Sifting Through Doubts: In Memory of R.H.E.

When I drive to the grocery store, I like to park in the same row. Sometimes, if I am feeling particularly brave, I will think to myself, “I'm going to park in the next row over, today.” But never two rows over. I'm not a masochist. Since I feel mostly “okay,” though, I park in the same row.

I have worked out a specific routine for going to the gym, as well. Parking there is variable, but I organize my belongings in a specific way so as to be as efficient as possible. I tuck my membership card and sugar tabs in the front pouch of my insulin pump bag. Then I clip my keys to the bag, put my cell phone in my pocket, headphones around my neck, and wear the insulin pump on my non-dominant wrist. I go straight to the machines, exercise, wash my hands on the way out (using a paper towel to turn off the tap, of COURSE), and go back to my car. It's an extremely streamlined process.

So when I tell you that I am very scared of heaven, I want you to know where I'm coming from. I like to tour places before actually going there for the first time. I like to park in the same row—the same SPOT, if I can. I want things in order. I will wear the same old comfortable pair of shoes until I've worn holes in the toes—I HATE searching for new ones. I am terrified of the unknown. I don't know whether I'll feel like me. I don't know whether I'll have the same body—or any body? Will I know my family? Will I get bored being happy forever? Is there food there? I know literally nothing about what to expect.

It may seem an obvious thing to you, but no one on this earth has experienced the afterlife. There is not a single person on this chaotic, teeming planet that can tell me definitively what to expect. And now Rachel Held Evans is getting to know this vast uncertainty, and she is a person whose doubt and fears I have seen mirrored in my own heart.

I would say she is my favorite theologian, but she's kind of my ONLY theologian. I'm still a little angry at my brother for introducing me to her book, Faith Unraveled, because it was the beginning of the end for me. It ended a long and illustrious couple of decades of successful ignoring my doubts and fears about religion, faith, and myself. It nudged me along a completely different path than I'd been traveling—and I really hate traveling, by the way.

I don't write about my faith (or lack thereof), because I've come away with the distinct impression that we can't KNOW much of anything definitively. The chance that I was born into the correct denomination of the correct “form” (Protestantism vs. Catholicism) of the correct religion is infinitesimally small. The chance that I know all the correct rules and practice the correct ordinances is even smaller. And the desperation to believe that I was “right” had led me to be judgmental and cold-hearted.

The only real unifying factor I could figure out that made sense and could be known intimately was love. It was so corny, and it was something I'd always poo-pooed as kid stuff. Love God? Duh. Love people? Double duh. And yet I'd done everything but that. There was too much at stake for me to risk believing that God gave grace to EVERYone. I remember, regrettably, telling a Jewish girl in 8^th grade that she would go to hell if she didn't believe in Jesus. She had asked me, and I was uncomfortable giving my reply, to be sure. But how short-sighted it was.

The thing about admitting that you don't know the answers and about loving people completely regardless of whether they're going to change or not is that it's actually way harder. Like, way harder than what I was doing before. It was SO much easier to ignore them and write them off. It was so easy living in a middle-class neighborhood that didn't have any drug houses (much less 3 within a block of me) and where you couldn't hear the parents screaming at their kids through the cracked windows in the summer and where everyone wasn't drinking, flicking cigarette butts on the ground, or using “fuck” as a filler in everyday conversation. I've told myself about a hundred times in the past 10 years that we need to move out of here, but I've actually grown really attached to the neighbors and kids on our tiny block. (My brother, when I told him I was writing a blog post, asked whether it was going to be about the neighbor girl who just came and rang my doorbell three times while I was napping. I told him I was saving a whole book of stories to write about her.) I think moms of only children are sometimes Kid Magnets because kids see that we have a little extra time to listen and free hands, and so though I roll my eyes every time Q and the neighbor girl pound on the door asking for something instead of ever going to the girl's house, I secretly enjoy having a spare moment of myself to give. Of course, sometimes I also tell them that if they ring the doorbell ONE MORE TIME, they are BOTH going to their separate houses and the playdate is over.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I have no idea. Love is the only part I've figured out so far, and I haven't come close to perfecting it. I'm still full of bitterness and sadness and so, so much fear. I try to take Q to church every week as a way of saying, “Hey, I really don't 'feel' any of this, and I'm not sure if I can even KNOW who You are, or which version of the Bible is right, or whether praying for things actually affects the outcome, but I just wanted You to know that I showed up.”

So thank you to Rachel (and her wonderful husband, without whose support I'm sure she wouldn't have been the prolific writer and theologian she was) for shaking things up for me, for telling me it's okay to stare my doubts in the face and draw lessons from different religions, and for teaching me that God is excited to have everyone at His table—whether they're attending a Bible study in an affluent neighborhood or chain smoking cigarettes in a weed-choked yard on the least reputable block in Medicine Hat.

To Quinn on Her 6th Birthday

Dear Quinn,

You are 6 years old now! It seems like you were a baby so long ago, and yet it seems like just yesterday. Here are some things that I love about you right now:

1. Your willingness to share. I have never met a kid who is so kind and sharing and giving as you are. You share food. You give away artwork. You share your toys. And you give away lots and lots of hugs and kisses to me for free!

2. Your imagination. You have always been an imaginative, artistic girl who loves creating worlds for her stuffies and pretending she's various animals. You can make everyday objects seem magical with your creativity. Pattern blocks become food. A piece of tissue paper is a picnic blanket. And taped together pieces of construction paper become fashionable clothes for your stuffies. You are always creating.

3. Your love of learning. You picked up reading easily—you've always LOVED to be read to and loved to hear books that were for older kids. You listen to stories over and over on your headphones. I'm so impressed at the words you read when we're out and about—words I thought you didn't know! You're also great with numbers, can easily count to 100, and love to observe the world around you. Keep loving to learn!

4. Your bravery. You have a quiet confidence that I really admire. You talk to the kids in your class. You approach kids at the park to ask them to play. You don't go along with other kids when they're doing things you don't want to do—or things you know you're not allowed to do. You quietly and bravely stand up for what is right. It is one of my favorite things about you.

5. You are my daughter. No matter how you change over the years, I will always love you more than words can say, simply because you are my daughter. In times you are feeling weak or scared or angry or don't know what you feel, remember that I ALWAYS love you. I love you when you make mistakes. I love you when the sun rises and when it sets again. I love you when the moon glows all night and when it is hidden by clouds. My love is so strong that it will always be with you. You are my heart of hearts and my dearest daughter.

Love,

Mom

Q, Age 5.25

I usually write a blog post for Q's birthday, which was in November. Well, I'm a little late.

But I really wanted to record a "snapshot" of what she's like as a 5-year-old, brimming with personality, creativity, and off-tune songs as she serenades shoppers at Superstore.

The other day, she brought her dad breakfast in bed. We waited dutifully downstairs for her (I had already eaten but didn't want to stifle her creative process too much), and she selected a number of low carb options for him--3 pieces of salami, a handful of nuts, some blueberries, and a chocolate nut bar, wrapper already opened for him. He sat up and ate it sleepily as she sat beside him in her ninja turtle pajamas and watched with delight. She LOVES giving things to people she loves. She aggressively tries to share her food with us all the time. Mostly we have to say no, because it's usually some bit of candy she's procured--or sometimes a cookie. I'm often having to talk her out of giving her prized possessions to friends and cousins.

She has what can only be described as an intense imagination. It is very wonderful, but also makes her slow to do things. When the world is your playground, tidying up your room at night can easily take an hour. Ever since she was a toddler, she has been pretending to be several different characters per day, and it's hard for me to keep track of who she is at any given moment. Most recently, I have begun to set her green owl timer for 20 minutes of uninterrupted pretend play time with me (which is a very taxing activity to my logical, goal-oriented mind) each day. It's almost always Paw Patrol.

Q is reserved. Her teacher at preschool says that she rarely seeks other children out, but is always occupied and appears to be very content. She is willing to play with a friend or group when invited, but ultimately cycles back to a solo activity. However, she isn't shy--she orders her own food at restaurants and is almost always willing to speak with someone when prompted. She responds to questions that are asked of her by adults and is fairly confident. She seems to be content as an only child--she doesn't badger me for a sibling or endlessly beg for play dates or gravitate ceaselessly toward other children when we're out and about.

She is enjoying dipping her toes into the world of reading and can read simple, short vowel words. She can read words that follow the two vowel rule with a little bit of prompting. She is constantly asking me to spell things because she wants to write everything down. She has also shown a predisposition for numbers, though I haven't been as consistent in trying to teach her math--when I do teach her something, though, I'm generally impressed on how quickly she picks it up (like adding 2 digit numbers in a column).

And finally, crafts. Paper. Scissors. Gel pens, crayons, markers. Stickers. Pipe cleaners. Tape, tape, TAPE. I am constantly finding bits of crafts around the house--random pieces of tape stuck to walls, tiny bits of paper all over her floor, a sticker in an unexpected location. She goes for quantity over quality, but she can easily be engrossed for hours with making construction paper clothing for her stuffed animals (did I mention she loves stuffed animals?) or creating elaborate, design-filled "banners" to tape up to her wall.

This daughter of mine, with her wispy blond hair, bright eyes, wake-up-talking-a-mile-a-minute mouth and tiptoeing feet (yes, she still walks on tiptoe a lot!) is just the kid I've always wanted. I tell her she's my heart of hearts. And I want to save these little descriptions of her for her to read some day when she's quite grown up, and to know how I deeply, deeply love her.

The Only Child

Never did I ever dream that I would have only one child. I just ASSUMED that being an only isn't what's best for children. But here I am, 32 and slowly but confidently closing the door on the childbearing chapter of my life. It's still open a crack, but only a crack.

As any mother of an only will tell you, there are things that we inevitably worry about. Mostly, I worry about when Q is older. I worry that she won't have anyone to share her childhood memories with, once her parents are gone. I'm worried that there's no one to share in her experience of being a child of our household--no one to bounce ideas off of when she begins to question her upbringing (as we all inevitably do) and rehash old memories.

Of course, I worry that all the care of elderly, diabetic parents falling squarely on her shoulders. I worry about her being left to clean out our house and possessions by herself when we die.

But I am slowly learning that for some children, only childhood is best. What is more important--for Q to have a sibling, or for her to have a mother who is mentally intact and physically healthy? Most people would argue for the latter. And I cannot guarantee my physical and mental health with another pregnancy. It would be the rolling of a dice.

Furthermore, the older Q gets, the more I realize that I did *not* enjoy infanthood--or even toddlerhood. The pressure of being "on" 24 hours a day at the risk of another human being succumbing to a tragic accident was mindblowingly draining. I don't miss that at all--being worried that if I turn my back, a little human will gnaw on a choking hazard, chug poisonous cleaning chemicals, or wrap themselves up in the nearest electrical cord. It was 3+ years of my anxiety being in overdrive.

One of the obvious cons to having an only child is the worry that they will struggle socially. I see this in Q sometimes, but I can't say that it would be any better if she had a sibling. I see my introversion and awkwardness manifest itself in her, and I didn't have the excuse of being an only child. She talks beautifully to adults, but she kind of speaks to kids as if English is their second language, or as if she's trying to communicate with an alien from another planet. Her teacher has told me she prefers to play alone, though she'll join in for a few minutes of play with other kids if invited. She's not one of the kids who walks into preschool and has other kids running up yelling her name and giving her a hug.

As I dip my big toe into the "One and Done" community, though, I have realized that there are some big benefits to having an only. Here are some of the ones I have discovered:

1. Less noise/chaos.
2. Ability to tailor discipline and reward specifically to one child. (e.g. It's much harder to say, "If you continue misbehaving, we're going home," when there are other children in the mix.)
3. No sibling fighting.
4. Flexibility--ease of changing plans, decided to randomly go somewhere, or eating lunch out on a whim.
5. Portability. (Pretty easy to tote one kid around, even moreso now that that kid is in a booster seat.)
6. Ability to spend money on special things/classes/vacations.
7. Not having to constantly decide what is "fair" or cutting things exactly in half. Not having to think about whether I've spent enough quality time with each child.
8. More quality time and close connections, because I am pouring everything into only her.

And all said and done, Q has a personality that lends itself to enjoying being the only child. She cherishes the closeness of our relationship. Never has she hounded me to give her a sibling--she asked once or twice, and I said, "What about a kitten later?" and she said, "Okay!" Kittens and siblings are interchangeable to her. Furthermore, she is old enough that having another child right now wouldn't ever result in a playmate/peer for her. It would make a difference in her adult life, possibly, but it wouldn't necessarily build up her social skills in childhood. The age gap would be too big.

So yes, I worry about the future. But I can now see that being an only child isn't the second best option. It's just a different option, with different pros and cons. And I apologize if I've hounded you about how many kids you're going to have or what your family life is like. I'm finding that I'm fascinated by family size, how related it is to choice, how it affects kids' personalities and family dynamics, and what benefits and disadvantages result from it. I love to have discussions around these subjects. Part of our evolving and becoming more tolerant is accepting families of different sizes and not making assumptions about them. This goes for couples who have decided NOT to have children, as well. That is also an awesome choice.

Disclaimer: Try not to wave this blog post in my face if I for some reason down the road have a second child. Right now, I'm very done, but I reserve the right to change my mind.

Stop Assuming a Person's Weight Correlates to Their Health

Every single article or photo in which it is suggested that we embrace all body types, love them with abandon, and accept those with a little--even a lot--of extra meat around the middle, there's the inevitable top comment by an average-sized person: "We need to stop glorifying obese body types, because it's clearly not healthy. We're creating an environment in which it's acceptable to be morbidly obese, and that isn't going to lead to a healthy and prosperous life for those people."

All right, a couple of things to address here.

One, I saw this great post the other day that said, "Don't exercise because you hate your body. Exercise because you love it." The more you love something, the more likely you are to care for it--can we acknowledge that that's generally true? So no, we don't need to tell these people to get healthy and THEN love their body. Once they grow to love and accept it, they will be further motivated to put the effort, time, and mental stamina required to make it healthier.

Furthermore, CAN WE PLEASE STOP PRETENDING WE CAN REMOTELY GUESS A PERSON'S HEALTH BY THEIR WEIGHT.

Exhibit A:

Here's me at the start of college. Please excuse the goofy expression--it's shockingly hard to find normal pictures of myself at this age. Probably the least I've weighed in my adult life, around 130 pounds, if I recall correctly. And I was LOVING IT. I think I bought a pair of size 6 pants once, around that time. I was blown away--I was elated. I thought I was ALL that. As you may have guessed, this was when I was diagnosed with diabetes, so my body was depleting all my fat stores in order to survive, because it wasn't able to get the proper energy from food. But dang, I looked hot.

Exhibit B:

Still college. Still thought I was hot stuff. I was gorging myself on all the regular high-fat, high-carb foods that a college student loves, but I was terrified of needles and refused to take much of my insulin. My blood sugars were quite high all the time. If I were to attempt at this age what I was doing back then, I'd land in the hospital within a few days. I think it was largely my young age that saved me--I should have developed diabetic neuropathy, vision problems, etc. You're getting my point. Super unhealthy, but I look fine.

Exhibit C:

As I began to, you know, ACTUALLY take my insulin somewhat properly, the weight piled on. I still wasn't eating healthily, and so I ballooned up. After the birth of Q, I developed hypothyroidism, which also caused me to gain weight. But guess what? I was still healthier than the pictures you saw above, because above, I was quite literally killing myself. Now, for the first time since my diagnosis, my blood sugars were acceptable.

My rollercoaster of weight loss and weight gain has continued, and I acknowledge that it might not ever end. I developed severe anxiety in the winter of 2015 and had to force myself to eat--on bad days, I could barely manage 500 calories. My weight plummeted quickly, but of course it came back just as quickly once my mental health improved. I probably looked "healthy," yet I could not eat, could not leave my house, and was in constant physical pain.

So now, I'm somewhere in the middle. I have a mental and physical history that complicate my relationship with food, but I think I am coming closer and closer to self-acceptance. I don't look at the pictures of me at my heaviest (over 200 pounds, not counting my pregnancy with Q, at which point I was about 250) and hate them. I like that woman. She is me. She is raising her daughter and doing daily battle with a very difficult disease. I. Am. Her.

I'm eating much healthier these days than I was several years ago, and my blood sugars are in better control than they've ever been. I still have some weight to lose, but I don't feel so obsessive about it. I'm more interested in my mental health (which admittedly needs some work right now), and in striving to promote body positivity not only for myself but for women in general (so yeah, you'll see me at the pool with hairy legs and an insulin pod slapped prominently on my arm, because one of the beautiful things about getting older is that sometimes you get less self-conscious).

So, unless you plan to stop every single person you see to request a lifelong medical record, do not assume that their weight is correlated to their health. I understand that there are significant medical problems that can arise from being overweight, but no one is trying to downplay that. But you can never assume those normal-sized people walking around aren't dying. And the more you give overweight people your unconditional love and acceptance, the better it will be for everyone.

Miscarriage

This is not a happy Mother's Day post.




It started, as it almost always does, with a positive pregnancy test. I believe my exact words were, "Oh no." I must have repeated those words two dozen times in the next hour, showing the faint line on the test to my husband and pacing the room, sitting on the bed beside him, getting back up again, and saying, "Oh no," over and over. I had wanted this baby. For a year I had begged him for it. I had made plans, gone to the doctor, gotten my eyes and teeth checked, and even gotten skin tags removed in preparation for this event. And when it finally happened, all I felt was terror.

The next few days were spent looking forward to bedtime each night, when I could sleep and forget that I was pregnant. Doctors appointments were hurriedly made, and I began making insulin adjustments with my diabetic nurse, checking my blood sugar 15 times a day (twice as much as my normal), and measuring every tiny bit of food that I ate. I bought packages of almonds and string cheese because they settled the gnawing hunger without disturbing my blood sugars. I was sick at the time, so my blood sugars were difficult to control. I set a +20% background insulin, and moved it up gradually each day until I was at +50%. I had lost my voice, as well, which Q took as a sign that she should demand to be read to, constantly. I ate as purposefully as I could, but I began to lose weight from the stress.

I aimed for meals that did not exceed 30g of carbs. Even the ketchup was carefully measured.

Sometimes, during the morning, especially, I felt optimism. I felt that I could do this. I felt happy that I was finally getting my very last pregnancy over with. I felt proud that I was giving Q the sibling that I had so long desired to give her. But during the evening, I struggled. I knew that this pregnancy, by its nature, would either end in miscarriage, death, or major surgery. I didn't know if I could handle it. I fought off wave after wave of panic attack by myself, because I was no longer able to take my anxiety medication (a category D).

My "baseline" pregnant picture, at 4 weeks and handful of days

I was not at all prepared for the onslaught of emotions that happened when I experienced a miscarriage at about 6 weeks, 2 weeks after I had found out. I had already gotten my prenatal blood work, had my first appointment with my endocrinologist (who said all looked good), and booked my first ultrasound for the end of May. That night, I dreamed I was miscarrying, and the next morning, there was a little bit of blood. The morning after, there was more, and I knew it was over. It came to me that my sense of smell had been returning to normal, and my breast tenderness had decreased over the past week. I went to the ER to have it confirmed, and I calmly ready my Calvin and Hobbes comic book, but when the nurse walked into the room, I cried and told her I just wanted to go home and be with my daughter.

It was equal parts sadness and relief. Both were deep, intricate feelings. I recognized that the timing had been all wrong, and that my mental health was not at the place it needed to be to cope with a diabetic pregnancy. And I found that will all motherhood comes incredible risk--of bodily pain and of heartbreak. I read other stories of miscarriage on the internet as I tried to prepare myself for whatever physical symptoms might come. Would it hurt? Would I be able to see the baby? If so, what should I do with it?

But I was also limp with relief at having my body back, and especially at being able to take my anxiety medication when I needed it. I no longer had 6 long months of throwing up ahead of me, or doctor's appointments every week, blood work every month or two, and many long, long days of obsessively checking blood sugars and beating myself up the few times I inevitably miscalculated carbs (perhaps a sliver of cake at a birthday party that was 30 grams, while I estimated 20 grams) and found myself with elevated sugars. Wondering, "If I eat this half a homemade muffin and go high, will it hurt the baby?"

I can see that this is one of those things that changes you forever. My miscarriage was, I think, very mild in terms of the many stories I've seen, but I know it has etched something in my heart. I know many miscarriages are much, much worse. I'm sure they're worse when you have no previous children. I'm sure they're worse the further you are along. I'm sure they're worse when you desperately, desperately wanted this pregnancy. I'm sure they're worse when you felt a bond to the life inside you immediately.

I don't like the stigma and discomfort I feel around the subject. My heart feels just the tiniest bit lighter, though, when I tell someone about it, like the grief gets spread just a little thinner. And I understand, now, the inherent pain and risk of motherhood, and of the great sorrow many must feel at Mother's Day. I am miscarrying through it, but I still get to cradle my beautiful, incredible, 4-year-old daughter in my arms and enjoy her drawings, her jokes that made no sense, and her holding my face in her hands and telling me she loves me, so it is still a precious day.

I have given the name "Coriander" to the tiny baby who is now gone, because that is the approximate size he or she was, so I had placed a tiny ball of coriander on S's desk so we could look at it and try to get ourselves excited about the difficult journey ahead of us. I don't feel guilty for my mixed feelings. But I would want Coriander to know that I fought very hard for 2 weeks for you. I wasn't at all sure that it was the future I wanted, but I lived by my measuring cups, food scale, and glucose monitor. I  made many appointments for you. I worked harder than anything to breathe through my panic attacks and not take that medication--though I asked several health professionals if I could please, please just take it to get me through the beginning--hoping one of them would say, "Yes, it's fine." I was so afraid, but I was willing to do almost anything for you. You would have adored Q, and I hope we all get to see you in heaven one day. Thank you for the gift you gave me for Mother's Day, and how you have changed me as a mother and as a woman. I know that even your tiniest, shortest life had an important purpose.

The "Today-I'm-Randomly-Depressed-About-My-Autoimmune-Disease" Post

I can barely remember not being diabetic, which is funny, because I've only had it since I was 18. It's not something about which I grit my teeth together and mutter, "Oh how I long for the good old days" as I blissfully bask in memories of sodas that WEREN'T diet and trips to the corner gas station with my best friend to buy packets on candy. I don't remember what it's like to not read nutrition labels and count carbs for all my meals. Or squeeze tiny drops of blood out of my fingers several (okay, 8-10) times per day (it doesn't hurt anymore, but it used to).

I'm not sure what I could tell a non-diabetic who has a loved one with this disease--what are some things that I could explain that you wouldn't necessarily find in a medically-based synopsis?
First, it always comes with fear. You have to learn to live with the fact that you're always one bad mistake away from dying. Rarely do I have a night where I don't have the thought flicker through my head, "What if I have a low blood sugar in my sleep and never wake up?" Of course, I've always woken up, so far. But to be taken like that, unprepared, haunts me.

Then there's the hassle when you get sick. When all you want to do is curl up on the couch and do nothing, you have to stay on top of your disease, because your body produces more sugar when you're sick to give you energy to help fight off the illness--which, I imagine, is super helpful to non-diabetics. For diabetics, it means higher blood sugars, which means feeling ill from the bad sugars on top of feeling ill from just feeling ill. It also means that that extra sugar is not being utilized to help our bodies heal faster, so we tend to stay sick longer. Of course, we try to adjust our insulin as needed to account for the spikes, but by the time you've gotten the hang of how much you need, you'll probably start getting better again.

And when you catch a stomach virus? You're watching your levels like crazy, because all that not-eating can lead to a low blood sugar, and a low blood sugar when you can't eat or drink anything is kind of bad news. If you don't want to pass out and have a seizure, you should probably have someone on call to take you to the hospital if your sugar drops. S was taken there last year after a bad low during a stomach virus and was promptly given an IV with a squishy bag full of pure sugar (dextrose, he thinks). The veins in his arm were hardened for a month. The memory of seeing him lying on the floor, dazed, is something I try to push out of my mind. I have never had it that bad, though I did have a low while being extremely nauseous a few months back, but I sat on the couch and took tiny sips of apple juice, closed my mouth tight to make sure they didn't come out, and rocked back and forth on the couch until the feeling passed and my sugars came up to acceptable levels.

There are also small inconveniences that you get used to. Sometimes I'm late taking my daughter places because I check my blood sugar right before I drive, and it's low--so I drink some juice and wait 15 minutes to check again. I have little, itchy red bumps and sometimes bigger, angry red rashes on various places of my body because my skin is not a fan of the adhesive part of my pump--but it gives me better control of my numbers and allows to bypass the 6 or so injections every day (however, you area also at a greater risk for DKA, a condition during which your blood becomes so acidic--often due to prolonged high sugars during a pump malfunction that you are unaware of--that your organs are in danger of failing). I always wear black pants so I can wipe my fingers on them if they have a little extra blood and there's no tissue available (I know this probably sounds gross, but I think most type 1 diabetics do this--after a number of years, the "gross" factor goes away). Going outside can be inconvenient because I worry about my insulin going bad--if I leave my pump in the car during this brief walk, will the insulin vial be okay, or will it get too hot? What if I go in a hot tub (I have to change my pump after that)? I get tired of carrying so much STUFF all the time. I wish I could have one of those small purses, but I need to pack my pump, a back-up pod, an insulin vial, a couple of needles, glucose tabs, a granola bar, and sometimes an extra tester.

And you know the suckiest part? Even with all of that, I know the worst is yet to come. I know that autoimmune diseases tend to stack--I've already gotten hypothyroidism on top of my diabetes diagnosis, back when I gave birth to Q. And there's a good chance there will be more. Sicknesses hit my body harder, complications seem inevitable, and type 1 diabetics are at greater risk for, well, pretty much everything. Even with good control. Sometimes it makes me feel tired and angry. Sometimes I have trouble articulating that I want so badly for Q to have a sibling because I can't picture her parents being healthy at 60 or 70, if we're there at all. But I have to weigh that against the heavy, heavy fear that another pregnancy would do irreversible damage to my body and my mental health--and that I can picture myself dying during delivery, calling out her name and telling her I'm so sorry to leave her when I know I'm her whole world.

This turned darker than I meant, but the point is, give some special love to those you know with "hidden" diseases, whose lives may well be harder than you've imagined, and who know it will be a lifelong struggle to keep up their mental and physical health. And God help me not to burst into a million pieces if my child or children ever got this horrible disease. I know how to treat it, yes, but I also have a deep, intimate knowledge of every impossible facet and life-altering implication.