Spare a Rose: Save a Life.

There are times in life - when my cannula rips out on a kitchen counter, or my Dexcom itches at my skin from lack of air under the over-used tape - that I find myself feeling less than grateful for the medical technology which keeps me alive. When the clumpy pump won't hide under a slinky top, or my Dexcom sensor protrudes from my leg under my skinny jeans like some kind of bodily 'yuck', I find myself frustrated with diabetes and the cyborg 'kit' that comes with it. But the truth is, that 'kit' - that expensive, wicked clever kit - does more than just keep me alive, it helps me live the life that I want; the life I deserve. 

It's hard to imagine, given my fortunate life in a developed country where it is considered wholly unacceptable for any person to have to die from lack of basic necessities like insulin, that there are children and young people in this very world - the one we share with them - who live on a constant perilous precipice.  Why?  Because they don't know whether or not they will have enough insulin to keep them alive today. 

This situation, which millions of children around the world face on a daily basis, is not only unacceptable, it should be impossible.  No child should die because of lack of access to insulin. Every child deserves to live, and not in constant anguish or fear that today may be their last. Every...single...child.

A group called Partnering for Diabetes Change, came together a while back to see how we, the diabetes community and the wider population of the world, can help.  That's when the 'Spare a Rose: Save a Life' campaign was born.

The Spare a Rose campaign invites people around the world to donate the cost of just one rose on Valentine's Day, just £3, to the International Diabetes Federation's Life for a Child programme which provides insulin to those living in developing countries.  That £3 will keep a child alive for a month.  That romantic bunch of roses, will keep a child alive for a year.

Last year $25,579 was raised, from donors in 684 countries, which kept 426 children alive for a year.

On Valentine's Day, why symbolise your love for someone by buying them something which will whither and die within days, when you could declare your love with a gift which will grow and thrive for a year.  Give life.

Spare a Rose: Save a Child.

A mother's response to Matthew Wright

My mother, Christine, is my greatest role model.  Strong, reflective, vulnerable, open and generous beyond words, she too felt the effects of Matthew Wright's recent verbal assault on the diabetes community.  And she was kind enough to put into words how his words - and the bigger problem they represent - affected the mother of someone with diabetes. Here is her beautiful guest post.

Anna has wanted me to write a blog post from a mum’s point of view for some considerable time, but it was Matthew Wright’s outrageous sound-bite about “diabetes-triggering chocolate Easter eggs” that has at last galvanised me into action.

At the tender age of “just-turned 4” my blonde, blue-eyed, slim daughter had not spent the summer sitting around eating chocolate and watching TV but had returned bronzed and happy from a 5-week family holiday in the Austrian Tirol – where at the age of “still only 3” she had walked up mountains (once to glacier-level) every other day and, to the utter astonishment of the local tourist board, had completed enough walks to earn herself a gold “Wanderpass”.

Just 3 months later, on Christmas Eve, I drove my semi-conscious, critically hyperglycaemic daughter to hospital while my devastated husband stayed at home wondering how he would find the heart to “celebrate” Christmas the next day with our 2 sons. 

Within a year of Anna’s diagnosis of Type 1 I had the opportunity to attend a week-long conference in Kaiserslautern, being both cared for (yes, we mothers need looking after as well) and educated about Type 1 along with 30 other mothers and their newly-diagnosed D-children. The age of these children ranged from 18 months to early teenage and not a single one of them was overweight. 

Every one of us mothers, however, felt both guilt-ridden and confused that their beautiful child had developed Type 1. We were all asking why – where on earth had this come from? Of the 30 children only one had a living relative with Type 1 – the 18 month old baby girl - and her desperate father (the Type 1) was so devastated - because he thought it was “his fault” - that he couldn’t yet inject his baby daughter with her life-saving daily insulin.

In amongst all the heartbreak and guilt the various reasons we mothers were putting forward as having been the trigger for the Type 1 were variously stress, shock, the coxsackie virus, a recent immunisation against measles and mumps and bereavement. Guilt, fear and lack of information is a toxic combination. I was soon convincing myself that I had over-stretched my 3-year old and that in fact the 5 week holiday and the gold medal had stressed her little body so much that her insulin-producing cells had failed as a result.

But for all the reasons we were throwing into the ring about possible causes for Type 1 we all knew deep down that our friends and neighbours who heard that our child had developed diabetes were all presuming that the reason for the condition had been “too much sugar in their diet”. They also thought that diabetes management was simply a case of “not eating any more sugar”. 

This was 25 years ago. My daughter was the only child I knew with diabetes, other than the ones I met on that conference. The kindergarten (and, later, the school) had never seen a case before and the day they had to call the helicopter to deal with her hypoglycaemic collapse practically made the newspapers. It also sorted the men from the boys with teachers drawing lots NOT to go with her in the helicopter.

So where have we got to, in Britain, 25 years on? Not very far, if Matthew Wright’s remarks are any indication.

But the D-community appears to be increasingly well-informed, supported and educated, thanks in part to bloggers like my daughter. They take the time to get alongside each other, to share information and experiences, to encourage each other and support each other during the tough times. And believe me, there ARE tough times. They are also embracing a range of new technologies that help them recover some of the spontaneity and confidence that are often the first casualties of this condition.

What neither the D-community nor Joe-Public needs is the kind of ill-informed, casual, misleading remarks that return us to the dark ages of Edwina Curry and her salmonella-triggering eggs.

I suggest that Matthew Wright sits down to a decent-sized portion of humble pie this Easter and takes the time to issue an apology to a whole community that he has deeply offended.

27

Dear Anna,

I found some photos of you today.  Your mother showed them to me after she rediscovered the scrapbooks she lovingly created of family life as you and your brothers were growing up.  As I flicked through the cataloged memories I came across a few of you. You don't know me, but one day - in say, 27 years or so - our paths will cross. Our journeys are intertwined my friend, and I have some things I wanted to say to you.  

You are three-and-a-half in this photo and what you lack in arms you more than make up for in undeniable sweetness. You are cute as a button and starting to learn it.  You are knee-high to a grass-hopper and so very 'new' in comparison to the world you live in. Your wisps of golden brown hair are still delicate enough to be highlighted under the glow of the Summer sun.  You are learning to pose for the camera and are sporting your own version of the Baywatch bikini.  You are working it, kiddo.  

You are healthy, happy and care-free - as every little girl should be.

It is Christmas Eve 1986 in Germany now, and you are four years old.  You have inexplicable taste in clothing colour-schemes and your parents have clearly favoured the beginnings of a mullet as your hairstyle of the moment.  I'm sorry, I'm not here to help you with this but to deliver the message that it will make a fantastic conversation piece in a place called 'the Pub', a few years down the line.  You're friends will love it. 

It is a special night because tomorrow is Christmas morning; the morning every child lives for.  But you are also tired.  It is an alien tiredness - one that doesn't come from playing too long or running too far.  It consumes you. 

For you, this night will change the course of your life forever. Because tonight, in just a few hours time, you will be taken to hospital, somewhat aptly named 'the ill house' in German, where you will be diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.  

I am sorry.  A million times, I am sorry.  Your parents had already been told this was a possibility at the start of the week but were sent home to play the waiting game. They don't yet know what this truly means but they won't have to wait any longer. Tonight, on Wednedsay, December 24th, 1986, diabetes arrived.

I wish I could make you understand that it's not your fault - you didn't do anything wrong.  And I am not here to take it away - I wish I could.  But that too would change the course of your life.  It would take you away from what you will become, which -  red bikini, mullet and all - is something you can be proud of.  What I can do is give you a 'heads up' from somewhere down the line.  I can make a you a promise; that everything will be OK. 

The man helping you light that candle is your father.  He and your mother will do battle with diabetes, armed only with insulin, syringes and urine testing strips to keep you safe, with a conviction only they and other parents can possibly understand.  They rule your diabetes with an iron fist and walk the perilously narrow tightrope between 'too low' and 'freaking high!' on an hourly basis, because have been warned of what can happen to you if they don't.  The threats they have been given are too much for you to bear so for now, they carry that burden alone. They will make it a big enough part of your life that you take it seriously, and a small enough part that it doesn't become something that defines you.  Quite rightly, you have no idea how hard they work to keep you care-free. Your mother will continue to embrace you, console you, encourage you and challenge you to do the best that you can in your diabetes care, forever.  Even when you have moved away and turned your back on the home she once made for you, she will offer you her warmth to help cradle you from the hurt diabetes can cause.  Never stop saying 'Thank you', even though she doesn't ask.

You are eight, and you have now lived as many years with diabetes as you did without it.  You no longer live in Germany, having moved 'home' to England at age 7.  You have started school and now holiday with your father in Germany in the Summers, choosing to spend most of your time with your friend, Davina.  You have known her since you were both six months old, your birthdays only a matter of days apart. You have also developed a nasty habit of faking hypos in front of Davina, because the attention she gives you makes you feel special.  Davina is courageous, bright and ever-devoted to you. When she sees you go hypo she wraps her arms around you, flags down strangers for help and runs to get your brothers.  You can still recall her being at the end of the table in Kindergarten when the medic had to treat you.  That hypo was very real, very frightening and she was there - I can remember her hand on your foot. Be warned that your hypos  - the real ones - also frighten her. You will grow to be ashamed of this and the first time you have the courage to admit it to anyone, will be in a blog post on the anniversary of your diagnosis.  But I forgive you, Anna.  I know that you are confused, immature and in many ways, still hurting.  I also know that this friendship will endure.  To this day she remains your friend.  You still write her letters (although they are called 'emails' these days) and every time you see her she welcomes you with her kind, warm arms. Be grateful for her.

You are 11 now and making your way up to secondary school.  Over the next few years you will begin to take control of your diabetes yourself; administering insulin, doing blood tests and taking hypo treatments.  You have stopped faking hypos.  But in this part of your journey you will begin your troubled relationship with food - one which will stay with you until a time I have not yet seen.  The tight ship that your parents sailed when you were a child means that you have escaped all complications and appear to be carrying that on.  But you now have a focus on food that secretly hides compulsion and anger.  You will feel the darkness of depression. You will hate yourself at times because you use others as your yardstick.  

This. Will.  Not. Do.

Your weight will swing, as will your focus on health.  You will lose weight in your teens by over-exercising and under-eating, and you will dabble briefly with slimming pills.  But in your late 20s you will turn a corner.  You will learn how to exercise safely with diabetes and you will begin to understand just how and why your battle with weight is so much more complex than someone without your condition. Eventually, you will stand in front of 70 people and tell them about your journey.  In this moment, you will feel only pride.

You will also meet a girl at school.  A girl named Lauren.  Your friendship with Lauren, as with Davina, will be one that endures.  You will see highs and lows, share heartache and joy and eventually when you are 31, she will ask you to be in the room as she welcomes her son, your Godson and nephew, into this world.  This will be the most emotional and beautiful moment of your life.  Your journey with diabetes will be softened immeasurably by the patience, understanding and empathy that this girl will show you.  She makes it seem as though she knows exactly how you feel even though that can't be true.  Remember to reciprocate.  

Only real men wear tutus

You are now in your 20s.  More than two decades with diabetes have passed and you have met someone - someone who will become your husband.  Playful and kind, he will learn the mechanics of diabetes faster than you ever did. Within weeks he will understand hypos, carb counting and daily must-do routines that most young couples don't need to concern themselves with.  You will praise him for this, but not enough.  No praise for the burden he also now bears will be enough.  He will see you in hypos that both frighten and enrage him.  "Why does this have to happen to her?"

When you tell him that you are going to start wearing a piece of medical equipment on the body he so loves, piercing it with cannulas and monitors, he takes it in his stride.  He has plans for when you're 80 and he needs you around for them, so he embraces this change with open arms.  He will joke with you that it's his 'girlfriend remote'. This makes you laugh. To this day, he makes you laugh.  

You will have to talk to him about pregnancy and how hard that journey might be.  He goes with you to your pre-pregnancy appointment and holds your hand, because he understands how scared you are.  You will watch the pregnancies of others play out, wondering if you too will share the same wonderful journey of becoming a parent.  That, I can't answer for you yet, but there is no man in the world you would rather try with.  Just so you know, the man in the tutu is not your husband.  It just felt like a good time to tell you that only real men wear tutus; remember that.

You also start a blog.  The day before you start using that bizarre medical device that you probably can't even comprehend yet.  This project becomes your greatest achievement yet (other than actually getting to adulthood.  Well done, by the way). You start it for God-knows-what reason, but it becomes something that connects you with a million voices around the world.  It will become the saving of you.  

As for me?  Well, you and I will never meet, yet already we know one another.  We have shared a journey, yet the person in the photo has yet to walk my path.  We move in the same direction, but will never be in the same place at the same time. Just know this:

It will be OK.  

You helped me...Thank you...

My diabetes clinic are great.  I've been with them since I first came back to the UK and they have changed over time with me, as well as in front of me - safely leading my way into pumping and Continuous Glucose Monitoring.  Forward-thinking and personal, they know me.  And I know them.

My calls to them are often frantic and hurried, as I search for pump supplies after forgetting to call them yet again.

"That's OK Anna, pop in on Monday and someone from the pump clinic will be here to help."

Today, as I waited briefly at the counter for my Dietician and pump clinic expert, I spotted a familiar face. Let's call her 'Sarah', in case she doesn't want to be plastered all over a blog.  

'Sarah', was my diabetes nurse when I was 15 years old.  She had the responsibility of managing my clinic contact me during the 'dark years'.  Many of you teenagers with T1D, or parents of Children with Diabetes, will know what I mean; when you aren't sure if your teenager is taking insulin, whether or not they are smoking, whether they listen when you tell them you care, whether there is light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe you're reading this thinking, 'I'm still there'. Well, Sarah was the one who had to see me in clinic during those times.

Sarah was one of those people with a gentle, patient way about her.  When I came to clinic, she didn't question me on the BGs over 20mmol (360mg/dl)  I was trying to forget.  She didn't berate me for the three hypos I had last night.  She would just ask, 'how I was'. We talked about what I had done well.  We talked about carbs, diets and how best to inject.  I didn't want to be there, but if I had to be, Sarah seemed OK to talk to. I could manage this.

I still remember our meetings. I remember never really wanting to be there, because we were talking something I found impossibly difficult to accept.  Why me?  Why now? Why should I care? As it turned out, I didn't truly accept it until I was well into my twenties and wanting to go to University.  Even though that University was local, I wanted to feel well enough to go, to enjoy it, to succeed.  

Seeing Sarah today as she welcomed me with a hug and a 'how are you?', and finding out that she was back in clinic again after having worked elsewhere for 10 years, reminded me how lucky I had been that I had a team who didn't try to scare or shout me into self care.  I've blogged in the past about the need to feel hope at the end of the tunnel, rather than fear.  Sarah was one of those people who never tried to use graphic images or frightening story morals to scare me into care.  Fear doesn't work. Period.

I'm lucky that I have a team who listen to my trials and triumphs and try to steer me from stupid decisions (of which there are many) while still allowing me the freedom to see if my latest bright idea in diabetes management might work.  I'm lucky that Sarah was one of the people who laid the ground rules for me.  She allowed me to come to clinic and not be harassed, but welcomed.  Sarah helped lay the seeds in my head that clinic was a safe place.

Now, I engage with my team regularly and I fund my own CGM because I finally 'get' how important this is. I willingly wear a pump because of the freedom it affords me and I know that I've been blessed not to come across any complications to this point.  

Sarah, was one of the people that helped me get there.  Patiently, quietly and without expecting thanks. Thank you.

Day off. Seriously?

I've already raved about the CWD weekend.  The message is; it rocks, so GO! But while I hope I have covered the weekend in general enough to give you a thirst for more and hopefully come along to the Glasgow weekend, there were some lightbulb moments that I thought deserved a post all to themselves. Having a day off, is one of them.

The 'Avoiding Burnout' talk by Jill Weissberg-Benchell (awesome name alert!) and Korey Hood, brought together a group of people who by all accounts either were, had been or might be on their way to, burnout.  If you have never been through burnout before, it isn't a fun place to be.  It's when diabetes, technically a chronic condition, becomes emotionally acute.  The pressures of walking the tighrope between the upper and lower target range build up over weeks, months or years and end in, quite literally, total burn out. 

During the CWD session we explored ways parents can have a rest without going out of their minds with worry and how to hand over control to teenagers, without losing tracks of whose role it is to do what.  One suggestion was for parents to be in charge of everything when they were around their child but hand that control over, when apart.  Great idea, if you are a parent.  For the PWDs, who can't ever truly get away from the condition, it isn't quite so easy. Or….is it?

That discussion seemed to start a fire in the mind of InPuT's Lesley Jordan, who announced that she would be asking her husband to give her a day off when she got home from the conference.  He would be taking over the reigns for one day and allow her to just be Lesley.  Not, Lesley with diabetes. 

Honestly I thought she was crazy.  How would that work? Wouldn't she worry more?  How will she know everything is being done right, or even just, OK? 

Without realising it I was turning into my own concerned parent, saying all the same things a parent at the beginning stages of burnout says?  The lack of faith that things will be OK.  The need to know what was going on.  The inability to let go of control, but needing to in order to self preserve.  Placing demands on myself to handle it.  Those are exactly the demands I want to to have a break from, too.

After teasing me that this fitted well into his master plan of exerting total control over me (he's kidding.  I wear the trousers, of course) Jamie agreed that it seemed like a great idea.  What's to lose, right?

So tomorrow, for the first time since in 18 years since my parents handed over the reigns in my early teens, my Jamie will be allowing me my first day off. Tomorrow is mine; Anna's, not Anna with diabetes.  I won't be consulted. I won't have to make decisions about when to test or what to eat or how much to bolus. Jamie, is taking my diabetes for the day. And he's welcome to it!

Now to decide how to spend my day off...

Have you had a day off lately?

CWD Friends For Life 2012: Hope and Onesies

In 1995 an inspirational man named Jeff Hitchcock, the father of a little girl who had a disease called type 1 diabetes, decided he would use this quirky new thing called 'the Internet' (which he claimed would be a 'big thing') to create a website where parents of, and children with, the condition could talk to one another and find friendship and support.  It quickly caught on and before long became an institution to its already devoted members and growing number of people looking for just what Children With Diabetes could offer; unity.

Five years on in the year 2000, a lady named Laura Billetdeaux, herself a member of CWD and parent to a young boy with T1, posted a simple message that she was heading to Florida and should anyone wish to meet her there, she would be waiting.  Laura is a person with whom you immediately feel at ease.  She is confident, and warm.  On that fateful day 500 people felt the same way and descended upon Florida where the annual Children with Diabetes event, was born.

Almost two decades on the CWD conference, now dubbed 'Friends for Life', draws hundreds of families from across the United States on a yearly basis. For parents it is a place of companionship, learning and support. For the children, it is an opportunity to let down their hair, rekindle old friendships and have fun just being a kid. All food on offer is carb-counted, green arm-bands show membership to the club and hypo stations dot the halls, making it the safest place in the world.

Four years ago CWD came to the UK and this, was my first year. 

The buzz on Friday night was electric as hundreds of people excitedly arrived at the Beaumont Estate hotel in Windsor.  Which room you were in or what the hotel was like was secondary, this was a time for finding old friends.  And making new ones.  As the sea of enthusiastic people ebbed and flowed through hallways, the atmosphere was thick with excitement. 

The sponsors Animas, Medtronic, Cellnovo and Accu-Chek were out in force with balloon magicians (most awesome CV title ever!), face-painting, cuddly toys and an X-Box Kinnect to keep the kids suitably pumped (no pun intended!).

People, having a ridiculously wonderful time!

Olly Double, everyone's favourite comedian and T1 parent, whom I had the pleasure of meeting at the Spring Wellness day a year ago, opened the floor on Friday with a his brilliant stand up - including an audience-priming version of H-Y-P-O (to the tune of YMCA). Any opportunity to look at the brighter side of diabetes (yes, there really is one) is a welcome event.  Then it was drinks in the bar and off to bed.

Saturday began with an inspirational talk by DiabetesDad  Tom Karlya which kicked off the day at 9am.  By 9.13am, the first tears rolled down my cheek as he told the story of his daughter's diagnosis when  - in his words - she had IVs in both arms and was asking him to 'fix'. He told us with conviction that diabetes 'just won't do' and asked us to take responsibility for looking out for each other.  As the parent of not one but two T1 kids, he told us with the most admirable honesty about the mistakes he had made over his years (right there with ya, Mr K).  Between the laughter (he tells one hell of a good story) and the tears, there wasn't a dry eye in the house by the end.  

The weekend progressed with talks about advocacy, balancing food, exercise and sick days along with a host of other sessions packed with information to help build an arsenal of weapons with which to take diabetes on. We were taught how to avoid spikes after meals by all-round dude Gary Scheiner and how to negotiate family life with diabetes by the most 'New York' New Yorker you'll ever meet, Joe Solo. InPuT presented our own talk on how to get the best pump support (with my own section on Managing Expectations and how to avoid Competitive Parenting).  But for me the session which stood out above all others was one in which two psychologists, Jill Weissberg-Benchell and Korey Hood, led a group talk on Avoiding Burnout. Guaranteed to be a highly-emotional session by virtue of the subject matter, when the first person spoke with their voice already cracking I knew this would be nothing, if not a session to connect us.  For a precious hour we shared stories, offered hope and connected with people    who 'get it'.   Finally, Lesley Jordan profoundly said, "My purpose of being on this planet, is to do more than get a perfect HbA1c."  The room agreed and for just a moment had not a single word to add.

Learning from each other how to avoid burnout

As Sunday came to a close and the final talk, jam-packed with hope, was given by Jeff Hitchcock himself, I couldn't remember the last time I had cried so freely, re-charged so quickly and connected so deeply.  People you had never met before, and might never again, took the time to smile and be your friend.  The kids and young people, in the wonderfully inexplicable way only kids can, launched a mini-craze within the world we had created of wearings onesies 24 hours a day.  And as I basked in the glow of the event and looked on as the last of the revellers peeled away, emptying the fridge of the hotel's remaining complementary Diet Coke as they went, I knew, this weekend would not be forgotten.

This will not be my last Friends for Life.

The Input team, confusing the 'Madness' dance with the one from Blues Brothers, at the Roche 'disco'!

These moments

This weekend my brother invited me join him at a small meet-up called 'The Little Green Gathering', held at a local sustainability centre where he was giving a talk on the Zeitgest movement, something he is as passionate about as I am about diabetes advocacy.  I've been saying for some time that I'd come along to one of his talks, so this evening I decided to join him and come good on my promise.   But as so often happens when we aren't searching for it, it was an unexpected, wonderful moment that made the event.

Knowing that he was on for an hour and with a serious coffee addiction meaning I would be a fidgety twitcher if I didn't visit the little girls room, I nipped off to the ladies for a loo-stop.  As I waited for a cubicle to become free, two people filed in behind me: a mother and her daughter,  talking amongst themselves.  Normally their conversation would have passed over me barely registering, but all of a sudden a familiar phrase caught my attention.

"We should do your numbers in a minute." Mum said.

I've heard those words before.  I've heard them on more than just a few occasions.  As I eavesdropped them discussing numbers and times I wanted so badly to turn and let them know my little secret too, but the door of a cubicle opened and without meaning to I found myself locking the cubicle door behind me, saying goodbye to that moment.

It's a good job I pee fast.

As I emerged from the cubicle I made it just in time to see a crisp, clean looking testing kit sprawled in front of the young girl, cradled in the open hands of the mother.  Even that image speaks a thousand words, doesn't it?

I squeezed past and whispered to them, "me too," gesturing towards the open kit.

"Sorry", mum said, now making eye contact with me.

"Me too." I repeated.

"Really?" Her eyes now fixed on mine.

"Yup" I smiled.  

"Type 1 or 2?"

"Type 1" (weirdly proud).  

"When were you diagnosed?" She questioned.

"Oh god, 25 years now. So, 1986 I guess."

"Wow, she has had it a month." Glancing over to her child.

And there it was; the future of diabetes.  A bight young thing getting accustomed to a lifetime of hand-washing, loo-testing and number-crunching.  As mum and I exchanged stories the bubble around us grew as I was only distantly aware of people coming in and out of the cubicles behind us.  Like bathroom checkers, we were pushed from one spot to another as people negotiated the room we had commandeered to share this moment.

We talked pumps, diagnosis and injections, and as mum pulled out the needle from a correction dose of insulin, the future generation of diabetes and I high-fived and smiled.  Stupid, crappy injections.  We shared a knowing glance.

I couldn't leave without swapping details.  Having only been on board for a month but already speaking a language they should never have needed to learn, I wondered how many questions mum might have in her head.  Does it get easier? How long does it take to learn? Are you happy?  Will she be OK?

We swapped emails and addresses and promised to keep in touch  so we could ask all the questions we want, without the whirring of a hand-dryer somewhere in the background.  

As I went to leave the room I heard, "Are you a hugger?"

"Oh yeah, I'm a hugger." I replied.

Hug isn't the word. Embrace is closer to the mark.  An embrace that lingered a moment longer than it would have even between friends.  With that and a "Welcome to the club, kid.  We're all pretty awesome", we parted ways with a smile and a promise.

These are the moments I live for.  A moment which could so easily have been missed if any one of us had changed our path.  If we'd doubled back, done that test elsewhere, not mentioned anything about numbers.

I don't know how, but somehow, every time, diabetes finds a way to bring us together.