aiming for grace

"when thumbs up is no comfort"

 

Did you see the article, when thumbs up is no comfort by Jan Hoffman in this Sunday's New York Times? What a wonderful essay about how our culture approaches illness and disease (cancer in this case), about how we generally expect people dealing with health issues to buck up and inspire us, among other things. "'Whether you're a celebrity or an ordinary person, it's obligatory, no matter how badly you're feeling about it, to display optimism publicly', said Dr. Barron Lerner." The article goes on to question this cultural norm, articulating the pressure it can put on the person dealing with the disease or chronic illness. "While many patients are inspired by celebrities, others feel guilty for not being as upbeat as the celebrities appear, and angry that the gravity of the disease may be misrepresented. By being constantly reminded that they should keep their chin up, patients implicitly believe that emotional wobbliness will adversely affect their outcome." 

 

I'd go further to say that the pressure and expectation to always "keep one's chin up" can drive a person to denial or the dismissal of the magnitude of the reality of the situation at hand because, hey, at least it's not, insert "worse disease" here. Conversely, a person can come to feel that there's something fundamentally wrong with them because they can't maintain "a happy, brave face" day in and day out. I remember when I was first diagnosed with diabetes that a number of people, both friends and acquaintances, said to me that I should feel lucky because at least I didn't have cancer. On one hand I'm sure that they were trying to "look on the bright side" of what had in fact happened to me but the underlying message was so dismissive and erasing of the experience that I was actually having. I'd just been diagnosed with diabetes, a life threatening, unending, difficult disease that now meant that I'd face struggles both big and small, every single day of the rest of my life. Yes, it wasn't cancer, but still diabetes wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. For years I've struggled with the deeper pressure those comments implied, that I was supposed to feel lucky that I'd only gotten diabetes given all the diseases I could have, and as such, should put on a sunny face and get on with it. 

The truth of the matter is that it's only been through not always being upbeat and cheery about having diabetes that I've actually been able to find some of the inner strength and wisdom to use this experience as fuel to a more joyful, present and authentic life. And that strength and wisdom has only become apparent to me recently, and exists only tentatively even now. The point is that this is a dimensional, emotional and physical process, one fraught with challenges and joys, two steps forward, one step back, taking on many forms and expressions along the way.  For some this is a battle, for others a journey, but for everyone it is at it's core, a personal process and as such, unworthy of one, narrow cultural prescription. Again the article articulates this idea nicely, "'Metaphors don't just describe reality, they create reality", said Dr. Gary Reisfield. "You think you have to fight this war, and people expect you to fight." But many patients must balance arduous, often ineffective therapy with quality-of-life issues. The war metaphor, he said, places them in retreat, or as losing a battle, when, in fact, they may have made peace with their decisions. To describe a patient's process through illness, he prefers the more richly ambiguous metaphor of a journey: its byways, crossroads, u-turns, it's changing destinations; its absence of win, lose or fail."

I couldn't agree more. 

aiming for grace: 20 things I know about diabetes.

I owe Amy a big thank you for her kind review of my new little book aiming for grace: 20 things I know about diabetes. To be honest, I'm feeling a bit funny about even talking about it. More than anything, making this series of posts into a self published book has been a terrific exercise, a healing process, to be honest. The fact that there's a book that people can have if they'd like, is a very nice result of a personal exercise that's been helpful and positive to me as an individual. Making something from nothing has always really helped me for some reason. A piece of art, a story, a blog post, a book. Taking an idea or feeling from inside and pushing it outward into a real form that I can see and feel has always made sense to me. It's always made hard things less difficult to deal with.

That was the core idea behind the aiming for grace exercise I did a couple of years ago to commemorate my 20th anniversary of living with diabetes. It was so very helpful, 20 posts over a 2 week period. Surprises and revelations that I hadn't expected, confirmation and celebration of what I'd learned so far. It helped so much to see the ideas rather than just think them. Doing the exercise did exactly what I had hoped it would by creating a milestone and documentation of all that I knew so far. It honored my journey for myself.

After doing the exercise on my blog, I decided to make 10 one-off copies and have them bound in a book format to give to my family and friends and doctors, to acknowledge their help in my journey and to thank them for their support. There was something so amazing about take the idea further, from inside my head, onto the blog with it's virtual format I could see, to a book format I could touch and feel. The process somehow made the ideas feel more real to me and just as importantly, it gave the people who received the book a chance to interact with the ideas in a more intimate and personal way. I don't know what it is about books, but there's something about the weight and feel of a story in your hands, physically revealed with each turn of the page, each picture and phrase. Everyone, to the person, commented on how they had learned something more about diabetes because of the book, a result quite frankly I hadn't expected. These were people who knew the disease well or at the very least, knew me well, and yet because of the format, were able to interact and understand diabetes at a different level. Who knew?

Since I went through the exercise of making the one off books, some amazing technology has come to be. In the last couple of years the ability to self publish has become possible in unprecedented and relatively affordable ways. Thanks to services like Blurb, iPhoto book, and Lulu to name a few, it's fairly easy now to publish one's own content in a beautiful, professional way. Each company has a interface that makes it possible to drop your content into their format and then for a price, based on size, number of pages, and whether it's hard or soft cover, they will produce the book for you. Simple as that.

So what's happened is that the insight from my experience with making the aiming for grace exercise into a book has combined with this happy new technology of self publishing and voila, my little book was born. I kept thinking about how people internalized the ideas differently in a book format and I thought that other people might like to have the choice to see the story that way too. All the original content still lives on the site and can be read anytime here. What's fun is that now if someone wants to have it in a swell book format, they can have it that way too.

seeing courage through the routine.

I've been thinking about the idea of courage lately.

Recently on dLife, they featured the incredible story of eva saxl. The author James Hirsch, who has written about eva saxl, was interviewed on the show. He said something during the interview along the lines that all people taking care of their chronic illness are living with courage every day. Which isn't a new concept to me but once reminded, has stuck with me throughout the last couple of weeks.

A few days later, while having lunch with a new friend, the subject of courage came up again, this time after I mentioned that I had lived with diabetes for over 20 years. My friend got quiet and after a moment, looked me in the eyes and said "You know, you live with courage every day. Every single day." I was surprised (and touched) to say the least. And, quite frankly, left a little speechless. Courage every day. There it was again. And yes, after a moment of reflection, I thought, I know that's true about a life with chronic illness. I certainly see it in other people's journeys with diabetes. Easily. But I forget about it in my own, because I'm just doing what it takes to get through. You know, everyday stuff, because diabetes is there to be taken care of, throughout every day. Every single day.

So what occurs to me is how the routine of what we do becomes just that, routine. In the process of doing what it takes, day in and day out, the aspect of what that means, the courage, the fortitude, the grace, can so easily get lost in the shuffle. Others might see it, but it's easy for me to forget it about myself. Even as I write these words, I feel worried about sounding prideful or arrogant. And yet there it is, the universe saying yes, it takes courage to do this. Courage. Every. Single. Day.

just a moment in between.

I've been feeling pretty good about my diabetes lately. Which is to say that it hasn't weighed too heavily on my heart or mind. I've still had to deal with the inevitable highs and lows, the adjusting and all the calculations, but for some reason, it hasn't felt like such a burden. Hooray, I've been thinking.

And then today, I'm changing out my site and in a blink of an eye, I'm pulled back to that sad, hurt place I've been in so many times before. The insertion itself hurt, the insulin stung because it was too cold, the tubing got tangled in my tights and slip and undershirt and skirt, which made my still recovering frozen shoulder ache as I wrestled to get everything untangled. I had to stop, take a deep breath and start over. Basically get undressed and slowly add the layers of clothes on in a way that didn't tug on my site (a thing that always makes me feel a bit nauseated) or make it impossible to get access to the pump when I need to bolus later. It took a minute, but when it was all done, I literally had to fight back the tears. My leg where the site was, was aching. My shoulder was also aching. And my heart was aching too. It took a moment to collect myself. It was amazing. Weeks of zooming along with no problems, with feeling like everything was fine and then, boom, in one minute, I'm near tears. Amazing. Strange. So very "this disease" for me.

I guess in the end, these moments are inevitable. I guess the goal is to have more time in between them. I guess that's really what success looks like, at the end of the day. More happiness and well being, without the expectation of perfection or the inevitable disappointment when it isn't achieved. I know that's the case. But on those moments when I'm so sharply brought back to the pain and frustration and sadness of having to deal with this disease, I sometimes forget that.

can limits be possibilities?

I went to the portland art museum yesterday to see the chuck close prints: process and collaboration exhibition. Chuck Close is one of my favorite contemporary artists because of his amazing study of color as well as his exploration of the wide range of materials and production methods he uses to make his art. The exhibit features many of his prints and paintings but what was most exceptional was the fact that the various process' he uses to make his art were shown along side the finished work. Etching plates, carved wood panels, and a series of screen prints shown in stages, with each progressive screen adding yet another color, revealing how the final idea emerged over time. This exhibit highlighted Mr. Closes technical mastery, his meticulous attention to detail and unrelenting dedication to a complex process of making. I thought I knew and loved his work before, but after seeing this show, I walked away with a greater understanding and appreciation for his art. What an absolute treat!

I walked away with an appreciation for this man's art unto itself, moved by it's beauty and technical achievement. But I also walked away with a few thoughts that might apply to my life with diabetes. The fact that this amazing work is done by a person who is a paraplegic with limited use of his arms is also remarkable. To say that Mr. Close suffered an enormous set back in life, one which imposed profound physical limitations on him, is a colossal understatement to say the least. I have a hard time imagining what it must have been like. I have a hard time imagining what it took to move forward to paint again. But the fact that I can't personally imagine what it was like or what it took to start again, and the fact that my physical situation is completely different from Mr. Closes, doesn't diminish the lessons his story offers to me. It's not about comparing the level of challenge each person faces but rather, respecting and learning from the way each person approaches their journey and then applying the lessons that make sense to your own. For me, Mr. Closes particular story resonates deeply. The way that he made his art had to change to address his new physical state and as such, his art changed too. Limitations were accommodated and his art continued to be created. He made what was dealt him work, regardless.

Now I'm not going to go to that place about what a "blessing" limitations are. And I'm also not going to talk about how there are no limitations, just lack of will. Everyone has their own response to the physical limitations imposed by disease, disability or accidents. Sometimes getting up in the morning is the most courageous act a person can muster that day and sometimes that's as important to celebrate as any other type of accomplishment as far as I'm concerned. No, what I'm taking away from Mr. Closes story is more of an idea about possibility. I'm taking away the idea that maybe limits can be possibilities too. Given the choice, I'd hand in the limits of diabetes first chance I could get. But in light of the fact that there isn't a choice, I'm left with the question: what are the possibilities here? What can I learn from other peoples journey's with physical limitations and what lessons can I apply to my own?

When I step back from Mr. Closes story, I take away two key lessons. One idea is kind of romantic, the other is practical, but both are very important.

The first lesson I learned was about passion. When I look at Chuck Close's art, I see an enormous curiosity and ability for obsessive focus. There is a deep interest and passion around making and understanding and finding a kind of perfection, on his terms, for himself first. When you see the 100+ screens for a screen print series, you know that there's a journey towards something perfect and complete going on here. A narrow subject range and idea is explored over and over again, with different mediums, through different lenses. Passion, curiosity and deep focus, all feel to me like they're important sources of energy for this incredibly rich, alive and profoundly beautiful body of work.

The second lesson I learned was about collaboration and outsourcing. Less sexy than passion but just as important. Mr. Close's situation, and the art form of printmaking, requires the help and expertise of others to execute his artistic vision. The write up that accompanied the piece called Emma, spoke repeatedly about the trust he had to give to the master printer who was producing it. That it was hard for Mr. Close to let go of the control of the making of the piece. But in the end, Emma is magnificent, due in great part to that very collaboration and dialogue between the artist and the craftsperson. The actual making was outsourced, but the idea, the genius, the artistic story was Mr. Closes, made better through collaboration and trust. To bring that story to life, he had to let others help him do it. And magic and beauty was the result of that process.

So at the end of the day, I saw some wonderful art yesterday. The questions and lessons that came from yesterday however, will be carried with me for far longer. Questions like, what are the possibilities that lie within the physical limits that diabetes can present? What is the passion in my life that transcends diabetes and all the struggles it can carry? What do I need to do to accommodate the limits I feel? What things can be outsourced and who can I collaborate with to bring to life the things I am trying to build and experience in my life in spite of diabetes? And most importantly of all, what new thing can be brought into the world because of the limits I experience?

What are the possibilities?

Image via don relyea's blog.

a grinch moment.

Pardon me, but I need to indulge in a little grinchy griping for just a moment.

I'm kind of hating the fact that the impending holidays are all about sweets and food and sugary excess. I get the traditions and the cultural reasons why we stack plates high with sugar and candy and treats. I understand the "why" of all the food. I also understand the temptation to test what I know will happen if I "taste" a few too many of those treats at every turn, at every social occasion. I get what's going on because I've been here 21 times before. I also know I'll get through, that blissfully the platters of temptation will disappear soon enough, and it'll be that much easier to stick to what I know works for me. But today, on December 3rd, I realize that I'm feeling a low grade tension and resentment and grinchiness about the weeks of treats and temptation ahead. For now, I'm bummed that I need to sit myself down and talk through what's ahead and how I need to avoid the temptation that leads to the inevitable rollercoaster ride I know so well. For now, I'm wishing it was January 3rd and all this sugary, holiday sweetness was behind me.

I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow. In the meantime, thanks for the grinchy indulgence! (example of lovely sugary temptation via sweet paul)

understanding more.

My husband just got back from a long vacation with friends. For a number of reasons I didn't join them on their adventure. Some of the reasons are just regular reasons around schedule (I needed to be at work at the time they all could get away) and preference (8 people in a condo isn't exactly my idea of fun) and energy (lot's of plane rides and lot's of time to get there). Check and check. The other reasons were more diabetes related, having to do with ability (I can't scuba dive as a diabetic on the insulin pump) and reticence (I've had bad experiences in the past with people around being seen as pushy and a drag because of the schedule and regimen I need to follow with food and exercise) and a general lack of energy around a big vacation like this one (to plan for all the details of travel and all the unknowns of a new place). And then of course, there was the ever-present fact that I didn't want my diabetes to stand in the way of his fun. I hate that idea and worry about it quite a bit. How to navigate a partnership in light of the unending presence of diabetes is at times challenging. Not insurmountable, but definitely challenging. Like vacations for example. There's more to think about in our case than when you don't have a chronic illness to deal with, that's for sure. In the end, all of this added up to us deciding that he would go and I'd stay home. On paper it made sense, but like so many things, the plan and the experience can be very different.

Throughout the 10 days my husband was away, I found myself vaguely angry and uneasy. It honestly wasn't that I was angry at him. No, it was something else, but I just couldn't put my finger on what. Which didn't make sense to me. We'd talked about it and we'd decided that this was the best solution. What was the deal then? Why was I so out of sorts?

When he returned we sat down and talked about it all. No anger, more from a healthy curiosity and mutual desire to make it better. After much discussion, what it basically boiled down to was 2 things. Hurt and fear.

In the first place, I felt left out, pure and simple. Off they went without me, doing stuff I couldn't do, checking out in a way I could never check out. They were able to not only take a vacation from the daily grind, but also a vacation from diabetes. A vacation from diabetes. Wow. The idea is almost unimaginable. It was something I want so profoundly and something I can never do. I so wanted to be a part of their group instead of mine. Yep. I felt left out in a big way.

The second thing we discovered in our discussion was that I also felt afraid. I was afraid that if I'd joined the group, in a circumstance that required them to spend 10 days with me and my diabetic life, they wouldn't have understood and consequently wouldn't like me anymore. Worse yet, I feared that my husband would decide that life was so much better without having to deal with diabetes on a day to day basis, that he too wouldn't like me anymore. Given the choice to live with diabetes or not, I could imagine a person, even one that loved me, running screaming for the door.

And it's not like my fears are unfounded. This has happened to me before. It's been a long time since then but the memory of it's devastating impact on me is clear and sharp. Until my husband and I talked about it though, I didn't realize how much it was still impacting me. I thought I had moved on, but clearly I hadn't. Even though this was a new day with new players and even though my husband wasn't this other man, I was projecting my painful experience and consequent fears on this present event. Ok, so now I understood a bit more about what was going on here.

Wow! It felt like we found a diamond of an insight. Hard but precise and in a strange way, beautiful. It's an insight that both my husband and I can work with. Diabetes and the fear of rejection. That's not one you read about in the manuals you get from the doctor. No that's one you don't expect to have to experience on top of having a disease, but unfortunately you can. Being different, being misunderstood, being seen as difficult or selfish or demanding when you're actually taking care of your disease, can have real and profound ramifications. Trying to balance the desire to fit in and the need to take care of yourself, can develop into a real reticence to try new stuff or risk joining in again. Feeling safe and understood isn't easy with this disease. It takes a lot of explaining on my part and a willingness to listen on the part of others. And this experience has taught me that sometimes even I don't know what's driving my feelings. In that case, how can I give people the clues they need if I don't see them myself?

So what we're going to do after all this, is take some time to figure out the best vacation that works well for us both. Something that will be fun and relaxing and healthful and easy. And yes, something that might stretch my comfort zone a little in terms of adventure and unknowns. We're going to talk about it more beforehand and not make assumptions without checking in with each other. With a little effort and a little exploration, we're going to go on a vacation. Sometime soon, some relaxing fun will be had by all. And I can't wait!

This experience reminded me, yet again, that living my life with this is disease is a process. A journey, as a person coping with a very difficult and complex disease, as a person dealing with all that is not understood by others, as a person so vulnerable to the vageries of this disease and in turn, the kindness of others. A kindness that is demonstrated to me every day. And a kindness that sometimes isn't demonstrated and can boil down to insensitivity and cruelty. In the end, it's a process of searching for and finding a few safe people and a place to just be. In the end, it's about learning and trusting and starting over and building and taking care. Of myself, my relationships and my health. For me, that's the best I can do.

the importance of treats.

I'm convinced that a key part of taking care of myself with diabetes is small (and at times, big) indulgences. I'm watching my brave, dedicated friend go on the pump and through the observation of her experience, I remember mine. The shock associated with the realization that I was becoming attached to a machine, 24/7. The reaction to having this clinical, medical tubing hanging off my body at all times. The dehumanization of being beeped at day and night. I know in my head, that the choice to go on the pump was smart and helpful and the right one for me, but in my body and heart, I also know that this process is strange. I know that the "rightness" of my choice, doesn't mean that all the other feelings are invalid or unreal. Making the smart and better choice to live attached to a machine vs. multiple shots a day, doesn't mean that being in the position to have to make this kind of choice is fun or good. In watching my friend go through this process, I am reminded about how much I've gotten used to. I am reminded, yet again, that this isn't much of a party, this disease.

I am also surprised at all the coping mechanisms and tools I've developed over the years. I've worked hard at finding the things that help and have consciously moved toward them. I've gotten better at bringing the sunny people and things into my life, and where I can, let go of those that drain energy or joy. I watch the news less, I walk with my dogs every day, rain or shine, I pace myself in what I take on outside of family and work. It's a process that I have to keep working at, but has also helped enormously over the long haul.

So when my friend is momentarily demoralized or sad or overwhelmed, I think about what might help her. This has been an enormous gift my friend has given me. It's allowed me to see diabetes from the outside in for the first time, and in the process understand the inside out way I've experienced it up to now. Until I needed to think about what would help her, I hadn't clearly seen what systems and techniques I've developed to help myself over the years.

So what's occured to me in this process of trying to help my friend in some small way, is the fact that all this stuff we do, even if we don't notice it anymore, takes effort, work, focus and energy. We are actively doing something, every time we take a blood test or bolus or change a site or deal with a low or high. We are drawing from our mental and physical reserves to deal with our diabetes. Fine. That's what it takes to do this disease and I'm resigned to that fact. But what I've learned intuitively, and am now able to bring to voice in the effort to help my friend, is that it's important to fill that reserve back up with things that bring you joy. Period. It's necessary to stay healthy and motivated and courageous. Energy takes food. And that's why treats are so important. Indulgences. Baubles. Whatever floats the boat, it's important to refill with the things that are a gift. A gift I give myself, to me, from me. Because I think on some deep, primal level, my body doesn't understand why it has to go through all this stuff like having a plastic tube in it or constantly being made to bleed. It sounds woo woo but I think I need to make up for that, for myself, where I can, in whatever way I can. And a treat is one very effective way of doing that very thing. Effort to deal with diabetes, out, effort to make it better by treating myself to a tee shirt or an extra walk or a movie, in. It's like a bank. A reserve that needs to be replenished. Just because I have diabetes.

So I shared that belief with my friend and we decided to go shopping. We found her something special, because lord knows, she deserves something special, and though it didn't mean that she wasn't going on the pump, it did mean that she felt prettier and more cared for and celebrated in the process. She felt a bit better, and in the end, from where I sit, that's all that matters.

the goal is peace.

Life is full of choices. Big ones and small ones. We are raised to take responsibility for our lives and the choices we make. And if we are from America, we are raised in a culture that celebrates personal choice at the highest level. The underlying message goes that if you make the right choices, happiness, health, fortune all await you. It's up to you.

But luck plays into the equation too. As does personality and circumstance. It's not like we're all born at the same starting line, given the same tools and set on our way. There are lot's of variables to contend with along the journey. Like whether you get diabetes for instance. A few of us are handed that variable, which brings with it a lifetime of additional choices and challenges and opportunities, and yes, even on occasion, gifts.

I happen to be a person who has taken responsibility for my life and choices very seriously. On the upside, I feel empowered to affect my life in profound and meaningful ways. I know I'm not a victim and I know deeply, that in spite of what has been handed me, I have many choices. I can have impact on my life, regardless. I can make things better.

But there's a rub here too. Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in choices. Though I wouldn't want it any other way, I realize that all the choices I have in life, with the added layer of the million choices diabetes brings, leaves serious, responsible me feeling like I'm on a tight rope a lot of the time. I expect to make the right choices and when I "don't" (because I have a disease that shifts and changes for example) I often feel like I've failed. Over time, and with effort, I am learning to let go of that feeling, but the truth remains that that's where I go first. Which, by the way, adds another layer of effort: guilt, don't go there, it happens, let go, move on. Five more steps to gentleness. I'm learning to do it differently, but still it's not how I naturally see the world. It's not what I was raised to believe.

But life is a process. And through this process, I'm coming to understand more deeply, that there are infinite variations of living a full and healthy life with diabetes. And more importantly, some of them have to do with choices I can make, but many of them don't. Not surprisingly my personality factors into my experience of this disease, which means I see and feel my journey through a personal filter. Additionally, my particular personal circumstances, my history, mean I have certain choices that others may or may not have. And then there are factors like other health issues, length of time having the disease, biology and physiology, all of which also affect my journey. I'm beginning to understand more deeply, how diabetes is simply part of an equation. Understanding that each person's experience is a unique combination of diabetes plus personality plus circumstance plus choice plus biology, helps me to see the the difference between my particular choices and that of others. We all have a thousand choices to make about our disease every day, but because we're also different people, we may make different ones, based on the all the variables we don't share. Doing what's right for us, based on so many unique factors, and then living with the outcome. That makes total sense to me intellectually, but I must admit that I still feel burdened by the fact that choices aren't always pure or perfect. Choice means yes to one thing and no to another. And in the case of big choices, the difference between yes and no can be profound. Even though I know I've made the right choices for me, it doesn't always mean I don't feel sad about what they've meant for my life. Choice doesn't mean perfection necessarily.

So where this all lands is that I'm trying to have less regrets about the choices I do make, big and small. From this vantage point in my life, where I've made some tough calls that have set me down irreversible paths, this is a really important goal. I've made the choices I've made based on what I knew at the time. Diabetes played a huge role in some of these decisions. Choice plus circumstance plus personality plus luck. It's the equation for life. I guess that peace has to come from knowing that I did the best I could with what I knew at the time, based on who I am. That's the goal anyway.

being prepared and gentle.

I'm in New York City on business for a few days. I arrived yesterday after a long flight from the west coast. Luckily it was non-stop and even though I was stuck in the middle seat, it was a relatively pain free flight. I actually like flying, once I'm finally through all the security lines and stuffing of bags above my head. I like the quiet, uninterrupted time to think and listen to music and read.

It's kind of a rough time with my diabetes lately as I've posted about a few times. I was thinking about that on the plane. I was tired because I hadn't slept well the night before, trying to plan for all the inevitable unknowns of a trip. I know that sounds lame, and I'm embarrassed to admit it, but after 20 years of living with diabetes, I know that there are lot's of possible "situations" to contend with when traveling. No food served on the planes anymore, so pack a lunch. The set your changing doesn't work so it's important to bring lot's of extras, just in case. Extra food is needed for extra walking or the low that just happens because you're out of your rountine. The list goes on and on, and I try to be prepared. And then there's the extra burden too of traveling for business. Sometimes I'm with work friends who understand all the issues I face with travel and diabetes, other times not. The last thing I want is to have my diabetes be front and center on a business trip. The last thing I want either, is for something dangerous to happen. All these crazy lows lately have been scary enough at home in my own world. Add to that restuarant food, wonky schedules, more exercise, time change, fatigue, and well, you know the drill. There's a lot to consider. So I try to prepare for all the contingencies, though of course, that's impossible. You can't prepare for everything. And so I admit it. I worry (ok, so partly that's my personality, but it's not totally out of line, considering). I project what I imagine all the possible scenarios could be. I obsess the details. I feel so responsible about managing it all, as best as I possibly can.

Once I arrived yesterday, I met my new great friend for dinner. She has diabetes too. Longer than I have had it. We were catching up and I mentioned that I was having a rough time lately with my diabetes and without prompting, she said "it's just that way sometimes, isn't it?" She just knew without me having to explain. Two friends, having dinner, no need to explain the details. It's just a fact. "Diabetes is just this way sometime." And for some reason, having someone else just know that, deep in their bones, lifted a bit of the weight of the huge sense of responsibility, worry and guilt I feel (just like the kind and supportive comments on my blog from my great OC friends). The state of things are the same, but thanks to my friends knowing comment, I realized how harsh I was being on myself. In a flash, it dawned on me that it was time to be a bit more gentle. Thanks to my friends simple, heartfelt knowing of my situation, I realized I could be prepared and gentle, all at the same time .