This one time...At band camp...No wait.

I once forgot that I was diabetic.
That may sound odd, because as many other diabetics know, thinking about insulin delivery and blood sugar management is an ever present balancing act.  Yes, it becomes routine and second nature, but still, it is just always THERE.

Now on the evening in question, I'd been out "partying" with some friends.  I use the term loosely, because as a mother of 3, anything that involves staying up past 10pm is a party.

My nights normally look like this - Check blood sugar.  Eat dinner.  Check blood sugar.  Put kids to bed.  Watch a crime drama.  Check blood sugar.  Go to bed.
My mornings normally look like this - Check blood sugar.  Eat breakfast.  Feed and dress kids.  Take them to school or weekend activity.  Check blood sugar.

The night and morning in question were different.  Dinner was early because we were heading to a fundraiser and had hired a sitter.  We were running behind, so I skipped the post meal sugar check.  It was formal affair, so I had a palm-sized purse and no glucometer.  I had about 3 vodka and diets Coke high balls over the course of the 5 hour gathering, and by the time we got home (at about 1am!) I was feeling a little bit unwell.  I decided to go straight to bed, forgoing the usual pre-sleep blood sugar check.
I'd been in bed for maybe an hour when I had to run to the bathroom to vomit.
Any other time I've been ill, I automatically check my glucose levels.  Are they too high?  Are they too low?  Are they making me sick, or is my sickness affecting them?
But I didn't check them.
I thought, "Goodness, I'm old and having three drinks (when I normally have none) must've really done a number on my body."
I continued to puke.  And it got worse.  First it was every 30 minutes.  Then twenty.  Then ten.  It was so bad that I couldn't keep down a tablespoon of water and my throat felt like it was bleeding.
And yet I still didn't consider checking my blood sugar.  I considered food poisoning - I had eaten a tuna sandwich for lunch.  Maybe it had been bad.
It still kept getting worse.
I considered going to the hospital, but still didn't check my blood sugar.
I was lying on my bathroom floors, seeing spots and occasionally dry-heaving, when I began to wonder how many hous I'd been there.  I felt too weak to get up and check the time on the bedroom clock, so instead, I pulled out my insulin pump to look at its built in clock.
It was off.  Dead.  The battery had expired, and in the very loud environment of the evening before, I hadn't heard it alarm.  And usually when it does alarm, I get a few days warning before the battery actually gives out.
I immediately checked my blood sugar - 32.0 - and injected some insulin.  Within an hour, the vomiting had subsided.  After 5 more hours, my sugar had normalized.  And I was able to figure out that my pump had been off for about 7 hours.
Not ONCE had it occurred to be to blame my diabetes for my illness.  How very strange.
Needless to say, I will never forget that I am diabetic again.  Nor will I ever fantasize about being stranded on a deserted island.

You Want To Put What?! Where?! Why?!

When I was 10 years old, I was embarrassed to inject insulin in public.  I'm not entirely sure about my motivation.  Maybe I didn't want to have to explain to people what the syringes were for.  Maybe I didn't want to expose my stomach to a crowd of curious peers.  Especially since back then I was using the vial and syringe method of delivery.  I would do anything to avoid it.  Hide out in the bathroom.  Inject hours later than I was supposed to.  Get picked up early at sleepovers.  I don't think it was good for my health.  Or my self-esteem.

But by the time I was 16, injecting in public was a party trick.  I would pull out a needle without preamble, draw up my insulin and stab myself in whatever body part was most exposed.  The gasps of onlookers just spurred me on, and I would grin, snap of the sharp, and toss everything into my backpack.  Sometimes new friends were impressed.  Sometimes they were just scared.  But it was easier than hiding in a bathroom, and almost a way of shoving it their face.  "I'm diabetic, and I DARE you to ask me about it."

When I was 22, and I'd been diabetic for over a decade, I thought little of the daily routine involved in managing my care.  It was neither a source of embarrassment or a way to meet new people.  But one day on a lunch break at work, I pulled out glucometer and my insulin pen (for which I'd gladly turned in my old fashioned syringes) and checked my blood sugar and gave myself an appropriate dose.  Another young woman - a co-worker - sharing my eating space started to shriek.  I mean, really shriek.  "Please," she said. "Don't ever do that in front of me again."  I was appalled.  Offended.  And more embarrassed than I had been in years.  I called my mom, and you know what she told me?  She said, "You tell that girl that you never begrudge the fact that she has the NERVE to make her own insulin in front of you, and you've never asked her not to do it."

Now that I'm -ahem- in my 30's, I administer insulin bionically.  And I'm actually proud of that.  I feel like the Inspector Gadget of diabetics.  And I look for any excuse to flaunt my insulin pump in public.  Sometimes, I might even eat a few Mentos, just to show it off.

Who? Me?

I've had Type 1 (or juvenile onset) diabetes for over 20 years. I don't let it define me, it's just a part of me. Like having brown hair. (Except I can't dye it to cover the grey bits...)

You Say the Sweetest Things...

This week, my endocrinologist said the most wonderful thing to me - "Well. Type 2 diabetes and Type 1 diabetes are two completely different diseases."
Hallelujah!
If you are NOT a diabetic, you may be wondering why this is so important to me.  (You may also be wondering what the differences are...more on that later...)
But to explain the significance of the distinction in my life, let me take you back.
As a child, I attendeded lots of group activities - Girl Guides, swimming lessons, birthday parties - where my parents weren't present.  Pretty common, I know.  But at each of these outings, my mom would always carefully explain to the grown up in charge how to care for me in an emergency, how to read my medic alert bracelet, and give the list of approved foods.  And each time she explained, the word DIABETES always loomed over my head.  I would hear comments such as, "But she seems so healthy" and "Isn't she awfully young for that" or even "But she's not overweight at all."
It bothered me then. It bothers me now. Yes, I'm holding a grudge about it.
As a teenager, I grew defensive about it. "No, I didn't get this way from drinking too much Pepsi or snacking on too many unhealthy foods."
As an adult, I'm even more quick to shout out my status as a Type 1.  Because I STILL did not get this way from having a pre-disposition toward the condition and leading a lifestyle that helped it along.  I cannot control my diabetes through oral medication, through just diet and exercise, and I will not "get better" from trying to do those things.
So, hearing it from my endocrinologist in those blunt terms was more warming than a hot bath.  More exciting than getting a dozen roses.  More empowering than getting re-Tweeted by Ellen DeGeneris.  More satisfying than bringing down a blood sugar of 20.9 to 5.9 in an hour.
I am a Type 1 diabetic. (Hear me roar.)

For info on the differences between Type 1 and Type 2, please ask a doctor. Or use Google.  I'm not reliable as medical professional.
But here's the Wiki:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diabetes_mellitus