About a year ago, my PCP's office decided I needed to make separate appointments to have my blood work drawn, a week before my PCP appointments, extorting an extra co-pay so that my doctor and I can have some meaningful interaction (my insurance requires the lab work to be sent out, with about a five- to seven-day turnaround). There's nothing unusual about the blood work -- just the standard glucose panel (with HbA1c), metabolic (liver function) panel, lipid panel (cholesterol), blood count, and urinalysis.

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Ah! It's a new day and my fasting blood sugar comes in at a sweet 103 mg/dl. "Not too shabby," I think, maybe feeling a bit arrogant.

I go about the business of the day - exercise, hop in the shower, dry the hair, feed the cat - get in the car for work. Drive 30 of the 45 minutes it takes to get there.

And then I think - caught in a wave of abject panic, "Where is my pump?"

I do the pat down, you know the one. I pat with flat, frantic hands at my bra, my hip, my waistband. And I know then exactly where my pump is. On the shelf in the bathroom, pumping insulin into oblivion instead of into me.

"Man." I think. I also think. Alright, maybe I say aloud - a number of colorful words not suitable for a family website.

And I head back toward home, calling the office to let them know that I've been delayed. (READ MORE)