the sick or sad or alone. The happy ones, the bitter ones, the talkative ones. There are people from all walks of life. Rich, poor, Medicaid, Private Pay, wheelchair-bound, walker-aided. Some people are very self sufficient. Others can't even reach for the remote beside their bed. Who are you to complain?

These people built the businesses around you, the city lights, they elected famous presidents, senators, passed bills, taught your parents how to read and write in school... and yet, so many of them are here, and are forgotten. And it's a shame because it is beautiful, and they are beautiful, if you can look with the right kind of eye. Remember what beauty really means. They are too old for facades and worn out phrases and fake smiles. They tell it to you like it is, they smile with their whole heart or not at all. They show real pain or frustration or anger, or real joy that you took the time to stop and listen to their stories. Sometimes I leave the nursing home happy. Sometimes I leave wanting to cry.

An elderly man struggling to walk, aided by the parallel bars... his wife comes to visit and stands at the end, smiles and says,
"Walk to me, honey. Like you did down the aisle on our wedding day. Walk down here and kiss me like you did then."

A fluffy, white haired woman in her bed, who looks at me and says - "Young lady, no matter what you go on to do... be good to people. Always be good to people, especially us elderly - you never know when one of us will be spending our last day on Earth. Be good to people, even when they aren't good to you - because one day, all of us will answer to God."

I think of these memories and moments and my heart outpours with love for them. Most of us will grow to be old someday, and think, how would you want to be treated? Nursing homes are not always pleasant places. They aren't happy, sometimes they smell, sometimes you have to try hard not to turn away. I feel that these are things you have to look past. These people truly matter, they really do. My first day of interning at a nursing home, I asked one of the Physical Therapists if it really made a difference. I'd come from an outpatient facility where the patients often got  better and were younger, healed more easily. Many of the elderly patients couldn't even stand.

Does it matter? Truly?
He look at me and says,
Yes. Even if I can help this man do something as simple as push his wheelchair around, I have made a difference. His quality of life has gotten better, even if only by a little bit - and it's made him a little more comfortable and happy. Making someone's life better, no matter there age, is a meaningful thing to me. 

And he was right - and I have come to realize that too. If therapists can help these people to sit up, walk again, push their walker, use the rest room, brush their hair, eat by themselves - well, then that's a difference, whether they live two more weeks or two more years. If you listen to their stories, make them a card, come visit, volunteer, push their wheelchair, pay attention, get them a drink - that's meaningful, too. Your time is meaningful, and meaningful to others. It's helping others, and just because someone is old doesn't make them any less worthy of help, if anything it has made them more worthy of your help and time.
Maybe it's not the most glamorous of places, but I have found something in these homes that I have rarely found elsewhere, and that's a kind of true human love and compassion for complete strangers that I never thought I'd find. I love the stories, the raw emotion, the funny and inappropriate residents, the sweet little old ladies, the cranky cynical ones, the ones with the wise eyes, the ones that say nothing at all. People deserve love, no matter who they are or how they treat you. Love is not always contingent on someone, but it's something you give freely and openly, expecting nothing in return, no recognition, and it shapes and changes your heart in the best of ways when you do that.

When I am with these people, my own troubles fade away. I am not a diabetic with my troubles, the ones that weigh me down and make me feel older than I should. I am a young woman lucky to be alive and walking and blessed with the capability to give my time and efforts to others in need. I am lucky. I am blessed. I can spread happiness to other people, even if it's only just a smile. Emily Dickinson says it best, and it's exactly why I want to be a physical therapist and help others someday:

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

The Funny Thing About Life Lessons...

Greetings, all!
Today has been a godsend - thanks to MLK day, I am off work and school and happily able to play catch up with all of my homework. Booking Gigs, invoices, phone calls, trying to sort out hospital bills, while doing homework and studying is no easy task. But I'm slowly and steadily working through it, reminding myself to be calm and not get overwhelmed. Philippians 4:6-7 is a verse I have had to remind myself of a lot lately:

6 Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. 7 Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.

Don't worry indeed. I have to keep myself reminded that God has got it all covered. I will keep doing what I do, and pray, and trust in his plan (despite my stubbornness!)

Anyways, as a break to myself, I wanted to share an experience I had all the way back in September with you. I thought that it would make a good story, so, here you go:



It was Labor Day, and I was sitting in a hotel room in Forsyth as Josh's family was busy moving. Marleigh, Laurie and I had driven a big carload of stuff and then stopped back at the room to rest; I was absorbed in my studying, freaking out about the massive amounts of reading and assignments I had left to do.
So when they decided to go back out and pick some more things up at the house, I solemnly declined so that I could stay and study.

Sitting in the room alone, it briefly occurred to me that I might get low. Did I even have a snack left on me? But as I had just eaten a snack a short while ago, I steadfastly delved into my genetics homework, the possibility not really being a huge worry to me.

The clock ticked by silently, and I did my best to focus.

I studied on...What was it that I last read? My thoughts flitted.

15 minutes later when the shake started, I knew what was happening. NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo. I pleaded as I grabbed the meter and tested. Luck was against me today, as it would have it. It was confirmed: I was 49 and likely falling fast.

Shoot, shoot, shoot. What was I going to do? I was stuck alone in this hotel room.
I thought that surely, I had to have a snack somewhere. I checked my backpack. My purse. I started to frantically search the hotel room. I look everywhere - there was not a carb to be found. I had no change, only my debit card, for a soda machine. I had no snack, there was nothing here I knew about...

I grabbed my phone and started calling Marleigh, Laurie, Josh, Jake, Anyone. No one picked up - they were all busy moving, and doubtful they had their phones on them. Stupid! I yelled silently at myself. How had I forgotten to bring a snack? I never wanted to be in this kind of situation.

I started to panic. I paced the hotel room. I looked again for snacks. All the while the shaking consumed more and more of me as the minutes passed. My ears were buzzing, my brain numb, my tongue tingling. I wobbled unsteadily through the room, knowing that if I didn't find something soon, I was in serious trouble.

Maybe the situation wasn't even that bad, in retrospect. Maybe it doesn't sound bad to you. But to me - this was terrifying. No one was around. No one knew what was going on. I was by myself in this struggle, and it sucks, to feel powerless, to feel like something is getting the best of you. This low was getting the best of me - me, for all of my drive and passion, I am transformed into a lifeless, irritable zombie of my former self when I am low. Transformed in a moment of bodily shock and pure desperation, I don't even recognize who I am. I am simply someone who needs something, in those moments. It's those moments when you realize how dependent you are... and how scary it is to be so dependent. And if you don't treat a low, you will eventually pass out, and can go into seizures and die. And judging by my blood sugar at the time, that wasn't necessarily too far off.

I sank down to the ground and cried. The low was messing with my head. I was panicking and my heart was racing, but I was so weak I didn't really have any idea of what to do. I couldn't think straight, couldn't react, only cry and curse Diabetes and wish things were different. I did this for about 4 minutes until I lifted my chin up and looked at myself in the mirror.

Look at you, Lacy. This isn't you. And Diabetes isn't you - you aren't helpless. Don't like this situation? It sucks? Get up and do something about it. 

I brushed myself off and got up. I grabbed the room key and left, barefoot and stumbling, down towards the lobby. Someone had to be around that could help me, right? I took me about 3 minutes to pad slowly down to the lobby, and once I found it I couldn't see anyone inside, it was midafternoon on a holiday and very quiet. But I saw the breakfast room, and though everything was cleaned up, like a beacon of hope, a lonely orange lay in the fruit basket. I was so excited I ran right over to it and reached to grab it.

"Can I help you?" One of the worker men asked as he came out of the kitchen. Startled, I said, "I'm low - I have low blood sug - well, I'm Diabetic and I need help and - do you have any more fruit?"

He went back into the kitchen and brought out two apples. I was delighted. "Thank you!" I said, biting into one of the apples, holding the other one in my hand like a trophy and walking slowly back to the room. It didn't take long to feel much better after eating both, and I was so thankful in that moment for apples and nice hotel employees that I almost forgot the panic I'd felt just minutes before.

These situations are scary, but I have to let them serve as wake up calls to remind myself that Diabetes never takes a break. I think that's what's so bad about it - it's a constant barrage of numbers, blood sugars, carbs, emotions, lows, highs, dry mouths, everything. It wears you down and just when you think you have had enough, you have no choice but to turn on the bedside lamp and give yourself the Lantus you forgot to administer before bed. Diabetes is as much psychological as it is physical - as a reader, I hope you will understand that. Imagine all of your troubles, and then pile on one more thing, one more constant, neverending thing, and ask yourself how you feel. When you're running late for class and you have to eat breakfast so you aren't low later but didn't make time to test and you have to drive to class while eating breakfast when do you find time to give your insulin? When, in all of those dicey, running-late times, do you make time to test when you're already exhausted because you've worked three days straight and gotten practically no sleep? Do you test, or sleep and face the guilt of a possibly bad number later...then you are the only one who can be held responsible if you get complications later in life?
These mind games are the games we live with.
That I live with. The time I say I won't need to take a snack is the time when I'll need one, and so on. And so I adapt, I get better, I bring 3 snacks instead of 1. Diabetes gives life lessons about treating it, just like life gives us lessons in order to better live.

As the case with most lessons, though, they usually come after the situation in which we could have used them.

Nothing Exciting - Simply Pondering The Duration of My Diabetic Life Up to This Point.

These days, there is a sadness in my heart.

I feel it more some times than I do others -

Driving the backroads of south Georgia, the late afternoon sun filtering down through the clouds to the fields...

sleepy old cemeteries, tombstones blanketed with moss and bearing years long since past.

Georgia isn't perfect.

But nonetheless, I am in love. 

I so value these last few years - this time I've had, the moments, the memories, the laughs, the trials and many sorrows, the joys. My journey to Georgia has taken me so many incredible places, taught me so many knew things, taught me so much about who I am. I have truly grown into my own here, and with it I have further found my purpose, my confidence, my strength, my drive, my passion, my character. 

I revel in it - and it's all about to end, soon. Maybe I'll still be in Georgia, maybe I'll be in Florida - nonetheless, the life I have created for myself, the people I have come to know at Wesleyan, the familiar things I have grown to love like getting coffee downtown, visiting the cemetery and sneaking into the cathedrals - will be only memories soon enough. My life is moving forward, and I'm sad, because I love it so dearly and I'm not ready for it all to end. My life is about to start a new chapter, and it is unknown and frightening and exhilarating and startlingly real all at the same time. 

 But here is a victory that cheers me up - throughout the last three years, Diabetes has never dulled a moment of the bright and beautiful memories I have gathered. Never stopped me from enjoying my life here. Despite the fact that, like so many other things, Diabetes has been interwoven into the tapestry of my life, becoming as close to me as my own heartbeat. 

What were some of your greatest accomplishments? Was a question I was asked at one of my interviews for Graduate school.

1. Starting my business.

2. Learning to push forward and succeed in spite of everything else going on in life. 

3. Not letting Diabetes limit me. 

3 is a lie. Sometimes, Diabetes limits me. Sometimes because I let it. Other times it's the one that does the limiting. Yes, I can eat carbs, no, I try not to. I hate working out, getting low, and ending up eating everything plus the kitchen sink, negating my workout. Or having to take 30 minutes off work to recover from a low. It's not without its frustrations. My meter, my insulin, my 15 grams of carbs are crutches than I must carry with me through life. Type 1 Diabetes is a title that will brand me so long as I carry it. 

But I look at where I was, and I look at where I am now - and I am here! Here I stand, at the foot of my dreams - here I stand, ready to finish - and begin - the product that all of my effort, sweat, stress, tears and hard work have gone towards. I want to be a Physical Therapist, I want to push myself to new limits, I want to be successful, and Diabetes won't stop me from doing any of that.

It's a good realization to have...

And it's best to cheer myself up as much as possible before Graduate School starts, where I'll be chin-deep in studying with no hope of a life until graduating in three years... :P

"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.