I've seen him twice since he was diagnosed. And each time I want to tackle him and say "I'm diabetic, too." It's so weird to restrain myself. I don't know why I feel this sort of odd connection to this person who I literally have nothing else in common with.

Perhaps because his diagnosis was rather tragic, for lack of a better word. Not that any of our diagnoses weren't tragic, but this seemed especially emotional. In a strange whirlwind of terrible events, Mike lost the house he grew up in and was diagnosed with diabetes in one foul swoop.

I got the information about the diagnosis third hand, so who knows how reliable this is; I was told that after friends were worried about his behavior and took him to the ER, his blood sugar was 1,600. Now I've heard of some folks having some readings over 1,000 at diagnosis, but this just seemed over the top. Nonetheless, he spent some time in the hospital.

How do you approach someone in that situation and say, "Dude, I understand what you're going through right now." Maybe I could do just that, but I guess I'm not that kind of person. I'm a little more subtle.

The first time I saw him was at a barbeque. He sat at the picnic table behind mine. Perhaps this was unconscious, perhaps not, but when I bolused for my meal that day, I turned slightly toward him hoping he would see what I was doing. That, maybe, would let him know that I was open to talk about this awful shared connection.

Tonight at a dinner function, I had my insulin pen sitting on the table (as usual). (Incidentally, one of the friends we were sitting with made a joke that it was like an epipen that would compensate for the rich, carb-laden holiday meal we were about to consume. Interesting comparison, I thought.) Mike walked up to The Mr. to chat. I'm almost certain I saw him look down at the table. Did he see the pen? I don't know. I hope so.