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We found 3 result(s) that match your search "defining":

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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I look down at my finger tips and can only wonder what pricked formations lie ahead.
Four fingers have unique layouts of purplish-red dots. Each mark from it's own blood test in time. I daydream of defining those marks into something more relevant. A symbolic circle for worldwide diabetes awareness for instance. Or rows of hearts to swoon my girlfriend with. For the wanton sand bar look is not working for me.
I feel my silly dream may not come true. Not only because the idea of bleeding designs into fingertips is, well, somewhat odd, but also because my lancing device has the mirrored accuracy of Shaquille O'Neal at the free-throw line. (READ MORE)

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A pilot in Denton, Texas, made an emergency landing near a freeway yesterday because he felt lightheaded. Only one media source stated he was diabetic. Yet the article made every major newspaper in the area.

 

Thursday, I drove down the highway in rush hour traffic digging through my bag and eating everything I had with me. As I stuffed the glucose tabs into my mouth, I sat wondering about my fellow drivers. Were any of them diabetic? Had they driven this low before? Would they be mad because I was driving low (granted we didn't reach speeds above 15 mph)?

 

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