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In the life of a diabetic, blood draws are fairly common. I can remember being a little girl in my pediatric endo's office waiting for the inevitable butterfly needle after the appointment. My mom and I claimed that the nurses in the hospital were always rougher than the ones in my normal physician's office. It seemed like those quarterly blood draws hurt more and more every time.

But I was always used to them. Needles never have been my problem. Maybe it's because before I even begin to remember things, I can remember diabetes. Needles and those blood draws are so common to me that I know no other way. But even though I'm not scared of needles or opposed to the routine draw, I still hate the way it all happens now.

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This week has not been one of the better ones I've had recently.  And those of you who follow me on twitter already know what I'm referring to.

I wound up in the hospital for a few days after I started having chest pain and shortness of breath late Saturday night.  Not knowing whether I was really having a heart attack or if it was just another severe reflux attack, I played it smart and went to get checked out.  I was there from shortly after 12:00 a.m.  Sunday morning until around 5:00 p.m. Tuesday.

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