Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Every one of us with diabetes hears that clock ticking away.

Glucose, insulin, ketones, tests.
The endless cycle never rests.
Fail once to heed the daily strife
And that day you may lose your life.

Alarmists are everywhere. Family, friends, strangers, all with the best of intentions.

• "The friend of my second cousin's friend had diabetes, lost her leg, and died from it."
• "My grandfather's niece's second husband had diabetes and died from a heart attack."
• "If you eat that cookie you're going to have to go on dialysis."

Most of us are all too aware of the complications of diabetes, and are frustrated by the amount of effort it takes to keep those complications at bay. Sometimes it's too much, and we burn out -- and we get even more frustrated by burning out, because we know we're hurting ourselves by not caring and not paying attention.

Perhaps what we need to do is evaluate why we are -- or aren't -- caring for ourselves to the degree we feel we should, and adjust our attitudes accordingly.

"Once upon a time, there were three little pigs. One was white, one was black, and one was white with black spots, or black with white spots -- it was hard to say which..."

In some ways, this is how we think of diabetes care.

• The straw-house pig might be the person who never tests, never changes his diet, visits the doctor every six months, and takes whatever pills the doctor gives him.
• The twig-house pig may test a couple of times a day and restrict his fruits and breads when he thinks of it.
• The spotted pig is never seen without a utility belt carrying his pump, glucometer, CGM receiver, and emergency tube of glucose tabs. His brick house has a foundation recycled from dead strips and worn-out glucometers, windows of reclaimed insulin-vial glass, and metal work from melted-down needles and lancets.

And just like The Three Pigs, we see everything shy of the spotted pig's obsessiveness as facilitating the Big Bad Wolf's (diabetes's) ability to huff and puff, blow down our house of cards, complicate our lives, and eat us up until there's nothing left.

There's perhaps a better fairytale analogy: Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Papa Bear's chair and bed, large as they were, were too hard for Goldilocks. The shoes of "tight control" are large and difficult to fill, and it is often hard to keep up with the demand for data and interpreting those data. Mama Bear's chair and bed were too soft, and seemed almost to bury the young girl within its depths. It's easy to become so overwhelmed by the details of caring for your diabetic self that you feel buried by it. If you don't test at all, don't correct as needed, don't pay attention to your diet, and don't take your medications correctly, you may run too high -- even end up in DKA -- or drop dangerously, fatally low. If not treated rapidly, either can bury you "for-real".

Then there was Baby Bear. His chair was comfortable, but it was not sturdy enough to support Goldilocks's weight. Sometimes our "comfort level" of testing and correcting is not enough to support the changes in our lives, and we end up with a high, a low, or an unexpected A1c reading. That's usually time to take a step back and think about what we need to change to get back on track (without feeling like we've got to fill Papa Bear's shoes).

Sometimes we find a good fit, and we can take the time to nap in Baby Bear's comfortable bed. But just as we start to dream of the Splenda-Plum Fairy, the Three Bears are like to come home and scare us off with talk of amputations and complications, procrastination and deliberation. Then, like Goldilocks, it may be time to start running for our lives.