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Today,  at the grocery store, I spotted a pump.

 

On a woman at the deli, a black Deltec Cozmo.  

 

Seeing a pump like that, I can’t help but ask about it.  

 

Once, on a train, I saw a woman dosing herself, with what was obviously a pump.  When I asked her about it, flashing her my own portable pancreas, she looked shocked and said “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  I felt terribly for asking about something that clearly made her uncomfortable.  

 

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An old adage suggests there is strength in numbers.

 

 

Not the numbers of our ABCs -- although there is strength in that knowledge -- but the strength of many people, standing together, for the same cause.

 

Many people making the same choice made Jesse Ventura -- a third-party candidate -- governor of Minnesota, and Abraham Lincoln -- also a third-party candidate -- President of the United States.

 

Many people speaking out on television and in the media made everyone aware of AIDS and of Breast Cancer -- even though those two diseases kill and disable far fewer people than heart disease and diabetes.

 

Why is it, then, that hundreds (thousands?) of Twitter users turned their avatars red for World AIDS day, or green to support the protesters after the Iranian election, but not blue to support World Diabetes Day?

 

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Did you ever have one of those days at work when you just couldn't make time for a break?  One of those days when you didn't stop to eat, drink, or go to the restroom?  One of those days when you were fully aware of the need to take a break, but you just couldn't stop for one?

 

Right about now, that's how life with diabetes is feeling for me. 

 

I just need a minute to breathe.  A minute to not think about this.  A minute wherein my mind isn't  consumed with my last inexplicable, frustrating number - or with the next test and the mystery and aggravation it could hold.  A minute to not think about the destruction this disease causes - the destruction that it is causing in me. 

 

And I know that I'm not going to get that minute. 

 

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Olivia left for camp on Sunday. This was the first time in six years that I didn't bring her myself. I was at a blogger gathering in Niagara Falls, thoroughly enjoying myself, albeit a bit guiltily. I talked to her several times on the phone over the weekend and she seemed fine with me not going. "Well, I won't have to watch you cry this year," she said. Rotten child. (She's right. I do cry, every year. I'm a sap.)

 

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Olivia got a huge campership to Clara Barton this year. I was thrilled because that camp? REALLY, really expensive. Way more than I could have afforded to pay on my own.

 

So we have to pay a small amount and Olivia gets to go back to camp for her sixth year. She loves it there - all winter long, she and her camp friends keep in touch via email and IM, counting down the days until they can see each other again.

 

And so the next few weeks will consist of shopping ("Mom!! I need something to wear to the dance!!") and packing and unpacking and repacking and making sure she has enough supplies - to a previous commenter, she does use Silhouettes, so that's not the problem with the thigh. I think it's just her thigh.

 

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Yesterday, the big manila envelope arrived in my mailbox. In it? The application for summer camp at Clara Barton. Already.

Olivia loves camp, so we'll definitely be sending her again but I was dismayed to see that the price has gone up. It's now $2,225 to go for two weeks. Last year it was around $1900. That's a big jump.

I understand why they charge so much - the staff is huge there. The buildings are in excellent condition (way better than any camp I ever attended, that's for sure!) and the grounds are very attractive. Because they have such a large medical staff, I feel really secure sending Olivia there year after year.

Plus, the camp is really great about granting camperships. They also send out information telling you how you can put together your own fund raisers and how to solicit organizations like The Lions Club or Kiawanis to help subsidize some of the cost.
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For a number of years, I was the only diabetic I knew. Diagnosed when I was a little kid, there wasn't an army of advocates knocking down the doors of my school. As far as I knew, the only meter in my elementary school was mine. In my high school, there were two meters: mine and the one belonging to a classmate's older sister. No one else I knew was taking a fingerstick before having the orange slices at soccer practice, or before tap dance lessons.
My first taste of a diabetes community came one summer at camp. Growing up in New England, I had access to one of the best diabetes camps in the country - Clara Barton Camp. I spent six summers at CBC, giggling with my fellow campers, singing my lungs out at the nightly campfire meetings, and making friends. (READ MORE)

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I took Olivia to camp today. It's always a little bittersweet for me to take her there. I miss having her at home, I miss seeing her around the house, I even miss (god help me!) her incessant playing of Hannah Montana CDs.
I remember the first year she went to camp. I was terrified. She was eight years old and had never been away overnight, except to stay with family members. I knew that Clara Barton would be a safe place for her but there was a part of me that wanted to cling to her, to hold her close, thinking that no one, no one was going to take care of her the way I could.
That first year she only did mini-camp. She stayed from Sunday until Thursday. When I went to pick her up, she bubbled over with stories of what they'd done, telling me about this girl and that girl, talking enthusiastically about their activities and games. It was wonderful to see her that enthusiastic. (READ MORE)

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Olivia heads off to Clara Barton Camp in a couple of weeks. This is her fifth summer attending, so she will become a Bartonian this year. I'm not sure what that means - fellow CBCers, help me out. She is beyond excited. I swear she'd live at camp all summer if I let her (and I had the funds - at $2,000 for 10 days, it's very, very expensive.)
I was initially hesitant to send her to camp. I was worried that she would be lonely, that she wouldn't speak up when she wasn't feeling well, that they wouldn't take care of her the way I do. The first time I left her, for her first mini-camp session, I cried the whole way home. I fretted and worried and lay awake at night, wondering how she was doing.
I shouldn't have. When I picked her up, she was ecstatic. She chattered non-stop the entire way home, talking about the other campers, the counselors, what they did, where they went and "There was a dance, mum! With the BOYS!!" She was over the moon. (READ MORE)

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(Continued From Previous Post)
I am dependent on insulin. But I am otherwise an incredibly independent person. I like taking risks - on my own. I enjoy the feeling of having accomplished something by my own will and my own action. I am more outgoing and more confident than I think I would have been if I'd not been diagnosed. A combination of wanting to be able to handle my disease on my own, without pity or judgment AND the experiences I had as a young woman - through the Clara Barton Camp and the ADA's Youth Congress - transformed me from a shy, albeit precocious kid, to a person who stands on her own. A person who keeps her head up and battles mightily - in the face of whatever wrong she sees and whatever challenges she faces. But would I trade my independence for a life without diabetes? I would - though again, who's to tell if something else might have brought me to this same place. (READ MORE)

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