Twenty Five Years Later, What Now?

There were three big things that happened in 1989, only two of which I remember: my baby sister was born, the Berlin Wall came down, and a guy went into a classroom at a college in Montreal and shot a bunch of women because he was pissed off that he didn’t get in.

The fall of the Berlin Wall is the one I don’t remember.

I was reminded on Facebook today that today is the 25th anniversary of the massacre at L’Ecole Polytechnique (please forgive the lack of accents, I have not a damn clue how to do them on my laptop), and it brought with it a lot of emotion, the biggest of which is the question I distinctly remember asking my mother after overhearing her and my father talking about it: “why?”

Even my four-year-old brain knew that it was wrong and was something that shouldn’t have happened.

I still have a tough time wrapping my head around it, even now that I’m attending a tech school in a science field. A school that has taken great strides to even out the gender ratio, and in my mind has done a pretty good job. When I came here, based on stories I had heard I was only expecting to see a girl only occasionally, and that’s pretty far from the truth. Of course, most of the stories I heard from my parents, who went here in the Stone Age and their papers were turned in written in mammoth blood on leaves or something. But while I didn’t remember exactly when the massacre occurred, it did cross my mind from time to time, along with a new question:

Can it happen again?

I’ll be honest, I’m not much of a feminist. *GASP!* a woman in the sciences, not all about women’s equality and liberation, THE HORROR! Truth be told, it’s not so much that I’m anti-feminist, it’s really more to do with the fact that I’m selfish enough that as long as I’m getting paid equally for equal work, I really don’t give a shit what goes on anywhere else and with anyone else. The whole shirtgate scandal I seriously thought was blown way out of proportion and I kept my mouth shut on it until now because I really didn’t find it worth my comment above and beyond to say that bring in the fashion police, sure, because the shirt was incredibly ugly. But the potential for violence against women simply because they’re lacking a Y chromosome does bother me, and quite a bit at that. The fact that someone would get so pissed off over nonacceptance to a school that he would blame it on women and then go on an armed rampage – in Canada, no less – kinda frightens me a little due to the simple fact that it has the physical possibility it will happen again. We’ll forget for a minute here that the Quebequois are a different breed of Canadian who despite sometimes being overly conservative do throw an AMAZING party centred around overly-boiled maple syrup poured into snow to point out that anger and fear are two emotions that transcend cultural mindsets. And while I think that we are due for a cultural shift, at least here in America, I think that it is going to take way too long for that to happen, and that something needs to be done NOW.

The question is: what?

Some will say we need better gun control, some will say that we need to make everyone believe in equality, some will say that we need better mental health services. Unfortunately, all those take time, and given the amounts of school shootings in the news lately, it’s only a matter of time before another Marc Lepine runs into a classroom with a semi-auto targeting women. Having said that, I really wish media would stop their 24/7 coverage over these kinds of events, but that’s another story for another time. Women shouldn’t have to find themselves constantly on the defensive just because of their sex, yet here we are, in the 21st century and still having to prove to the occasional random jerk that we’re freaking equal.

Thankfully, that occasional random jerk is just that – occasional and random. The comment I most often hear when I tell men what I study is “wow, that’s hardcore.” Yes it is, thanks, and fortunately I’m at a place where I really don’t have to worry about someone coming into my lab with a gun unless he’s got a freshly killed dear slung over his shoulder. Which, not gonna lie, would be awesomesauce since I’ve been wanting venison something fierce, even though the kinds of labs I hang out in would be a really bad place to process one of those. But the fact that something like the Montreal Massacre has the possibility of even happening is awful and we really need to find a way to end this possibility.

I consider myself to be incredibly lucky that I have yet to experience some of the awful things that I have heard my fellow women in STEM go through, and I hope that I will continue my string of good luck. Although I will take this moment to say that this may have something to do with the fact that what many women find to be inappropriate comments I don’t find inappropriate – and if I do, I shoot back with something equally inappropriate. I have a wee bit of a reputation of being a woman to not mess with, and I do think this contributes in part to my lack of dealing with the crap – people are simply scared shitless of me. I’m cool with that, I don’t do what I do to make friends, I do what I do to change the world.

I guess what I’m trying to say in the end of all this increasingly drunken rambling as I down yet another tasty beverage from the Keweenaw Brewing Company is that the Montreal massacre shouldn’t have happened. And that the Montreal massacre can happen again. Until such time as we stop looking at women as different people, it can happen. Until people remove their heads from their colons and see that there are women out there in the STEM fields, doing awesome things and making a difference, it can happen again. And until we finally wake up and get it through our thick skulls that women can and should be in STEM, it can happen again.

So how about we remove heads from colons, knock some sense into them and stop looking at women as different people and stop it from happening again?

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The Smartass’ Guide to Handling the Food Police

So, I participated in my first Diabetic Connect Diabetes Education chat tonite, and it was a lot of fun. I always like to meet new people online (because we all know I have super social anxiety in real life, eek!) and the group was a kick. Tonite’s topic of discussion was handling eating during the holidays, and someone mentioned the thing that is always on the Top 10 Biggest Annoyances list for any diabetic: the food police.

You know who I’m talking about, those people who watch over your shoulder, asking if you can eat that roll, telling you to put down the pie and generally just being worse than your mother was 6 days after coming home from the hospital.

Every diabetic has come across at least on in their life.

Diabetic Connect has a very good list of ways to handle the food police, and they are most certainly very good and should be given a look by anyone who has ever found themselves in a position where people are questioning their culinary choices. But since I’m a snarky smartass, I really can’t see myself implementing them after the first round of being asked “doesn’t that have sugar?” six times is over.

You were warned

You were warned

So, in that vein, I now give you

THE SMARTASS’ GUIDE TO HANDLING THE FOOD POLICE

Snarky Responses to “You Can’t Eat That.”

1. Really? I thought I was the one going to college.

2. That’s cool, because you really shouldn’t be talking with your mouth full.

3. I think this pie would look way better on my ass than on yours.

4. That’s too bad, because these mashed potatoes are so lonely, they need a friend. Like the turkey I just ate.

5. For one day, my body can handle it. You, however, will always be ugly no matter what you eat.

6. Several peer-reviewed articles in Diabetes Care seem to disagree with you.

7. Good thing your insurance premiums/tax dollars are paying for my insulin pump.

8. Blame Obama.

9. I’m a piranha. They in the Amazon.

10. Silly me, I forgot you are an expert on diabetes care! Please, what can I eat?

11. Hold on, let me grab my towel and consult the Hitchhiker’s Guide.

12. You’re fired.

13. Taking a break from bothering your spouse/significant other/parent I see. How about you take a break from bothering me, too.

14. I need you to go outside and double-check that the dairy elves haven’t smeared the metal posts outside with ice cream again. It’s impossible to get off and I don’t want to spend the money replacing them again. The only way to do it is to preform a taste test. (Works best in cold climates).

15. Your ever-widening ass shows that you have no business giving me dietary advice.

What would be on your Smartass’ Guide to Handling the Food Police?

The Bowels of Mediocrity

I know I’m not the only parent out there who sees some cute little art project and goes “awwww that’s soooo cute, imma try that!” You know what projects I’m talking about, those adorable ones involving painting infant digits and transposing them onto various media. These Pinterest Martha Stewarts come up with some awesomesauce idea, try it out, and then post it out there for the whole world to see.

Aww, that’s soooo cute, imma try that!

Well, after an attempt at getting Baby Imp’s little hands onto some Christmas ornaments for the grandparents, I have only one thing to say right now:

Fuck you Pinterest moms.

That’s right, you heard me. Fuck you all. Fuck you and your perfect little art projects that go perfectly and your expensive cameras that photograph it perfectly. Fuck your well-behaved, grass-fed angelic children and the horse they rode in on – which would be you.

In the words of Lily Allen: Fuck you very, very much.

(Seriously, go listen to the song. I fucking love me some Lily Allen. ❤ We’ll just forget for a moment that I’m the one being hateful and distasteful…)

If there is one site on planet Earth that can make a mother feel like a complete and utter failure, it’s Pinterest. In the sea of perfect mothers, I’m one of the bottom-feeders. I can’t get my food to look pretty, my living room is super uncoordinated and my Christmas tree could give Charlie Brown a run for his money.

Merry fucking Christmas

I can’t get my child to not eat paint and I sure as hell can’t get her to sit still for the mere 10 seconds it would take me to get her damn handprint on an sphere of cheap plastic. Please, for the love of God, tell me what it is you all do to make it so that your children sit still long enough to make a perfectly-designed art project. What are you feeding these kids? Do I need to invest in some Ritalin?

I can’t even blog without my daughter keyboard mashing. She has somehow keyboard mashed so that I can’t cursor in to the middle of a paragraph and add stuff without it typing over things. The good news is, this experience has taught me exactly what the key labeled “insert” actually does.

But I digress.

While Pinterest moms can suck my left tit, I did find comfort in Craft Fail. It’s nice to see I’m not the only mom who epic fails at this sort of stuff:

That looks JUST LIKE MINE!

There’s even a cute little blurb along with every craft fail, go check it out. It made me smile in the midst of all my anger.

All I was trying to do was make some nice Christmas presents for the grandparents and great grandparents that didn’t look like they were a mess, and all I got was a messy baby and a chance to revisit my softball-playing days by throwing the ornament across the kitchen.

I hope all you Pinterest moms have ten thousand epic fails for every awesome thing you post. I send the demon of craft fails upon you all.

In the meantime, I’m going to go eat homemade chocolate nuts. Because while my cooking always looks like dinosaur poop, it at least tastes delicious.


A big shout-out goes to Lord Imp, who got the baby bathed and diapered for me while I was being angry. He’s awesome.

Low Carb South Park

I. Love. South Park.

I know, it’s a polarising show – you either love it or you think it’s stupid and vulgar. I am in the first camp (as I’m sure you can tell), simply due to the fact that they tackle some pretty serious issues in that stupid and vulgar manner that makes you really look at the issues in a completely different light – which oftentimes is quite necessary.

So I finally got around to watching the episode that aired the Wednesday before last, Gluten Free Ebola. I will admit that, as a low carb eating person, for the first time in my life I went into the episode somewhat cautious. But knowing that for the past what, 18 years, South Park’s MO has been “look at it one way and then another,” I kept going.

The male genitalia flying off did make me laugh way more than it should have.

In the end, Cartman has a dream where Aunt Jemima tells him that the pyramid is upside down. He calls up the USDA to tell them, and then they come up with this:

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Well it’s about damn time!

Now THAT is the pyramid how I see it. We’ll ignore the fact that it never was a pyramid to begin with but a triangle for a moment, and focus on the fact that even Trey Parker and Matt Stone know what’s up.

Fat is not bad, people!

Well, let me modify that to say that not all fat is bad. Trans fats, they’re still bad. Refined fats, still bad. Now, the ending scenes where people are eating steak with a stick of butter are a gross overexaggeration, but that’s South Park for you (although I will take this moment to say that steak is in fact quite tasty with butter on it – just not a whole quarter pound of the stuff). I also find it quite coincidental that the butter-and-steak party was thrown for the kid with diabetes. Sort of.

The point I’m trying to get at in my incoherent rambling is that it’s about damn time that low carb/high fat got a good show in the mainstream media. Studies are starting to come out that all those carbohydrates are bad, and that’s good too. I am the kind of person who does not think that there is a one-size-fits-all diet plan, but I do wholeheartedly agree that the “you must have a serving of complex carbohydrates at every meal!” mentality needs to go. I shudder when I recall what I was initially taught by my dietician as a child – I had to chose one starch, two for supper, and record them in what I will admit was a handy worksheet that made it easy. If I didn’t make choices from every recommended group, I got a proverbial finger shaken at me.

I eat a very balanced diet while on low carb. I still make things like biscuits and bread and cakes and cookies, just they’re all without grains and low on the carbohydrates. I can still have all the tasty and delicious sweet things, and I do still bake up a storm. I eat a ton of vegetables, and contrary to popular belief I do not make an entire meal out of bacon (I love bacon more than most people, but not that much). Almost everything I eat is handmade, there are very little processed foods, and I spend WAY less money on food now that I don’t get a burger and fries all the time and I never order a pizza anymore. I also weigh less than I did in high school and once again I now have to go buy more jeans because they all fall off my ass.

I also need a new belt because I destroyed the only one I own yesterday.

Anyway, I high five Trey and Matt for their bringing this to the minds of those who would likely not even think about it. South Park is the in-your-face voice that LCHF needs to get through to the younger crowd. Put down that multigrain muffin sugar-filled monstrosity (because muffins are nothing more than cake for breakfast) and eat a low carb, no sugar version. It tastes better, and is better for you too.

I have also decided that the ultimate way to know you’ve arrived is for South Park to make fun of you. I have switched my life goal to be from winning the Nobel Prize to having South Park poke fun at me. Or maybe I could have South Park poke fun at me FOR winning the Nobel Prize. Hmm…

And as a side note, I’ve been super craving potato chips lately. I think imma try deep frying radishes and see how that turns out…

And the Insurance Woes Continue

I really am fed up with insurance companies.

Yeah, I haven’t been around for a while. Studying has been taking up a lot of my time lately (I say as I look at the open binder of genomics notes that hasn’t been looked at in the past 45 minutes). As a matter of fact, I have to scurry off to a chemistry lab here in 20 minutes. And I should probably fill out this mounting pile of paperwork from two different specialty pharmacies as I begin the transition to the third one in as many months.

I’ve also been without test strips now for about a week.

I called up that medical supply place a while ago for a new shipment. Sweet, I thought that everything was all honkey dorey. The supply company  had checked with my insurance that everything would be covered, and all was set.

Or so I thought.

I got a phone call last week saying that my new insurance company wanted my strips to go through the pharmacy department, so they would be coming separately from my pump supplies since they were two separate entities. Whatevs, my insurance could have saved themselves shipping by leaving everything the way that it was, but don’t care. I got my pump supplies a week ago, but never received my strips. So I finally found the time to call them today (when I should have been studying, but whatevs) and tried to figure out what was up.

I thought that everything had been taken care of this month. Turns out my supplier hadn’t sent my info over to the pharmacy.

Le sigh.

So I called the pump supplier people and they physically walked the scripts and authorisations et all over to the pharmacy, which was nice, and they called me back to let me know that they got everything…

But my insurance won’t allow me more than 100 strips per month without prior authorisation.

When you do the math, that’s 3.33 tests PER DAY (assuming 30 days in a month). That’s 3.33 tests PER DAY for a TYPE 1 DIABETIC on an INSULIN PUMP.

Worst. Joke. EVER.

Two things happened here. First, some jackoff thought it would be a good idea to make an across-the-board recommendation that type 2 diabetics only need to test their blood sugar like 3 times a week, and the second thing is that some jackoff thinks that type 1 diabetes = type 2 diabetes.

For the HUNDRETH TIME folks,

IT. DOESN’T.

For the record, there was a time I was testing my blood sugar over 10 times a day. It’s gone down some, because I simply don’t have the time (I haven’t even had the time to bitch in here about things, and that’s saying a lot). As a matter of fact, this thought train ended up continuing after my lab, because I ran out of time and had to skedaddle (which Chrome isn’t underlining in red, SCORE!).

P.S. My blood sugar crashed on me in the lab. Suddenly and bad. As in, my TA took the time to ask me if I was ok. And it took me another 5 minutes of feeling completely confused to get the hint, wash my hands and exit the lab with a tube of mini M&Ms.

But I digress. Not having test strips sucks. Although to be honest, I would have test strips…if I hadn’t lost my backup monitor yesterday. Yup, I have no idea what happened to it. I tested my blood sugar in the bathroom of the library yesterday and haven’t seen it since.

I guess I could ask at the desk…but that would require talking to people I don’t know. Which is proving to be more and more difficult, I’m finding. But that’s another thing to deal with at another time.

BACK TO MY ORIGINAL STORY….because, attention deficit OOH SHINY!!

I got my last two weeks of blood glucose readings as well as the last 31 days emailed to my endo’s LPN and they got the prior auths rolling for me. Which means I’ll have the rest of the test strips I need in what, two, three weeks?

*sigh* great.

How much will it take for me to be able to make my own medical decisions? What will it take for me to be able to test my blood sugar as many damn times as I want? I know that I’m like the only person on the planet who tests more than 4 times a day, but I’m kind of in school to become a scientist, and there’s no such thing as too much data. Plus, everyone knows that people who check their blood sugar more have better A1c’s.

People with better A1c’s not only live longer, but have less complications. As in, don’t need amputations or organ transplants or crazy expensive shit like that. Hey insurance companies, test strips cost WAY less than antirejection drugs. Just sayin’.


This was like, the most awfully-worded blog post. Ever. This is what happens when you don’t know what your blood sugar is for 36 hours.

Because A Zebra Needs Her Zeal

Having a primary immune deficiency can be very isolating.

This was the only thing going through my mind as I infused tonite, laying alone in bed with my laptop in my lap writing a review on a journal article for immunology. “CVID is isolating.” There I was, alone upstairs, snuggled up in my blanket and hooked up to a Freedom 60 pump, missing human interaction of others who were going through it just like me.

Diabetes has the online community, and it’s prominent and in your face. Do a Twitter search for “diabetes” and all sorts of things come up. Do a search for “immune deficiency” and you find links to press releases and anti-Jenny McCarthy tweets. Which are all awesome, don’t get me wrong, but there isn’t that sense of community that people with diabetes has.

Of course, that is just my impression, and likely has more to do with the fact that I’ve got a touch of social anxiety and don’t like to initiate conversation, even online. I follow people on Twitter, but I don’t tweet them, I don’t start up a conversation. It seems to me that people just don’t talk about it, It’s not like diabetes where the information gets plastered all over your info. It’s like a primary immune deficiency is the dark secret everyone hides in their closet with the dusty skeletons.

I completely understand the desire to live a normal life, to continue on and pretend like nothing’s wrong. I get that it’s relatively easy to forget that you have an immunodeficiency, since taking care of it really doesn’t consume every moment of your day. I just wish that there was the same kind of vocal group out there that diabetes has.

I could join an online community, sure. There are plenty of message boards out there, and I know that there are many devoted to primary immune deficiencies. I can’t be the only one online who understands the wooziness after an infusion due to the Benadryl and the welts consisting of pooled immunoglobulin. I know that I’m not the only one online right now with gauze taped to their abdomen. I know I’m not the only one around who knows the importance of hydrating and knows that it is the best way to prevent the Ig migrane. My question is, where are they all?

According to Twisted Sifter, a group of zebras is called a “zeal.” I don’t care what they’re called, but I need to find a zeal. Zebras work best in groups and their camouflage works best when there’s more than one around. So, immunodeficient people of the world, let’s band together. Let’s form ourselves a zeal and become more strong. Zebras live in zeals because they will live longer that way – why wouldn’t the same be true for us?

Dear Diabetes, I Quit

You can quit a job for any reason. You can quit school once you get past the state’s legal dropout age. You can end a relationship very easily and you can run away from home.

What you can’t do, however, is quit a medical condition. 

Today, however, I sure did try.

I like to keep a low-carb diet. It helps me keep my blood sugars in much better line. I’m not necessarily ketogenic since my main goal is to just keep stable levels and there are some non-keto things that don’t raise my blood sugars so I don’t worry about them (coconut palm sugar is one thing that comes to mind – it’s not on the keto list, but since I don’t need insulin to handle it I don’t give a shit). I’ve lost quite a bit of weight since having Baby Imp while on a low-carb diet, and I have actually grown to prefer the dishes that I’ve been making.

The thing about low-carbing is that it’s a lot of work. I make EVERYTHING from scratch – hell, I even make my own crackers. It isn’t exactly a diet for convenience. It takes a lot of preparation, thinking, planning, grocery shopping and a lot of time in front of a stove. Supper tends to be just a meat and some kind of vegetable because by the time 6 o’clock rolls around I’m running low on spoons and throwing something on the grill and slicing up some cucumber is easy. 

I’ve had one hell of a time the last three weeks. I’ve moved, set up a house, started at a new school and new job and got acclimated to a new schedule. I’ve also been through the living hell of going through the motions of getting a whole new set of prior authorisations for medication and doctors. I’ve been living with the constant worry whenever someone near me in class coughs or sneezes. I’ve been dealing with yet another a fungal infection on my leg and increasing chest congestion due to not having my immunoglobulin for two weeks (BIG NEWS SIDE NOTE got a month of Hizentra approved by the insurance, but they don’t like the specialty pharmacy chosen by my immunologist and they’re still missing some paperwork so this month is to get me through until they get all of the paperwork they need in order. Supplies are getting shipped tomorrow since the approval came around 4:30, will have them by Thursday morning).

Life is exhausting.

As time goes on, I have less and less energy. And today I finally had enough.

This afternoon, I quit diabetes.

And I didn’t leave a two-week notice either. I just up and walked out the door, flipping the bird over both my shoulders as I exited. I turned around in the doorway and disco danced to “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” for good measure. Then I shouted that he was an awful lover, because no quitting scene is complete without a dissolved office romance.

Freshly alive with my newfound freedom, I ran straight into the arms of my secret lover: Hardee’s. He enveloped me with the scent of his curly fry cologne and caressed me with sweet words of encouragement. “It will be all right,” he whispered in my ear as the bag was passed through the window.

So I went home with my carbohydrate bomb, the ease of simply ordering lunch giving me the energy to go on. And I sat down. And ate.

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I even ate the cookie.

But, alas, despite my officially divorcing myself from diabetes, some of it still stuck around. Like I still went for the pump when eating. Because it’s only second nature.

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That’s about four times my average daily carbohydrate count…

And I found myself running into a problem.

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You shall not pass.

I purposely set my max bolus to 5 units because Baby Imp likes to grab at the pump, and it’s to prevent me getting an insane amount of insulin. I rarely take any more than 2 units in a sitting (and that’s only when my blood sugars end up high for some reason) so I never see that screen. Until today. I felt like a bit of a rebel, taking more insulin than I normally do. It was freeing, like the first time you go out on a date after leaving an awful boyfriend.

Soon the pump was shouting at me again, and instead of my usual “hey, I should take care of that…” response, it was more along the lines of “pfft, whatevs.” Because I quit diabetes today. 

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Nope, don’t care.

I ate everything. The burger, the bun it came on, the fries, I even finished the cookie even though it was highly disappointing.

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C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me.

138 grams of carbohydrates later and 8 and a half fattening units of insulin later, and I felt fine. Wonderful. Disappointingly wonderful. When you quit diabetes, you’re supposed to feel awful. You’re supposed to need to pee all the time, feel lethargic, and be reminded that quitting diabetes was a bad idea.

Although admittedly, I didn’t really quit diabetes. Like a codependent person, I came crawling back to it. I took insulin. I even checked my blood sugar beforehand (it was 71 mg/dL). And then I walked for like a mile and a half afterwards, which resulted in a 66 mg/dL pre-supper blood sugar about 5 hours later. For diabetes burnout, this was an awful example. For quitting diabetes, this was an awful example. But given how taking care of myself takes up every minute of every day and how dedicated I am to staying well, this was big. I consider myself lucky that the huge carbohydrate count in my meal didn’t end up with me having to bolus again even four hours later. While I didn’t check my blood sugar two hours afterwards (which is actually unusual for me, we can call that part of my quitting diabetes) I know by how I felt that I really didn’t get that terribly high. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. 

I can say though that in my temporary “fuck it” experience, I did learn a lot. Normally when I splurge on a high-carb meal, I am later consumed with a rather large amount of guilt and a feeling of failure. It was nice to let loose without the down feelings that followed. That’s not to say that this will end up becoming an everyday thing and that I have completely fallen off the wagon and am being dragged by a rope tied around my ankles. Supper tonite consisted of pork chops and a salad with low-carb ranch dressing. It seems that old habits die hard, although admittedly this is an old habit that is a good thing to keep around.

I will admit that I really don’t know what diabetes burnout feels like. Yes, I get sick of having it and I get frustrated and occasionally say “fuck it” and end up in a Hardee’s drive-thru. I’ve eaten whatever I wanted and not cared. I even spent a good 10 or so years not checking my blood sugar at all. But I’ve always taken the insulin, which is often the most difficult thing for someone with diabetes to handle. The thought of being constantly held captive by a needle or a pump is frustrating. But that is the one thing that I never really had a problem with. After 18 years, insulin has been second nature. I can honestly say that I don’t remember life before I did it, and even though I was 11 when diagnosed pre-diagnosis life and post-diagnosis life for the most part are one in the same. I hear about people experiencing diabetes burnout and books have been written on how to deal with it, but I can honestly say that I don’t understand it. When I burn out, it’s usually only for a day. When I quit diabetes, I walk right back in the door the next morning, sit at my desk and start typing like nothing ever happened.

I guess in the end I’ve accepted that there’s just no getting rid of it. No matter what I do, it’s always going to be there and I will always have to handle it. It’s a part of me and who I am, and that’s just that.

Dear Diabetes,

I try to quit you, but you’re still here. May as well have a beer together and keep working things out.

Love, Lady Imp