Twenty Six.

It was twenty six years ago today that I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. "Juvenile Diabetes", if you're old school.

Last year, when I hit the quarter century mark, I decided it was time to ask for a copy of the hospital records (a "discharge summary" is what the hospital called it) from my diagnosis. I had never had much interest in finding out things like the glucose level I tested at upon admittance at or my first A1C result, until I started reading the stories of others online - and the answers they found. It got me curious.

It was an interesting story, but not a remarkable one. A reading of 385 mg/dL is something I could very easily see now, if I really miscounted a meal or had a leaking infusion site overnight. A loss of 8 to 9 pounds over a three month period would actually be a welcome physical change right now, instead of an alarming phenomenon.

I remember the eat-for-the-insulin regimen. I remember the plastic Rubbermaid container that rested on our kitchen counter, filled with "diabetes stuff". I remember the bottle of NPH being rolled between my mother's hands to warm it up from its refrigerated state, and the clack-clack sound it made as it hit her wedding rings. 

I remember tears. I remember being confused. I remember being scared.

But I also remember parents who loved me unconditionally, who did the very best they could to keep me happy and healthy, and who would have done anything to take that burden away from me.

As an adult, it's my job to keep myself happy and healthy. It helps to have a loving and supportive husband, dog (hey, he helps) and friends both near and very far - but when it comes right down to it, it's up to me and no one else to make sure that these last two assessments remain true:

Twenty six years, diabetes. I've got my eye on you. No funny business.