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We found 10 result(s) that match your search "diabetes camps":

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 was recently asked to suggest some information for a diabetic in another country. I can’t say that I have ever done much research on the topic of diabetes in a foreign place. I’ve thought about health care and how difficult it must be for those that don’t have immediate access for the disease. Yet, I’ve never taken the time to truly research information and find the reality in the situation.

 

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It's my time...to appreciate the past.

 

Dear Mom,

 

I've probably never thanked you out loud for the years of care that you've put into my life. And I should. Every day of my life. Because you have been the rock, the support, and the lifeline that I've need in the past 16+ years of living with diabetes.

 

I've heard the way you tell my diagnosis story. I hear the fear in your voice, the emotion run through you. I know that those months were some of the hardest in your life. When you talk about watching me have seizures and bad night lows, I hear that same fear and emotion. I know having a diabetic child must be one of the most difficult things to encounter as a parent. I know it wasn't what you expected or wanted or needed in your only girl.

 

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Boo was 208 this afternoon, four hours after having eaten anything. This really, really sucks. It's really starting to worry me. I brushed it off as maybe a urinary tract infection, but now, I'm starting to doubt it. Everything is pointing towards diabetes, and if her pediatrician won't see that, I will find another pediatrician.

I feel overwhelmed at times by this. Part of me knows that I can handle it but the other part of me wants to just cry at the thought of another child with diabetes. I get upset when I hear about any kid getting diagnosed, but now that the likelihood is that it will be my kid. My little Boo, who cries when I poke her, whose little hands I have to pry open in order to stick them with the lancet. Jesus, do you know what that does to me? I want to cry right next to her, but I don't. I can't. I'm afraid that if I start, I'll never stop.
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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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In a word, last night was crazy. And I think I have a problem. OK that's more than one word.

 

So I've been getting about 10-12 days out of my Dexcom sensors (woot!) and decided to order another box after I opened my last sensor. Big mistake because that sensor went bad after less than 12 hours. So while I had ordered the next box, there was a holiday thrown in the mix and I wound up without sensors for about a week. (Next time I'll reorder when I have two left.)

 

So I was readjusting to life after a four-day holiday weekend and to finally having Dexcom back. Last night Dexcom apparently screamed at me more than once. The Mr. said it alarmed three times. I only remember the time I looked at it and it said I was 50 mg/dL. And then I remember thinking this exact thought: There's no way I'm 50. I'm not 50. I don't feel 50. Stupid sensor.

 

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I don't remember being diagnosed. I don't remember being scared or angry. I don't remember the first shots or finger pricks. I hear stories sometimes, but those are rarely mentioned. I imagine how my little four-year-old self might react to learning about diabetes, but come up short most of the time.

 

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Throughout the years, I've met dozens of diabetics. We're all different. We each have our own stories to tell. Some of us were diagnosed at such a young age that we don't even remember what being "normal" is. Some of us made it into high school or college before receiving the diagnosis.

 

Some are well controlled and some are not. Some of us struggle with getting our numbers down, while others seem to wish it into place. Some follow every rule, some don't follow any.

 

Each of our stories and our unique personalities make us into the kind of diabetic that we are. Each of our bodies takes on a different role in our management from one person to the next. Each of us reacts differently to the world.

 

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Health issues can be especially lonely at times. Your body is racked with pain, your head is spinning from a low, or you're just worn out from a night of blood sugar issues. Chronic issues don't exactly create a great place of friendship and community. Yet it's so vital for us chronic care patients to bond together.

 

We are all struggling and trying to survive with whatever ailments we are going through. We are all feeling lonely, depressed, and frustrated. We need places to turn to lay our heads down, to say "I can't do this anymore!" and to just be heard. Truly heard.

 

At four years old, I couldn't grasp diabetes or community or how important it all might be for the rest of my life. I really don't remember what I grasped back then, except I've been told that I was just angry. And I couldn't understand why the doctors couldn't fix me. They were doctors! They were supposed to make you better!

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My mom took care of my diabetes for a really long time. Other parents of diabetics told her that I should be doing my own injections long before I actually started doing them. But she just couldn't bear to hand over the burden to a child, to her child. She knew that this would be my life for many years to come, so why hand it over when she was capable?

 

That simple act of support is one of the main reasons why I'm okay with diabetes today. I was involved in diabetic camps and had a few diabetic friends, but nothing speaks to me like the time and effort that my mom put into my disease for so many years. The pain she must have felt every time I cried after a doctor's visit, the fear she must have faced when I was passed out in the grocery store line, the depression she went through when I was first diagnosed.

 

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