Raising Awareness, One Step at a Time - Jacob's Story 

Jacob (“Jake”, or “Jakey” as his Mom calls him), Matthew Erickson is an active, happy, sweet child.  Jake loves sports of any kind, animals, cars, trucks and playing in general.  He also attends the 4 year olds class at Cascade Christian School 3 days a week.

Jake was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when he was 2 ½.  He was really sick for a couple weeks and we even took him to the doctors and they failed to diagnose him, initially.  He was exhibiting the common signs of diabetes – excessive liquid consumption, urinating excessively, loss of energy and loss of weight.  He is a very high energy and social boy so it was very unusual for him to be so inactive.  We ended up taking him to the emergency room 2 days after the Doctor visit because he was so sick and looked so thin, and he was vomiting, we just knew something was terribly wrong.

Our fears were confirmed, at the ER as the doctor gave Jake a blood sugar test and his blood sugar level was well over 600.  (Normal levels should be around 100).

His diagnosis was a week before Christmas and we spent the next 5 days at the hospital, learning exactly what Diabetes was, and how to manage his health going forward. 

To manage his diabetes he gets around 11-15 finger pokes a day to check his blood sugar levels.  He also gets 5 - 7 shots of insulin a day in his arm, leg, bottom, or stomach.  The shot sites also have to be rotated daily to avoid calluses and hard lumps forming in the shot area, which will affect the insulin and how it will effectively disperse into his body. He also must be checked at least once a night at 2:00 am to make sure he is still level.  If he is too high or low it requires immediate attention, which means we could be up the rest of the night checking him, until his blood sugar levels are controlled.

When he’s at school Miss Sandy and Miss Debbie have taken on the huge responsibility of monitoring Jake.   He loves his classmates and the teachers.  His Grandma Sue lives 1 ½ miles away and is on stand-by, in case he does need a shot or has an emergency.

Type 1 diabetes is when your pancreas stops working and no longer produces enough insulin for your body.   It can take an unknown amount of time for it to completely stop producing insulin.  So when you factor in his activities, diet, the weather, mood, bad dreams, a bath, or even just his body growing and changing, you still get times when the only explanation to a sudden low is that the pancreas has kicked in and now has double dosed his little body with insulin, causing a sudden “Crash”. 

Jake has already had 4 episodes of “Crashing”.  He starts to stumble around and then his body goes lifeless.  He becomes scared, sick and cries – but he cannot swallow or speak clearly and is fighting us to hold him still, so we can give him the emergency shot, which contains glucagon.  Glucagon is a hormone made in the pancreas, like insulin. However, it has the opposite effect of insulin. It raises the blood sugar level rather than lowering it. The shot is a large needle and is very painful.  Sometimes the shot will cause him to start vomiting due to the sudden change in his body.  After about 10 minutes, which seems more like hours, he starts to calm down and feel better. His strength comes back and then wants to go play, but we want to keep him settled for a bit, if not for our own peace of mind, but to make sure he has fully recovered and his blood sugar is back under control.

It is a never ending torture for us to watch him deal with this 24/7, even though he is so brave about it all.  He starts his morning with a finger poke and 2 shots.  One that is for the slow releasing insulin and one to treat the high and/or breakfast he will eat. 

Even though he is “use to it” the finger pokes still hurt at times.  His little finger tips look like Swiss Cheese and the shots are still painful.  He is very brave but there are times that he hides to avoid them and cries after the shot(s).

Our hope is to raise awareness for more support and donations to find a cure, but also to raise awareness of the signs of diabetes and the daily struggles that are involved in a diabetic lifestyle.

This is our 3^rd year involved with The JDRF Walk to Cure Diabetes as “Jake’s Crew”.  Jake’s Dad, Bobby, has been asked by the JDRF to be the Family Team Chairman due to his involvement the past 2 years and the help he has provided to them and other families involved in the Walk.

Jake’s Crew (www.jakescrew.com) has raised over $15,000 toward diabetes research in the past 2 years.  This year they are hoping to raise $15,000 by participating on May 31^st in the Walk to Cure Diabetes.

Diabetes has been a part of my life since age 9. I am now - well, almost 34 soon.

I remember seeing my father blind and diabetic when I was very little. Of course things have certainly changed as for blindness and lose of limbs as you used to hear so much about. But remembering my dad get an insulin shot in his arm from my grandma was torture to me at that young age. I remember saying to myself "There is no way I could do that or have that happen to me."

My grandma first had the inclination I was diabetic while visiting she checked my urine. She told my mom only to have her say "There is no way she is diabetic"

After being taken into the hospital of a blood sugar of over 1000 mg/dl. I was taken into a room full of 20 interns and they told me I was diabetic. I remember my aunt just crying as she looked at my dad standing there with his red cane and sunglasses. Giving insulin shots to my mom-that was fun! But not when they over-dosed me with someone else's insulin and I went almost out of it; seeing myself on the ceiling and telling my mom she was poisoning me.

Oh, to hide it in school was painful trying to sit in class and wait out a low blood sugar until the bell rang. Or the name calling "Diabetic Dog, Demon" Ouch that hurt.

For a longtime I did not take care of myself thinking I would not end up like my dad or others. Only to be taken in for a spinal tap and more to rule out MS, did get Optic Neuritis.

Finally, got on track and have my A1C to 6%-7% all during both pregnancies. But with my last pregnancy I did have a lot of eye damage - retinopathy and plenty of laser surgery at Mayo Clinic. We think it is getting better - Dr. Pach says it is. And that laser surgery does hurt! But it was worth it to have my beautiful baby boy.

Now, I am perplexed if I should try out the Minimed pump. In the past, I had tried the Ominpod - kind of bulky but nice to be wireless. Still, cannot shut the thing off.  It's buzzing in the garage.

Would love some advice! 

I was hired in Aug. 03 by a well known City Fire Department after I passed a written test and a Fitness/Physical test as well as a Full City Doctor eval. At time of application and at my Dr. Visit I disclosed my Diabetes and it appeared to not be a problem. After almost two years of employment, I had one single incident at the station where I had a low blood sugar reaction and went home sick. I did not get transported by Ambulance and drove myself home.

I was requested to see the City Dr. when I returned to work. The Dr. Visit was only 12 minutes long, no testing, blood work or even a simple talk. The Dr. came into the office and said "The City said you have Diabetes and you can't be a Firefighter". I was sent back to the Fire Administration where the Chief moved me to the Inspector/Investigator division.

I filed a complaint with the EEOC and went through the Texas Chain of Complaints. The EEOC found after weeks of investigations and interview's that the City violated the American with Disabilities Act of 1990 and found areas of Discrimination, Retaliation, and a Violation of FMLA. EEOC advised the City to reach a just resolution in the matter which the City turned there head.

I obtained a Lawyer and filled a case in Federal Courts while the Civil Rights Division gave us permission to file a suit against the City. The American Diabetes Association has laid the ground work for my case with the research and commitment to Diabetes.

The City was offering my job back but wanted some stipulations with my employment that were not reasonable. From day one, I simply wanted to work and do what I have been trained to do so well.

I feel everyone should be treated fairly regardless of Age, Sex, Color or Disability's. If you pass the required testing phase and you can perform the required job duties, you should be able to work.

Unfair Discrimination and blanket ban against Diabetes is uncalled for in the Workplace. Diabetes is a way of life that can be controlled.

Thanks for reading and everything you do.

Editor's Note:  For more on Brandon's crusade to raise awareness, visit the ABC13 site. 

I've done a lot of my diabetes care by myself, and with my doctor, but the past few years have given me lots of websites that helped me feel less alone with my diabetes.  Internet sites like Six Until Me, DiabetesMine, and dLife have shown me that there are lots of other PWDs who want to talk to other diabetics.  I have seen lots of information on different meds and things that can help me take care of my diabetes and I've talked to my doctor about things I have read about.  Through the internet and websites like this one, I know that there are more things I can do to take care of myself and to help take care of my family, too.  Diabetes doesn't mean I have to be alone or uncontrolled - there are always people to help me and people who will stand by me, even if they don't know me, but the common bond of diabetes brings us together.

Thanks for letting me share my story and I wish everyone good health!

My daughter, Emma, was diagnosed with type 1 at the tender age of 9 months old and has never known a birthday without diabetes. She is on a Minimed insulin pump and CGMS. Now that she is getting a little bigger, we are trying more and more things such as pre-school and even trips to places like SeaWorld in San Antonio. We thought it would be fun for our family (me, my wife and diabetes-saint Amy who now counts a father, aunt, husband, AND daughter with type 1, our son Brenden, and of course Emma) to take a little jaunt to San Antonio and take the kids to SeaWorld over the Labor Day Weekend. We were prepared for any type of diabetes-related crises with a tractor-trailer full of spare insulin, pump supplies, glucagon, glucose gel and little boxes of juice. We were prepared for everything but what we ended up getting: cold indifference to Emma's special needs from the minute we arrived.

The story is really best told by my wife (Emmasmom) at Children with Diabetes, but here's the gist of it. After paying admission, we went straight to the guest services window to ask for a couple of simple requests that would make our little girl's experience at the park more relaxing for us and more fun for her. We asked that she be given a pass to the front of the lines (Texas heat is NOT good for little ones on insulin pumps), to be allowed to tag her stroller as a wheelchair (so that she can avoid walking and thus dropping her blood sugar as much as possible) and that we be allowed to take her supplies with us to each ride to leave with the operator. Stonewalled. On all counts. The supervisor very rudely informed us that there are no exceptions to their stroller policy, that there was no such pass, and that carrying supplies with us to the rides would also not be allowed. Period. End of story. "Is there someone else we can talk to?" Nope. She was the Queen and Dictator of SeaWorld San Antonio and her word was final...or so she said. I politely informed her that she was violating federal law, and she sharply replied, "Why because I can't help you??" Yes. That's exactly why. And oh, by the way, employees at SeaWorld put a little two-word ditty beneath their names like "Plays piano" or "Math Whiz." Our guest services' ditty? "Helps Kids."

"So can we put our insulin in a fridge in the first aid station?"

In the past years, I have never been concerned about my health. I thought I was relatively healthy until one and one half years ago when I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes.

Being single, I rarely prepare meals at home. I eat almost all my meals out. You know those fancy fast food restaurants. Well, it was not uncommon for me to eat a cheeseburger, fries and drink several regular sodas with a meal.

I had a habit of eating pancakes for breakfast heavily drenched with syrup. After such a meal, I began to feel dizzy. I thought I was allergic to pancakes. I went to my doctor for a yearly physical and shared this information with him. For some reason I thought I could have diabetes. My doctor said my past blood sugars over the years were within normal range, however said he could give me an Oral Glucose Tolerance test to confirm my suspicions.

Well it was confirmed that I did have diabetes. It was beyond my belief with no family history. How could this be? I was advised to make an appointment with both a diabetes educator and dietician. I was afraid to eat carbohydrates. They are converted to sugar and can spike glucose levels.

After seeing the dietician, I went into about six month’s of depression and lost about 24 pounds over this time. I was now under nourished.  Food became my enemy or should I say lack of it.
I forced myself to take control over the diabetes after educating myself on the subject of the disease. I learned that proper dieting and exercise could control blood sugar levels immensely.

I walk about 120 miles a month and it not only boosts me mentally, it allows me to eat almost any food items within a normal portion. My blood sugars have remained within normal ranges going on five years this February, and I am now within a normal weight range.

We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
- Joseph Campbell

I finally went on a pump during college, and remember fainting for the first time in my life as I felt the sensation of the needle from the infusion set pressing into my stomach and the cannula remaining inside. It got easier from there, and I made decent strides in my glucose control, but decided to go off the pump for the summer after winning a grant to volunteer in rural India for three months. I was scared of hygiene issues and was told that there may not be any running water or electricity where I would be staying. Luckily, I did have electricity, so my insulin stayed cool in a small refrigerator, though there was no running water or toilets. It was very rustic and rural, and though volunteering and teaching English at the ashram, a school for tribal girls in Dimrapal, Madhya-Pradesh, India was one of the best things I’ve ever done, it was far from easy, and took a toll on my health.

Toward the end of my three months in India, I wound up passing out at the monastery I was staying at in Bodhgaya, and instead of obtaining Enlightenment like the Buddha did meditating under the Bodhi tree, I spent several days shivering and burning up, suffering from a bad case of flu-like symptoms that later revealed themselves to be malaria. I somehow made my way to Dharmsala, home of the Dalai Lama, and realized my test strips were gone. I was sick and worried, and asked my Finnish travel companion to help me secure a doctor who could test my blood sugar. We found an English speaking doctor who made house calls, but to my dismay, technology in that area was lacking, and they didn’t have any test strips or a glucometer. The doctor took my blood with a prehistoric looking needle, and called me four hours later to tell me my blood sugar was 208. Okay, but that was four hours ago. Not too helpful.

I decided I had to get back to the States as soon as possible, so I made the 24 hour train ride back to New Delhi alone, and somehow made my way to the airport.  Unfortunately, I was weak and disoriented and called my mom to tell her I was coming home early, but was rather incoherent and didn’t make much sense. I didn’t know it at the time, but my mom was so worried about me after that phone call that she had all of my colleagues at the International Office at the University of Minnesota trying to contact anyone in India who knew where I was. I scared her pretty badly.
I ended up fainting in the airport, where a doctor (finally) correctly diagnosed my malaria. I was so weak that the doctor refused to let me fly. Somehow, the thought of spending time in an Indian hospital was enough for me to strongly advocate for myself, and managed to convince the good doctor that I could make the long trip home to Wisconsin. While my mom instigated a manhunt to find her daughter, I finally boarded the plane home, flight attendants dutifully attending to me throughout the flight to make sure I was okay. I did end up calling my poor mother from the airport in Amsterdam to let her know I was okay, and ask her to pick me up in Chicago the next day. My worried family promptly drove me to the hospital, despite my protestations, where I spent another week recovering from jet lag and malaria. I was just twenty years old, and my body recovered, quickly gaining back the weight I had lost, as well as its strength. It was a difficult time for me, and my final year of university was spent getting back on track and completing my double major in English, Creative Writing and German.

Fast forward a few years to my first year as a freshman English teacher in the inner city of Milwaukee. It was a very stressful time for me, dealing with daily lesson planning from scratch, the behavior issues and drama from my students (including having my life threatened), and my own insecurities as a new and inexperienced teacher. I ended up in a pretty bad depression, and as anyone who has struggled with mental health issues knows, self-care is often the first things to go out the window.

I started gaining weight, eating for comfort, and disconnecting from my diabetes, my pump, and my life. I tested and took my shots, but my eating habits became so lax that I gained forty pounds over the next two years. I ended up on anti-depressants, which gradually helped, but I ended up quitting my job shortly before the end of my second year teaching, and voluntarily checking myself into a day program at Milwaukee Psychiatric Hospital over the Easter holiday. It was fifteen years after my first hospitalization for my diabetes, and I found myself again fighting for my health, though this time around it was my mental health that was taking a toll on my diabetes and quality of life. I decided to get back into the game, and start taking care of myself again, doing whatever needed to be done to ensure that my health was in-balance. I started therapy, tried various anti-depressants, and changed jobs, which helped.

Though there were some dark moments, I learned so much during my years as a teacher in Milwaukee. I found my depression to be much more debilitating than my diabetes ever was. It took away the passion and love of life that my diabetes gifted me with early on.

I’m currently back to my childhood dream of teaching, this time teaching budding scientists and engineers as a university instructor of English as a Foreign Language at the National Taiwan University of Science and Technology. I’ve found a wonderful group of students, actively engaged in their learning, and very respectful of me as a teacher. I’ve kept my depression at bay and under control, and have found that the mix of Eastern medicine and philosophy combined with the advances of Western medicine available here in Taipei has enhanced my knowledge base and is allowing me to explore new avenues not previously known to me.

Though it’s been a struggle these past seven months, dealing with the different foods available here and the prevalence of oily restaurant food combined with the Taiwanese habit of eating rice with every meal, I’m learning what works for me, and what doesn’t. As Kerri says, my diabetes doesn’t define me, but it does help explain me. My friends here have stopped bugging me about leaving too much rice in my bowl, and understand that I have sensitivities to certain foods and take care to ensure that snacks and juice are available to me at all times. They’ve taken me to multiple doctors and hospitals, in search of decent diabetes care, as well as helped me navigate the pharmacies and intricacies of the National health insurance adopted here in Taiwan (test strips and pump supplies aren’t covered).

I recently celebrated my thirtieth birthday and my eighteenth year of living with type 1 diabetes, complication free. I guess that officially makes me an adult now, though I sometimes still feel like that little girl, scared inside and wondering what the future holds. I don’t voice those fears often, but when I start to feel blue, I just pick up the phone and call my twin sister, who is the only person who understands me when no one else can. She’s my role model, having trained for and run in a handful of marathons (two for the ADA), and given birth to two healthy baby boys, now three and one, having maintained meticulous glucose control throughout her pregnancies. She and I live very different lives, but we are both proof that it really is mind over matter, and that you can achieve your dreams, whatever they may be. 

You may read more of thoughts and musings over at my blog, “Amazing Grace." Thank you for giving me a chance to share my experience, strength and hope with you today.  May you all continue to be blessed with healthy and happy complication free lives, with or without diabetes.
             

"I can't believe it!" from Dr. Torres at Otsego Memorial Hospital.  

These are the words told to me on May 22, 2007.

Hello, my name is Adam and I have just recently been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, but let me tell you how it all begins.

Being a typical 24 year old male, this is the prime age for going out drinking and doing what most people consider fun!  I work at Ski Club and Resort that has over 4 bars, so you have to imagine, this is a major drinking establishment.  In early February, I had dealt with the death of my grandfather who was more like a father to me due to my biological father never being there, I had went in to a downward spiral of depression and drinking.  On May 18, I had to work a banquet for my employer which was from 6pm to 2am.  This day I had felt worse then others, although I had been losing a significant amount of weight since February I thought I was blessed, and maybe the diet pills I where taking had done the trick!  My brother was a little envious of me, saying that I was lucky.  I used to rub it in his face, blinded by my own ignorance.  I had started urinating more though, I mean a lot.  About every 15 minutes!   

Didn't phase me though, although I would eat about 10 to 15 lbs. of food a day!  I would lose at least 7lbs. a day!  On May 18, I felt more fatigued then usual and felt as is I was pushing myself to go throughout the day, my co-workers thought I had a drug problem from the significant weight loss, and always tired, I just laughed it off and said you don't know nothing.  After the banquet and clean up was over, on the way home I started seeing double, and was completely exhausted.  I decided to pull over the side of the road to get my bearings, but apparently I feel asleep for a couple of hours.  When I awoke, I just drove home and went to bed.  I never had gotten much sleep anyway, I always had to get up to go to the bathroom. 

The next day, I felt ten times worse then I did before.  I decided since I had the day off, I was going to go for a swim to maybe clear my head and maybe feel better.  It wasn't helping, and when I got home from the beach and pulled in the driveway, that was all I can remember.  Apparently, I had passed out in the driveway and my neighbor had seen me lying there wondering what was going on.  He called my mother at her work and she had come home early to see what was happening, they put me in her car and took me to the hospital. 

I awoke a couple of days later completely plugged into the wall, slightly sedated and the major thing I can remember is my girlfriend crying.  I had a oxygen tube down my throat and tubes running throughout each and every arm.  While crying she told me that the doctor said I had back to back diabetic comas, I had passed out from the first one at the driveway of my house, and had a second one when my body starting rejecting the insulin and IV they where putting in me.  The second was far severe which resulted me to have massive seizures and convulsions before I passed out, it even resulted in me clinically dieing for 6 seconds for my heart had stopped.  It had resulted in nerve damage in the back of my brain. 

After being told this information, I had a tear running down my cheek, not really having the ability to understand all this at once.  I had tried to readjusting myself in the bed, and I noticed that I could move my legs.  The doctor had come in telling me that I would have to go back to physical therapy to learn how to walk.  As I sat there in the hospital not believing what has happened, I could just remember my family crying. 

After a couple of weeks in the Intensive Care Unit, I was released.  I had also discovered that a individual average blood sugar is 100 to 123.  When I was diagnosed with the disease, it was at 1560, you can have a coma after 600.  He could not believe that I was even walking around the day that I almost died.  As being released and helped into the car, I remember sitting at the house in the wheel chair starring outside.  I had thought that this was it, it would be absolutely impossible for me to ever survive like this.  I had considered suicide, my sister would not leave the house because she had a feeling what was on my mind.  I woke up in the middle of the night and had gotten ready to kill myself, although my wheelchair was not in my room.  I called out her name asking her where the hell was my chair?  She started talking to me, and I broke down again and had told her my plan.  She got mad at me, and told me to wait it out and see what happens. 

I decided to take her advice and the next couple of days, I went to physical therapy.  I had been completely depressed, down and out.  I used to be a very athletic person, very fit, now I had gained over 65lbs. and felt obese.  (I'm 6'6' and when I was at my most fit level, I weighed 210 all muscle, when diagnosed at the hospital, I weighed 168lbs. at this point I was 245lbs.)  So athletic but couldn't even take baby steps!  I coped with it though and eventually, relearned how to walk!  And had started working out again, pushing against all the odds, dropped down 215, lost all the excessive weight, and for the first time in my life, I am happy.  I am even inspired to go back to college to become a Endocrinologist, (study of blood and metabolism,) so I can help people who suffer from the same disease I do, although I have daily seizures and a slight speech impediment. 

The doctors first words he said when he saw me was, "I can't believe it!"  He could not believe that I found a edge, a reason for pushing on, and how much progress I have made.  This is my story, almost resulted in tragedy, I will never quit, I will never let this disease slow me down.  Being this aware of what I have overcome makes me always wonder what obstacles I can over come.  Those of you with diabetes and are just diagnosed don't ever fret, things will ALWAYS go up!  This is a guarantee. 

I truly hope this story inspires you to keep living and pushing through, always remember, you are not alone!

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Manny's Story

My name is Manny Hernandez. I am the founder of TuDiabetes.com.

I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes in late 2002. Since then, life was never the same until I started wearing a pump in the summer of 2005. The pump restored a lot of the freedom I had already gotten used to being without by giving me more control and flexibility and allowing me to accomplish blood glucose control like I hadn’t seen since before I was diagnosed.

In 2006, I was made aware of an Insulin Pumpers group in Orlando (where I live) and I started to attend their meetings. The first meeting was such a changing experience for me, that it helped me realize the power of a community when it comes down to a condition like Diabetes. I learned in an hour more than I had learned in a year of pumping and what I picked up from those pump veterans, I still use today to accomplish even greater control.

Towards the end of 2006, a thought started brewing in my head: the idea of making Social Networks work for things beyond making friends and socializing. I wondered how I could put Social Networking to the service of a higher cause. An article in the New York Times gave me the spark I needed: I had it in front of me the entire time, yet I hadn’t put 2 and 2 together until that "Aha!" moment. I had to get a Social Network for people with diabetes going.

Since then, I set out to identify the best technology to do the job and eventually landed on Ning.com, which is the platform that now hosts Tu Diabetes. Today, Tu Diabetes is an Online Community where the members help each other out, educate ourselves and share the steps we take every day to stay healthy while living with this very serious condition.

As of the day of this post, we are approaching 400 members and growing. One of the members (dLife columnist Scott Johnson) has said about the community: “It's like 'MySpace' on insulin...". In Tu Diabetes, we write blog posts, exchange ideas in discussion forums, share photos of ourselves and our loved ones and videos that we find useful and informative.

It is my hope that people who have all types of diabetes, newly diagnosed and veterans alike, moms with gestational diabetes as well as parents of children with diabetes, no matter the ethnicity or nationality, come on board and engage in a fruitful exchange using all the media that the social network technology puts at our disposal.

And in case you are wondering about the name in Spanish, my wife thought of it and it made sense to me right away. First, because I am Hispanic, but also because it’s a bit of a wordplay: Tu as in "Your" but also Tu, with a sound similar to "Too" (you too have diabetes) because we are ALL affected by it directly or indirectly.

To join Tu Diabetes, visit www.TuDiabetes.com.

My first insulin reaction is one that I will always remember.  Not because of the severity (it was quite mild,) but because of the strange familiarity.  One afternoon in the late summer of 1982, I was showing my father’s 1938 Cadillac restoration project to my friend Bruce, and began to get a queasy, nervous feeling across my chest.  There was no blurred vision, confusion, sweating, or garbled speech -- only an uneasy, shaky sensation in my upper torso.  

Without interrupting the conversation, I reached into the left front pocket of my blue Dickies work pants and pulled out a large ring of keys and my pocket knife.  Then I dug deeper for the roll of LifeSavers that a nurse had forewarned me to keep handy.  Opening the roll was a challenge -- not because of the hypoglycemia, but because the paper sleeve and foil wrapper had been burnished from the hours they spent in my pocket competing for space with all that hardware, and I could not get my fingernail under that little red string.  Snapping it in two, I quickly munched down half the roll.  No paramedics needed, just some butterscotch candies.  The queasy feeling in my chest went away. 

That feeling, though, was familiar, reminding me of how I had often felt as a kid on Thanksgiving afternoon while playing ball out in the yard after the big dinner.  It was a sensation that told me instinctively that I needed to eat something, right now. 

For me, diabetes began in the summer of 1982, when I was 23 years old.  But long before that, when I was a healthy kid, our extended family would converge on our house in a pleasant, rural Rhode Island town for Thanksgiving dinner and the annual “cousins vs. cousins” games that followed. 

We all stuffed ourselves silly, fooling our healthy pancreases into churning out more than enough insulin to handle the cranberry chutney, glazed carrots, squash pie, and everything in between.  Twelve-year-olds do not see the point of taking a moment to digest before running around like a pack of greyhounds; everyone knows that.  So at the end of the meal, we dropped our forks and chose teams faster than you can say, “hyperinsulinemia.”  We worked off our meals on a makeshift gridiron, basketball court, or street hockey rink, and I invariably felt the effects of what I later learned was low blood sugar. 

My diagnosis came on the sunny morning of July 27, 1982.  I think it was a Tuesday when Dr. MacDonald listened to me explain my symptoms: a sudden drop in weight from 170 pounds to 142, urinating so frequently that I could barely survive the 45 minute rides to and from work, and the insatiable thirst that had me guzzling Coke, and then Gatorade, blessed, thirst-quenching Gatorade, by the liter bottle at all times of the day.  His exact words were, “I’d say you’re diabetic.”  My education on the subject started right away when I told him that my vision was also going in and out of focus all day long, and that everything seemed to have a peculiar, vile smell.  He said that when your sugar is out of control, “All the shit goes out the window.”  One needn’t have attended medical school to understand the good doctor. 

At the hospital, after some prerequisite admission forms were filled out, I was given my choice of a private or a shared room.  I opted to be by myself.  Not long after I had made myself comfortable in room 204, some nurses showed up to introduce themselves, followed by a very heavy dietician.  Perhaps I was not the first to note a degree of irony in that the dietician looked as if she could use a dietician, but all of the professionals with whom I had contact were very caring, comforting, and knowledgeable. 

One of the nurses scribbled a few notations on my chart and then suggested that I try to learn as much as I could about diabetes.  She also asked me if I would like to meet another newly diagnosed diabetic who was on the same floor.  A few minutes later, a pleasant young lady tapped on my open door.  About my age, she introduced herself and told me that several members of her family had been diagnosed as insulin dependent at early ages.  Her own diagnosis was entirely expected, and she had been spending most of her time in the hospital trying to get herself “regulated.”  (I thought, “New word: ‘regulated.’  I’ll have to remember it so I can sound smart.”)  When I asked how long she had been in the hospital, she said, “Three weeks, now.” 

Three weeks?!?!  It was my first day.  The utter impossibility of being anywhere for three straight weeks without Schlitz hit me like a bucket of ice water.  Not me.  Not no way.  Not no how.  A nurse popped in to summon my new friend back to her room for blood work.  It turned out to be the last time I ever saw her.  But, with the specter of a three week sentence staring me right in the islets, I called for a nurse and asked her to round up as much literature as possible on diabetes.  Before long, I was chewing through a small mountain of booklets, pamphlets, and food exchange guides.  In the span of a single conversation, it had become my mission to self-educate my way out of there at the earliest possible minute.  Food exchanges, remember those? 

When another nurse returned with my latest blood sugar test result, Dr. MacDonald had given the go ahead to set me up with my first insulin fix.  In 1982, the hospital was not equipped with Glucometers for in-room testing.  Blood had to be drawn and sent downstairs to the lab.  The samples would then be put into a queue with all the other tests the lab was doing for every other patient in the building.  Of course, while waiting for the lab to get around to my blood, I had the distinct advantage of being introduced to something called, “test tape.”  My eyes well up at the memory.  Not. 

Until then, the most productive thing I had ever done with my pee involved a little cursive snow-writing.  Now I was being told to take careful aim at the tail end of some flimsy tape, time it like a high school track coach with a stopwatch, compare shades of yellow and green (apologies to you Beatles fans) against a chart with my still blurry vision, and all the while maintain a respectable level of bathroom hygiene.  No problem.

It was not long before I pitched that roll of tape straight into the circular file.  At that point in my diabetic career, all it ever did was turn raven black from all those ketones.  And what good was something that told me what was going on hours ago, anyway?

My hell-raising sister showed up at the hospital for a visit on day two.  With my parents already there, she waltzed in, wearing an impish grin, carrying a bag from some local news stand.  Always at the top of her class in school, it was a documented fact that she was up to no good whenever she put on an air of dumbness.  “I brung you somethin’,” she said, using a vernacular reserved exclusively for those times when her special brand of trouble was about to commence.  She reached into the bag and pulled out three magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, and one other uncouth also-ran of the genre.  “Thought you’d like some readin.’”  She held one up in the air like the Statue of Liberty and allowed Miss July to unfurl for all the world to see.  I have never done well at such moments in my folks’ presence, and that sister of mine knew it.  I’m closing in on fifty years of age now, and it is still unthinkable to me that I could ever be in the same room with both (a) my parents, and (b) a TV playing a scene from the Bada Bing.  Through the years, Nancy had honed her ability to generate a good laugh, usually at the cost of my own embarrassment.

My paternal grandparents separated long before I was born, but each of them came to visit me at different times on the second floor of St. Anne’s Hospital during my four day diabetic boot camp.  Grandpa stayed for a little while and then paid for my in-room TV access, which was only about $3.00 per day, but his thoughtful gesture meant a lot to me.

My grandmother lived alone in the city, and because of the poor quality of the municipal tap water, it was always my father’s habit to bring her a fresh supply of drinking water every week from his artesian well at home.  The water in our little Rhode Island town on the Sakonnet River was, without question, the finest anywhere.  Dad would bring it to her in plastic gallon jugs, two or three at a time.

Grandma never drove a car.  Wherever she went, she walked or took the bus.  It was not unusual for her to walk a mile or more, depending on what grocery store she wanted to visit, and then hoof it all the way back to her apartment with full grocery bags.  Once, nearing eighty years of age, she was struck by a car in the parking lot of one of those grocery stores, and sustained nasty compound fractures in her arm, plus all the cuts and bruises that go along with such accidents.

God had made her self-sufficient long before she reached Ellis Island, and she trusted that He would continue to hear and answer her prayers each day.  Healing patiently, she gradually worked her way back into the routine of using her legs, and a rebuilt hip, to get from point A to point B.  There were times that I could see she was in obvious pain, but she never put her problems on anyone else’s shoulders.  She’d just look at me with her genuine, loving smile and say, “Old age creeping.”  Celestina came from hearty stock.

So it was not at all surprising that grandma would trudge across the city to see one of her grandsons in the hospital.  But, knowing firsthand of the city’s horrendous drinking water, she made the trek carrying a full gallon of the water my dad had brought to her that week, just so I would have something decent to drink in my room.  She gave of her own limited supply so that I would not be without.  Always, there was a lesson to be gleaned from that woman – of selflessness and faith.

One thing that confused me during diabetic basic training was whether or not I was supposed to get up and walk around.  No one had told me that I should exercise, but I was reading that exercise is an integral part of diabetes management.  What was this scrawny new pin cushion to do?  I suppose I should have asked the doctor if I could at least walk the halls, but with all the deciliters and milligrams and beef/pork this and subcutaneous that, it slipped my mind.  And the nurses would not commit to anything that the doctor had not pre-approved.  So there I sat, making full use of every last nickel of my grandfather’s TV money.

But I had to crank the sound of the television to hear it.  The hospital seemed to have waited for me to show up before it started the work on a new wing.  Each day, a brawny old guy with monochromatic green prison tattoos, half a week’s worth of stubble, and no sleeves became my personal alarm clock.  Taking up his position at 7:00am -- seemingly right outside room 204 -- he announced each new day by pressing the thumb switch on a portable, 70 pound, pneumatic compressor-driven jack hammer that ran at 1340 cycles per minute, and had a grease-packed gearbox, two-way tool holder, recoilless air-cushioned percussion system, and a 35 ft/lbs stroke impact rating.  In four days, I gained an unwanted, involuntary familiarity with that $%@!!*&@?^#% tool that I could only hope to get with my new disease.  Its anthem of 110 unsuppressed decibels of non-stop dem