Utter Decadence

This morning, I popped out of bed (no, really!) and went to work making something of a work of art in the kitchen. At least, it felt that way. I'm certain that the Daddy will disagree, as he's the one who cleaned up the "makings" afterward.

But I digress.

And speaking of popping, I have one word: Popovers.

As a child, my Mom and grandmother used to take me over to the Beach - to this really fancy-schmancy area of town - and in this one shop, there was a place that served popovers and strawberry jelly. We would go there sometimes, on a whim, or when we wanted to celebrate, or were feeling happy. It was delightful, and sometime during that time, my Mom acquired a popover pan and began making them at home.

There is nothing quite like them, warm from the oven, all egg-y and light and steaming. Mmmmmm.

Anyway, I'd forgotten all about them for a good long while, but about a year-and-a-half ago, rediscovered my love for popovers and have begun making them every couple of months as a special Sunday treat. And today I made some more.

And by more, I mean, MORE. I pulled out all the stops today: popovers with maple-vanilla whipped cream, strawberry syrup, and fresh strawberries (besides bacon and eggs and an outstanding morning cocktail involving pomegranate). Oh, MAN.

Don't they just sing to you? (They certainly sang to me!)

I don't make my popovers in a popover pan, though... I just use a regular, well-greased muffin tin. Which works great, because it stretches the batter further, and they still "pop."

So now that I've got you drooling, I wanted to share my recipe, because, really, it's SOOOOO worth it. I promise. And on top of all that, they're SUPER easy to make!

Popovers 


1 cup milk
2 eggs
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup flour*
1 tbsp. olive oil or melted butter

*I believe gluten-free oat flour would work as well, although I don't know if they would "pop" as well... Today's were made with 1/4 cup oat flour to 3/4 cup regular flour - which for me is a mixture of whole wheat and white.

Preheat oven to 425.

Mix all ingredients thoroughly.

Grease a muffin tin extra-thoroughly, including the top area, as sometimes they come over the edges. I use a combination of butter and bacon grease or butter and olive oil, depending on what I have available.

Then fill each cup in the tin with the batter, about 1/2 to 2/3 of the way. Do not fill all the way or they may puff up TOO big.

Bake for 8-10 minutes on 425, then lower heat to 350 for another 20-35 minutes, or until puffy and golden.

Serve piping hot with maple-vanilla whipped cream and strawberry sauce (recipes below).

Maple-Vanilla  Whipped Cream 


1 cup heavy whipping cream
1-2 tsp. maple syrup
1/8 tsp. vanilla powder or 1 tsp. vanilla extract

Whip as normal. Yum!

Special Strawberry Sauce


In a small saucepan, combine:


1-2 tbsp. butter
4-6 tbsp. strawberry jelly or jam (I used some homemade low-sugar jam that we made last year, and MAN. It was awesome!)
1 tsp. of vanilla agave inulin (optional)
1 tsp. of vanilla extract or 1/8 tsp. of vanilla powder
1 tbsp. maple syrup

Stir and watch until thick and bubbly, then drizzle over hot popovers and fresh strawberries sprinkled with vanilla inulin powder.

Scarf it all down with a breakfast cocktail made of 1 part strawberry-infused sparkling water, 2 parts orange juice, and a good shot of pomegranate liquor for good measure.

And since I know you're probably wondering, my blood sugars did pretty good today, despite all that - the OJ cocktail really was over the top, but I was feeling... Inspired. And who says the "Big D" has to take that away from me, anyway?

So. Go make some. Then come back on here and rave to me about how awesome it was. I'll nod knowingly and then we'll have to make plans to make some TOGETHER next time. And add more alcohol.

Flowers for the Living

For Danielle. Sort of... But it's for everyone who has lost someone... And all the rest of us.

Why is it that it takes somebody dying before people come together - I mean, REALLY come together - to celebrate that person? I want to know. This has been circling the back of my mind like a flock of vultures and picking away at the edges of my thoughts for literally, weeks now.

It is so frustrating.

Anyway, I got to thinking about death. What death means, and how we respond to it. What life means, and how we respond to that.

It all started because a friend of mine died quite suddenly recently, and... She was such a fun, awesome person, and now she's gone. And I can almost guarantee that the hundred or so people in the room at her funeral had never ALL been together in a room before.

And that made me really angry.

I guess part of that is my grief showing up, because I'm still sad about her, but it's more than that. It makes me angry that when we die, all these people show up to talk about how great we were. Really?

I mean, seriously, it's retarded.

Ya'll (Sorry guys, my Southern "roots" show up a little more when I'm mad.) can't bother to show up for a holiday get-together or a birthday party or a fun weekend or whatever, but hey, I'm dead now, so let's all show up and talk about how awesome she was and how much we miss her...

No. If she was that awesome, you'd have made time for her while she was still freaking alive and wanted you around. (And don't get me wrong, I *know* that plenty of people DID make time for my sweet friend before she died. It just frustrated me to think that they were probably never all in the same room together to celebrate her while she was alive.)

That's what's at the core of this for me, I guess. That the "Hey everybody, let's get together and CELEBRATE each other!" thing doesn't happen nearly as often or as beautifully as it should. And that often we are made to feel as though we are imposing on others' schedules when we *do* ask for that time...

We get so caught up in the minutia of our microscopic lives that it takes the DEATH of young, vibrant, beautiful, giving and compassionate woman before everybody's willing to take a pause, take a breath and go, "Wait up. She was awesome. And we didn't bother to tell her enough before she was gone."

It was enough to make me stop, shake my head, and wonder. Who am I? What will people say about ME when I die?

Honestly, I could care less what people think of me when I die. Or what they say. You know why? Because I'LL BE DEAD. And here's a little secret for you: dead people don't care what the living have to say to, for, or about, them.

It's now, here, in the land of the LIVING that I actually care. Here, in this place, where I still breathe the same air as you do... Where I'm still able to laugh, and cry, and wash the same damned laundry day after day after day after day, and yell at my kids. Here is where I care.

So tell me now, or don't tell me at all. Because once I'm dead, it's over. There'll be no more telling then.

And I'll tell you. Let's make a deal of it, k?

I think of that almost every day now. I think of it every time I say goodbye, or goodnight, or whatever... "Did I tell them that I love them? Did I make them feel special enough... Just in case there is no tomorrow?" Not always in so many words, but the thought is still there, peering over my shoulder to make sure I haven't forgotten.

This is especially poignant for me, because in living with diabetes, you learn really quickly that most people who know about diabetes, including - and maybe especially - your doctor, don't really expect you to live all that long. Which kind of sucks. Like, hardcore sucks. You become aware of your mortality a lot more quickly than others may... Even more so when you've had a brush with death through DKA (Diabetic Ketoacidosis. It sucks, trust me in this.). *I* expect to live a long time, but that doesn't mean anything either. Even if I didn't have Type 1, there's no guarantee that I have another hour or another day. I just live a little closer to te reality of what death is than many people do because I have Type 1.

And being a parent with this... WHOA, Mama, it really brings it home.

So I want to start a new tradition. A new way of going about things. Because the land of regret is for the dead. And I don't ever want to go there... I'm not afraid of death, but I am afraid that I'll look back again sometime and say, "I wish I'd told her how much she meant to me." 

The dead don't care about our wishes. Our love that we didn't express, our hopes that we never shared, or the laughs over that last margarita that we never had.

So why do we wait until someone dies to shower them with beautiful flowers and equally beautiful words?

Life gives to the living, and the dead care nothing for it. Our words of affirmation and love and beauty are best spent on the spirits of those around us who still draw breath and can be affirmed and loved and receive beauty.

When I was a young teen, I went to a summer camp where we had a project where we had to give "Flowers for the Living." What this meant was that we each were given a box, and every person at some point during the week of that camp had to write at least one thing about someone else that they appreciated and admired. This was almost 20 years ago, and I still have some of those little slips of paper. They were precious to me, and carried me through some very hard times. And I still remember that experience clearly. It rocked my world in an awesome and powerful way.

So starting here and now, where I have become lax and apathetic and unappreciative... Or where I have held my words to myself, thinking I am too effusive - I want to shake that off. I want to give my flowers to the living.

I want to follow the wisdom of Henry Ward Beecher: “Do not keep alabaster boxes of your love and tenderness sealed up until your friends are dead.  Fill their lives with sweetness, speak approvingly, and cheer them with words and deeds while their ear can hear them and their hearts be thrilled by them.”

Oh, yes. I want to thrill the ears and hearts of everyone I know. Lord grant that I may do so.

Isn't It Always The Little Things?

Good Sunday evening, friends.

In case you missed out, today was an INCREDIBLY BEAUTIFUL day. Knock-your-socks-off gorgeous. Full of all the things that are beautiful about living here: sunshine, warm air with a cool breeze, springtime singing in the air... Ahhh. Gloriousness.

It really is these little things that make me so grateful to be alive and able to enjoy what God has put in this world for us to enjoy.

So of course, we decided to go to a local nature preserve/park thing and take a good, long walk... Too perfect of a day not to, right? And it was... Just perfectly lovely.

First, just let me say that the "mountain," as KayKay called it, totally kicked my butt. But I'm glad for it,  because I definitely needed the exercise. Certainly *not* a little thing, but a good one, nonetheless.

We explored the lake and the trees and the rocks and looked for deer tracks and fox dens and chipmunk... Nests? Lairs? I don't know what they're called, but chipmunks are evil, and therefore it seems logical that they would have lairs. Although, I suppose a nest could be equally as evil and menacing, amIright? (In case I haven't mentioned it before, I used to think chipmunks were all cute and furry and adorable and "Awwww, wouldn't it be awesome to have a pet chipmunk?!?!" ... Until we had Chirpy the Chipmunk move in and CHIRP RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW FOR HOURS - and I mean HOURS - EVERY FREAKING DAY FROM SPRING UNTIL WINTER. Chipmunk society as a whole is dead to me now. There could be a worldwide chipmunk extermination and I wouldn't bat an eye. Chirpy has ruined the whole species for me. The only enjoyment I get from them now is to imagine what one might taste like if properly stewed up.)

Anyway... Train derailed. MUST. GET. BACK. ON TRACK.

So. We had a fun, happy time.

We saw a turtle. (He chose to show us his butt. I guess turtles can be snooty sometimes.)

And we saw lots of trees. Dead trees. Live trees. LOTS of trees. Yay for trees! (I love them, really! Although I did *not* go about hugging them as the Ladybug did... I felt like it, though. Just... THAT HAPPY.) Anyway, I thought this log was pretty darn cool. I love moss, don't you? 

So we walked and walked and walked, and talked about the rocks and the trees and what if Reddy Fox lived under that fallen log? And Paddy the Beaver? I'll bet his dam is in the lake somewhere! And was that Sammy Jay I saw flitting through the trees over there? (We are very much into the books by Thornton W. Burgess  right now - they are wonderful stories with short chapters about a variety of animals. They have a definite Beatrix Potter-esque feeling to them, but also contain great - and often funny - moral stories that are perfect for young children. Both the girls have been enjoying them.) 

Then we saw this cute little guy, who wasn't doing much pecking, but was spending a lot of time calling. He doesn't have a name, because I don't know if Thornton W. Burgess wrote a story about a woodpecker. But that's okay, it was still a joy to watch him and listen to his quiet calls. I did not know woodpeckers had such soft, sweet calls. Simply lovely.                                                                                                                                                         There were about ten thousand people at the preserve today, but fortunately, up where we spent most of our time, there were very few people, so it was easy to imagine that we were (very nearly) alone in the woods. The Ladybug and I have started reading Little House In The Big Woods together, and I'm sure she was thinking of the description of the little house all alone in the woods while we were walking... She's quite taken with the story, and is insisting on reading large(r) chunks of it aloud to me, which of course, I am thrilled with! 

We also saw a few bright and happy little cardinals flitting about in the trees, although, rather disappointingly, no bluebirds this time. The last time we headed out that way, we saw a half-dozen of them, brilliantly, beautifully blue and so close we could almost touch them. But the red of the cardinals seemed to better suit the mood of today anyway: warm and bright and tinged with the fire of dancing sunlight and joyful skipping little girls.

On an aside, the trip uphill was the most exertion I've put forth in some time, and other than a large amount of huffing and puffing and feeling rather like a whale being unwillingly rolled out of its natural habitat, I also had an extreme drop in blood sugar (hypoglycemia). I had specifically checked my blood glucose levels right before embarking on our little adventure, and had also made certain to throw a few extra carbs in my body beforehand without compensating for them with insulin... And still. A ninety-point drop in 45 minutes. That's pretty intense. Eeep!

Fortunately, we'd brought some snacks and had a little impromptu snack-stop at the top of the ridge. It was an amazingly beautiful few minutes... Just us - the Daddy, the girls and I - at the top of the ridge, overlooking the world (it seemed), surrounded by quiet winter trees and the calls of little birds, wrapped in the golden light of late afternoon, a cool breeze fluttering through the leaves as we shared grapes and bunny crackers and dried fruit. So many little things make those moments a shining memory in a corner of my mind.

At the end of our hike, we had a few minutes of fun for pictures while the Daddy was getting the car, so I snapped a couple of (as usual) silly shots... Because of course, no trip anywhere would be complete without my children showing THIS side of them... So I give you these:

We're thinking about making these a part of our next holiday card(s). What do you think?

And really... Isn't it always the little things that make life so tangled and glorious and gripping and beautiful? Those little moments of perfectness that drop into our laps - just waiting to be exclaimed over and remembered and tasted and lived? 

Sacred Sustenance

So. This post has been rattling around in my head for ages now. A good long while. Months, I tell you!

My sweet friend, the ever-fabulous, ever-chic Miss Heather of Gathering Spriggs wrote a post with the same title (you didn't think I came up with that one on my own now, did you?) last year about cooking and eating that was a joy to read. It rocked my world. And I got to thinking.

My cooking philosophy is quite well reflected in what she said, actually. I TOTALLY IDENTIFY. I'm the creative, free-spirited type. I don't do well with rigid schedules and expectations.

Ritual and tradition are often hard for my free-spirited self. But more and more, I see the value in them the older I get, and am working hard to establish some rituals in our household revolving around the way we eat.

I love food. I love to be in the kitchen making and baking and experimenting. I love exploring blogs and magazines about cooking and trying new recipes. I love to break bread with those who mean the most to me. I love (a little too much, I'm sure) to eat.

So, in case you haven't noticed, I like to eat. (Maybe you haven't. If you know me, though, you KNOW.)

I talk about food a lot. I think about food more than I should. I definitely EAT more food than is *really* necessary. You might say I'm obsessed.

And you'd be (mostly) right. But I like to think about it as more of a love affair. There is something blessed and almost holy in the rite of preparing and partaking in a meal.

Our lives center around the act of eating. Everything else is ancillary. Except for breathing, nothing else (physical) is absolutely necessary. Food is life-giving. Life-sustaining. But the meal should not be consumed simply for survival. Life is about MORE than survival, right? It's about the act of living, of thriving, of being and becoming.

Food is meant to be enjoyed. I mean, what's the point of eating if it's not enjoyable? I honestly believe that life here on earth is too short to not enjoy the things that we have been given. To not savor them.  It is NOURISHMENT. Think of the word: to nourish. It means,

1. To sustain with food or nutriment; supply with what is necessary for life, health, and growth.

2. To cherish, foster, keep alive, etc.: He had long nourished the dream of living abroad.

3. To strengthen, build up, or promote: to nourish the arts in one's community.

Notice how that one word is so much MORE than simply the act of consuming?

And where one's food comes from, how it is processed (or not) is, I think, almost as important as the act of eating itself.

To be clear, I am *not* talking about situations where people are starving and there's literally not enough to go around. I am talking about this subject in relation to what I know.

And as a diabetic, even more of my life revolves around food, in very powerful and mostly negative ways, sadly.

Remember when I talked about guilt in this post? Yeah.

Food and guilt go hand-in-hand when you're diabetic. More so when you're overweight and diabetic.

More about that later (because seriously, who wants to talk about the fact that they are fat?).

And so the act of eating becomes even more complicated (aside from the guilt) when you add-in something like diabetes. Because there's carb-counting, and insulin-to-carb ratios and deciding if you need ALL the insulin now, or if it should be spread out over the next hour-and-a-half. And this usually all has to happen before you can take the first bite of whatever it is you want to eat.

Diabetes involves a lot of complicated maths. Yay. I loves me some complicated maths. Fortunately, my pump does a lot of it for me, but still, there's a lot it doesn't do. And I've been doing it so long now, that it comes almost automatically. Although whenever I sit down to actually THINK it out, it takes me forty-forevers, and I'm half-wrong most of the time.

But I am so sick of the guilt, the shouldnts, the cants. Life is too damn short to not eat a doughnut once every six months, I'm sorry. People, ALL people, but especially people like me, should be able to ENJOY our food. We are constantly told how most things are bad for us - and YES, so much of what is out there, prepackaged, precooked, preheated, preprocessed using God-only-knows what - is SO VERY bad for us, but NO... NOT ALL FOOD IS BAD. And indulging (using common sense and with moderation) is good for the soul.

Anyway.

But as much as I love to cook and eat, I realized when I read Heather's post that I was not nearly as intentional about the meals I make and partake in as I had THOUGHT I was. Despite the love affair, I haven't made mealtime a sacred space. And that, I think, is an area in which *I* personally need to grow. And that's continued to swirl around the back of my mind for these last months.

There is a saying in the Talmud, When the Holy Temple was in existence, the Altar atoned for Israel; today, a person's table atones for him.

 -Talmud, Berachot 55a

Whoa.

While I don't totally adhere to this belief, I think there is SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT to be taken here. 

If we are seeking to be holy, seeking for that kedushah (holiness) of spirit, then what does our table say of that? What does the way that we prepare our meals and then take in nourishment speak of our journey toward holiness, toward becoming our best selves?

I am caught and condemned, because up until recently - today perhaps - though I had read Heather's post and have been ruminating on it, I had not thought of our food - our sustenance - as a part of becoming holy.

It has not been sacred. It has very often been rushed and pushed and inhaled and wolfed and digested and annihilated.  But it has not been contemplated, delighted in, relished, rejoiced in, enjoyed, and appreciated at all OFTEN ENOUGH.

And a lot of all this, just like everything else in life (more so with diabetes), comes down to discipline. It is a discipline to breathe the aromas and quiet the soul before partaking. To savor every bite. To practice self-control and not snarf down a whole box of Nutty Bars because the Daddy brought them home and now they're just sitting there, mocking you, begging to be eaten. To prayerfully consider snarfing down the whole box and ask God to somehow make them healthy, even if it's only for the afternoon.

I am sadly lacking in discipline in many areas of my life. But I am working hard toward learning more of it. In ALL things moderation. Something our society has lost sight of. Something I am still learning.

So what are YOUR thoughts on this subject, friends? I would love to hear them and invite a discussion. Do share!

The Big D

Today's post is a loooooong read. Also, be aware that sometimes I write a bit, ehm, tongue-in-cheek, with relation to diabetes. If I don't seem to take it seriously enough, I'm very sorry, but you'll need to find another blog to read for that. Okay, so go read this already and tell me what you think! 

____________________________________________________________________________________

So, like I said I would, I am actually writing a post related to this post from last week. I KNOW. It's kind of like a miracle, right?

Anyway.

So I thought I might as well tackle these in the order that I mentioned them... Or something.

Anyway.

Today's post is not really all that fun for me to write. It's honestly a bit daunting. And not a little intimidating. And scary.

But as I have never been one to let intimidation or scariness get in my way (nor am I easily intimidated, let me tell you), here goes.

I have diabetes. But you already knew that.

What you probably didn't know are the things I'm about to share.

First, some facts:

1. Insulin and blood sugar go hand-in-hand. Insulin is the hormone that your body produces (from your pancreas) to process the foods you eat, turning them into usable substances. Before that can happen, though, your body has to turn those foods into glucose. Insulin is what allows the body's cells to break down and actually USE that glucose.

In a normal person, that glucose is used by the cells in your body through the insulin your body provides before it can get to an unsafe range. In a diabetic, there is little or no insulin for your body to break down the glucose with, so the sugar basically floats around in your blood stream while your cells starve to death. Too much of that glucose in your system also allows for it to turn into alcohol (not good).

Blood sugar (or glucose levels) is the amount of glucose in your system at any given time. Everything you put into your body produces glucose. Except water. And air.

And, for even more fun, your body stores glucose and can sometimes choose to dump it into your system just because. Average blood sugar numbers are between 70-140. But one thing to note about blood sugar - after eating, though, a normal blood sugar reading is basically anything under 200.

Hypoglycemia, or "low" blood sugar is anything under 70. Hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) basically means that there is too much insulin in your system and not enough glucose to go around. The effects of low blood sugar can mimic drunkenness. For me, my mind gets fuzzy, I typically have a hard time finding the right words to say what I'm thinking (but that happens a lot anyway! Mommy brain! Ha!), I feel lightheaded or dizzy, and sometimes my fingertips and lips go numb.

Hyperglycemia, or "high" blood sugar is anything above 140, and it is simply the opposite of low blood sugar, in that there is not enough insulin in your system and too much glucose. The effects of high blood sugar are similar to low blood sugar for many people, but for me, they're not at all the same. I usually feel very tired, headachey, nauseated, and am extremely sensitive to everything (and therefore generally tend to turn into witchy-poo until it normalizes).

2. There are TWO kinds of diabetes. The first type is what I have, aptly named, Type 1 Diabetes. It is also called Juvenile Diabetes. It occurs in less than 10% of diabetics. It happens for reasons unknown. It does not run in the family. It is highly unlikely that my children will ever develop diabetes. Type 1 has been linked to everything from overloading on sugar at a young age to reactions to immunizations. It is a complete failure of the pancreas. Period.

I have my own theories about why I am diabetic, but now is not the time for that. Type 1 Diabetes cannot be controlled with diet and exercise, although that stuff really does help... And despite one's best efforts, there are times when waking up with unexplained and seriously high blood sugar just happens. My pancreas is useless. It doesn't produce anything.

The type of diabetes that I have is this: it is a disease that basically takes a functioning part of my body and turns it into useless extra weight. So I have to take meds - insulin... All. The. Time. Or else I die. Period.

The second type of diabetes, appropriately called, Type 2 Diabetes, tends to run in the family. It typically happens in adults age thirty-five and up, and in those who have an (seriously) unhealthy lifestyle and eating habits. Type 2 tends to occur in those who are overweight and have a family history of Type 2 Diabetes.  It often can be controlled by diet and exercise and may not require medication. That is because in most Type 2 diabetics, the pancreas is still functioning somewhat and just needs a kick in the pants.  In my personal opinion, Type 2 often happens because the pancreas simply can't constantly produce enough insulin to keep up with the amount of sugar and/or other unhealthy things that are being processed by said person's body, but once they get that under control, the pancreas (many times, but not always) gets all happy again and can keep up. Sort of. It is still a forever disease, but Type 2 can often be controlled through diet and exercise (though not reversed!). There are still many Type 2 diabetics who do need to take insulin on a regular basis as well, though.

3. Type 1 Diabetes is an auto-immune disease. It is related to thyroid disease, AIDS, and  rheumatoid arthritis, among other things. It is also related (hence the name) to the immune system. Which means - YAY - that as a diabetic, my immune system is seriously compromised. I.e., everything my children drag home gets drug out all over my immune system and I spend a lot of time doing fun things like coughing, sneezing and throwing up. Double yay!

Type 2 Diabetes is NOT an auto-immune disorder. Ninety-five percent of cases of Type 2 Diabetes are related to over-taxation of the pancreas. This is not what happens with a Type 1 diabetic.

4. There is no "real bad" diabetes. It ALL sucks. There are complications. Diabetes is a chronic disease. People throw around the term chronic illness a lot. Like you've been having one cold right after another for the past year, but eventually your immune system will figure it out and everything will be okay. For Type 1 diabetics, it is NOT like that. Diabetes is an ongoing battle, every single minute of every single day. Sadly, it CAN be like that for many Type 2's, but it seems that they often refuse to make the necessary changes for their bodies to naturally deal with insulin resistance.

5. (And what I think may be the most important point here:) Diabetes cannot be separated from my life. No, it doesn't necessarily define me, but it certainly does define a lot of what I do and who I have become. As Kerri's blog, Six Until Me, explains, "Diabetes doesn't define me, but it does help explain me."

In *everything* I do, I have to take into account the fact that I am diabetic.  Everything reminds me of the fact that I wear this disease like an item of clothing that I can neither remove nor mend to make it presentable.

Diabetes is the dirty and tattered rags of an imperfect body that I wear. And every day, in almost every THING I do, I am reminded that I wear them.

I am reminded by my coffee in the morning.

I am reminded with every single bite of food that goes in my mouth.

When I snap at the kids because my blood sugar is high, I am reminded.

I am reminded every time I leave the house and everywhere I go because I have to bring all my "paraphenalia" along.

I am reminded by the fact that I don't wear certain types of clothing because it's simply too difficult to wear them.

Each year, when I am sick more often and for longer than most people I know, I am reminded. 

Packing my suitcases around all the supplies I have to bring when I travel, I am reminded.

Untangling the tubes of my insulin pump from wherever they've wrapped themselves around me at least three times each night, and I am reminded. 

When I have to change my pump site, prick my fingers, pick up my insulin in an unending line at Walgreens, go to the doctor every other week to make sure everything is "okay," or take forty minutes sitting on the floor of a grocery store recovering from a low blood sugar, I am everlastingly reminded.

There is no activity that I do that doesn't serve in some way to remind me that I bear this disease the way some women bear children... Except that there is no relief. There is no birth, no joy of new beginnings. It is just the being swollen and full-to-bursting and uncomfortable and hormonal in a constant and unending cycle of wake-check-inject-sleep.

And yes, since I know you're probably wondering, even sex doesn't escape unscathed. Sex is an even more interesting feat when a bleeping pump and forty-two feet of plastic tubing and, of course - let's not forget - low blood sugar is involved. Or maybe you weren't wondering. And now you are simply to traumatized by the idea to even continue reading. But you know, I figured it would come up eventually, and I should share in the interest of full-disclosure and everything.

So ANYWAY, as they say, "The show must go on!"
 
And OH! The guilt. The guilt of it all. The try-and-fail of every day with this disease.

The responsibility, the heaps-upon-heaps of "Do this, do that, do these other forty things and maybe you'll live until you're 50."

The weight of it, the judgment, the looks, overbearing doctors and pitying nurses and the surprised and shocked looks - "YOU have diabetes????" And most of the time, my heart answers like this: "Why yes. Yes, I do. It is *forever*, and you know NOTHING about what it is like. So go away and leave me alone to eat my chocolate in peace and STOP JUDGING ME."

But the nice me doesn't do much but nod my head and move on.

The scare tactics, the pity, the "Oh, I know someone who was diabetic and they died." (Note: This link is how I found Kerri's blog. I cried when I read it. This has happened and continues to happen ALL. THE. TIME. And until I read this, I just thought it was something about me that caused people to say the things they did.)

The aloneness. Did you know that until three months ago, I did not know another single person with diabetes? Let alone, Type 1. The ONE person I now know is six years old. And I can do nothing but encourage him. I have no friends with diabetes. I've met a few in passing, but there is no one to talk to who "has been there." in this particular area of my life. Type 1 Diabetes is a lonely disease.

There are support groups, yes, but honestly, I wouldn't even know how to get plugged into them, and I don't even know if I would *want* to.

So there you have it, all messy and out in the open. Just the way I like it.

But I won't deny it: this was a scary post to write. And not without emotion. I have never spoken most of these words to anyone. And now they are out in the great, wide internet for God and everybody to read.

And sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy?

Just look at this post.