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

What you don't want to hear from your diabetes educator is "hmm, good question." That is, unless it's immediately followed by a good answer.
There has been a burning question of ours since Charlie started on the pump back in September of 2006. During that time, we posed the question to several different people along the way, but never really got a clear answer.
So I present this burning question to you - the true gurus of diabetes.
How can Charlie skip a meal if he wanted to? Is this a mythical notion or do people out there actually achieve this? If Charlie didn't eat something two to three hours after a bolus, he would most certainly go low. I'll ask you exactly what I asked the doctor and nurse practitioner the other day. (READ MORE)

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I got an email today about a new program that Columbia University (in New York City) is offering. A completely online master's degree in Diabetes Education and Management. This type of degree can aide current CDE's, prospective CDE's who are looking for certification, or anyone in the diabetes arena that wants a better understanding of how to educate diabetics and further proper management.

 

At first, my interest was piqued. Would I want to do that? I once looked into nursing programs in order to pursue certification as a Certified Diabetes Educator, but decided that nursing school wasn't for me. An online Master of Science though? Maybe.

 

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Several of the posts coming back from the Children With Diabetes annual Friends for Life conference (FFL) have likened this gathering of beta-less buddies to a traveling circus, a family reunion, and the sitcom Cheers, in whose eponymous bar "everybody knows your name" -- except that in the case of FFL, "everybody knows what it's like to live with type 1 diabetes". The effect, even without the Disneyification (FFL is always held at Disney World), is a Magic Kingdom of Diabetes. It makes sense: the event promoters are (and need to be) familiar with the condition, and the property managers need to be aware of -- and capable of handling -- a large, temporary influx of people who all have the same, or similar, "special needs". (READ MORE)

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Fade in.

Close-up on a hand, shaking slightly as it lifts a metal cup. Pan as the camera moves to the subject's face, barely able to take a swallow of fluid without spilling it. After a half-coughed swallow, the hand half-slams the cup back on the workspace. The man shakes his head, unable to concentrate, pushes off from the workspace, and snaps at several other people as he walks briskly away.

 

 

From the second I saw the hand shake, I thought, "He's low. He's acting like he's low. Get the man some orange juice; he's about to pass out."

 

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There comes a point where death isn't scary anymore. But hope...hope is scary.

 

I'm a fan of Grey's Anatomy on ABC. The latest episode featured a terminal cancer patient...a young and seemingly vibrant woman (minus the disease ravaging her body)...who was seeking physician assisted suicide. Those lines up there were ones she said in defense of her own death.

 

As they passed through the TV speakers, they hit me. Hard. I know they're just fiction, that some TV writer/producer thought them up. Someone thought they knew what it felt like to face that precipice. Maybe they actually do. Maybe they're writing from experience the way that I am now.

 

Those words hit me hard because it's a way that I've never verbalized about emotions that I constantly feel. I've never really considered death and hope in that way. The fear. In a reverse kind of way.

 

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In high school, I wanted to be a writer. I toured Columbia University's School of Journalism, looked at New York University's creative writing programs, and worked in the school newspaper for two years. I always loved writing and I seemed to have some talent so I finally applied as an English major at a local college (because New York was financially out of reach).

 

I loved the English classes that I took. My intro was a bit boring, but I quickly learned how to tailor papers to my interests and really push myself. One of my first college papers was on feminism. It's one I remember most. I took the usual British literature classes and loved them. Although we didn't do a lot of writing in them, it was fun to learn new perspectives on the classics. My favorite class was Creative Writing. I pushed myself, created an amazing portfolio of fiction papers, and met some other amazing authors.

 

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I've been dealing with a multitude of things over the past weeks. Some health issues that I wasn't exactly prepared for. Work keeping me both busy and stressed. And an attempt at getting back on track with my diabetes and exercise.

 

Honestly, it hasn't been an easy few weeks. I'm relying on my support system, which is amazing. But I'm also having to cope on my own to stay afloat. I've spent a lot of time reading fiction to keep my mind distracted, doing some retail therapy, and sleeping when I can.

 

My friends have been great letting me lean on them throughout all the stress that I'm under right now. Marvin has felt most of that, yet he's sticking by me and I'm very thankful for everything he does for me. I can't imagine what I'd do without him.

 

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From time to time, a heated discussion will erupt around the terms and phrases "prediabetes", "borderline diabetes", and "beating diabetes". The basic gist of the debate goes like this:

 

Someone will post that he was told he has "borderline diabetes" or "prediabetes", or that he had type 2 diabetes, but since he changed his diet, got off his diabetes medications, and has normal lab results, he has reversed or cured his diabetes.

 

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Once upon a time, I wrote about things other than diabetes. I wrote about things like funerals for dead pet fish, my wife’s germophobia and my disdain for minivans.

 

As a kid, I was never a great student. Most of it bored me and I didn’t make much of an effort to store the information in my brain. Math I never understood and still don’t.  This is most obvious when my daughter asks me for help on her math homework. I usually just look at my wrist and tell her, “sorry, I have a thing,” and I run as fast and as far away as I can until I can be absolutely sure that she’s no longer following me.

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It feels like every time I turn around, someone else wants to know what I plan to do with the rest of my life. Or at least what my post-graduation plans are. "So what are you going to do?" "Where have you applied?" "Where will you go?"

 

I hate those questions. I always have. I don't want to pick. I don't want to settle down yet. I have worked my butt off for the past three and a half years. Getting this degree is the only thing on my mind right now. After that, I have no idea!

 

There's a lot on my mind that I'd love to do. Teach English abroad, be a travel columnist, work for a non-profit, be a criminal profiler, raise Siberian Huskies. The list is really endless. (Apparently, this means I'm a "scanner" according to Barbara Sher. Hmm.)

 

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