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I have a love relationship with my insulin. Every diffused dose I have taken over the years found its way into my system with appreciation, even if it stung like the bejesus at times. Like an addict, the smooth emptying of a
syringe or
cannula gives me immediate comfort, and I know that my body is staying up to date on its hormonal needs. I know the energy I consume can go to work and my internal hemoglobic labyrinth is not under any stress.
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There are some days that-despite fresh comments from my husband about 'someday having to cut off Mommy's foot'-I say to him "I'm going to get some ice cream." Those are usually the days he knows I need my fix to feel better because stress in one form or another has gotten the best of me.
And then there are the days when I sit in the parking lot of the grocery store eating a triple chocolate Drumstick because I know I can't scarf it down before I get home. (I bet this gets eaten on the way home, the cashier quips with a smile.) I head to the store under the auspices of getting milk or cereal for the next morning, but it's also an excuse to find something to feed my nasty habit. I really can't pass up a candy bar stand in a grocery store; although, I used to be able to.
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