Time and distance have also served to blunt not just periods of psychological distress, but also some of the everyday things I used to savor before.

As in, before I was diagnosed with diabetes.

Before I had diabetes, I didn't have to worry about eating a hamburger, pizza, Fettuccini Alfredo, or my favorite restaurant "cajun pasta" dishes. Now, any version I make at home is significantly modified to eliminate refined flours, reduce fats, and raise the vegetable count. You can hardly find the pasta in any of my "pasta" dishes.

Before I had diabetes, breakfast was a pint of orange juice and a bagel with cream cheese. Now, bagels are eaten in parts, and orange juice is a special-occasion item: a quarter bagel is one carbohydrate exchange, and a cup of orange juice is a huge portion of the daily calorie count.

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There's something that haunts every person who remembers Life Before Diagnosis. We describe it as spontaneity, carelessness, social acceptability, freedom.

What it boils down to are food and money.

For starters, diabetes robs from us the ability to "just" eat when we are hungry, not-eat when we're not, and not have to weigh, measure, and log every morsel that passes our lips. Then, it robs from us the (admittedly ill-advised) pleasures of the occasional ice-cream sundae or wolfing down half a pizza pie. And because we can't be certain of the foods that we don't prepare ourselves, it robs us of the ability to eat at friends' and relatives' homes, or even casual-dining restaurants.

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Every morning, I weigh myself, check my blood pressure, and test my blood glucose. The latter two measurements are checked on various occasions throughout the day -- moreso the glucose than the pressure, even though my only prescription medications are for my blood pressure rather than my blood glucose. There is a range for each that I consider "safe". When the ambient temperature drops, Raynaud's kicks in, and with it, the risk of hypothermia. Unfortunately, three of those parameters -- blood pressure, blood glucose, and body temperature --
have a common symptom when they drop below the safety zone. That symptom is shakiness.

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Thursday evening was the awards dinner for two of the three New Jersey Tours de Cure (the third will take place in two weeks). Since The Other Half couldn't get off work, I had to go solo. I'm not completely uncomfortable going out without an escort, but I am rather shy about reaching out to meet other people.
I need a hook -- a segue -- something to break the ice. I knew that there would be some folk I'd met before -- Taran (the Skylands Tour's coordinator) and a couple of the committee folk and riders. I also expected them to not have a lot of free/mingling time, or to be with other folk. The sit-down-dinner nature of this event in a way forced me to meet new people.

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One thing I've learned both living with diabetes (and hypertension and everything else) and having family members with diabetes, hypertension, dyslipidemia, and other health issues is that no matter how far away you are, and whether that be in miles or in outlooks, the chronic illness of one is shared by the entire family. Here, many hands do not make "light work" -- that right goes to the bonds of love and familial obligation. While a large support network might ease the afflicted person's ability to live a full life, it means that a much larger number of people need to consider the needs of that person, that many more perceive an increase in their own risk for developing that malady, and that many more must learn to accommodate a family member's needs within their own lives.

To start with, it's hard to address diabetes without addressing diet. After all, they both start with the diphthong // dai //

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Ben lowered his head and was right on my heels in the dark as we took cover behind a neon-outlined wall near the yellow base. He looked terrified.  I peered around the corner and pointed directions to him with two fingers like they do in combat films. "Stay down," I mouthed. "I'm going out there."

 A 6-year-old girl was approaching slowly - crouching low and walking sideways with her gun raised steady above her shoulders. She was using "alpha, bravo, Charlie" phonetics and switching from English to French and this frightened me.  She was trouble.

In the near pitch-black labyrinth that is laser tag, I had no clue of Charlie's whereabouts. I didn't think of it at the time, but a severe hypoglycemic event would be very bad in this setting; especially it being his birthday party.

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