1 Drop at a Time

On this day, 9 years ago, my life changed for the better. A rather tall, dark and handsome man walked into my life. Literally. I was working as a hostess at a restaurant and Osman was a guest waiting for a lunch meeting. He walked through the restaurant doors and we had no idea what the future would hold. We shared a pleasant conversation and parted ways. Thanks to good ol' Facebook and a mutual friend we started our daily correspondence. A few weeks turned into months, and months turned into years, and here we are, almost a decade later, still talking everyday. I'll probably embarrass him by writing this, but I cannot express how thankful I am for his presence in my life.  He has been the reasonable one when I get unreasonable about things. He is the researcher extradinaire when I become discouraged. He makes sure I wake up at 3 am to check my blood sugar. If  it wasn't for him, I  would be so lost in this phase of my life. So, Happy 9 years to my best friend for life. Tha

Sunday afternoons always seem to come too quickly. They make my heart ache a little, I feel like the magic of the weekend is fading and it is back to the realities, routines and rush of the week. Athens has some pretty great, local restaurants and we have been doing our best to try them all out. Brunch is my favorite, mainly because you can have coffee, but it always seems to be a little bit easier to choose lower carb options. Although, I do eye the person eating the GINORMOUS cinnamon roll and weirdly contemplate asking them if I could smell their breath. Once I get my personally calculated carb to insulin ratio (that sounds so Hoity Toity) I will eventually be able to splurge here and there, but until then, I will just admire from a distance.  I have a small favor to ask in this post, as I'm in need of some opinions. I use an insulin pen, it literally looks like a fancy ink pen. I attach a small needle to the end of it and it allows me to select a dose and inject. This is my di

Well it has been a week since Diagnosis Day. My goal was to get my fasting blood sugar under 110 and I succeeded this morning with an 86. Thank you Levemir! Funny thing is, since my fasting blood sugars have been running near 200, this cool 86 made me feel bad! Go figure. And this brings me to the topic of low blood sugar readings. They scare the living crap out of me. I am a control freak, and when I start to feel my fingers shake and my palms sweat, like they did on my first date with Osman, I start to get a little panicked. I haven't had any lows in awhile and I am beginning to realize how much the high blood sugars have been ironically nice. My biggest fear is that I will be with Jacob, pass out, and he will be left helpless and so will I. Which then brings me to the question I have been asking myself all week, "to get a medical alert bracelet or to not get a bracelet, that is the question...." Herein lies the rapid neuron fires of Meagan's brain: -Rememb

So as much as I would like to claim to be perfect, I am not. I'll be honest, I was a HUGE emotional eater. You can ask any of my friends, I love me some ice cream or some frosting from cake. I was one of those types that would eyeball the corner piece of a cake or the gloriously huge flower made out of frosting and it would straight up ruin my day if I didn't get that piece. "Oh, you don't like frosting you say?" Just scrape that goodness on my plate. As you can see, I had/have a problem. Well on Day 1, I had what I will call The Chocolate Buttercream Frosting Incident . Not my proudest moment but hey, like I said, I am no way perfect, and I had too much faith in the few units of insulin I had at dinner time. I was baking a cake and making chocolate frosting from scratch. Well one small taste, turned into "oh dang I got some frosting on my knuckle, can't let that go to waste." I kept justifying my little sneaks here and there. Well being a Type 1 D

 *Some slight profanity below, sorry mom*   "Oh sh*t" doesn't quite capture my emotions but it comes close. I have always wondered how I might die and it sort of feels like I have been handed a quasi death sentence. I am faced with this totally manageable but tough, chronic illness and I have to make a choice, will I   be a victim or a survivor? Of course I say "SURVIVOR," with the enthusiasm of a teenage girl at a pep rally, but this is before the doctor starts talking about the number of finger sticks I   will require, managing deathly lows and highs. I'm like dang, I'm a nurse. I'm supposed to take care of people with this, not be this. But am I this? Does this illness define me? A long pause ensues in my brain, my fingers stop typing-well kind of, I'm still typing but you catch my drift. I don't know the answer to this. I don't think there is a right answer and I don't know if I will ever be able to answer that question.

Hi There, I am having flashbacks to the days of writing cryptic Xanga posts about High School angst but in reality this is a little more serious slash I am writing in complete sentences and using real words. It is slightly unnerving to "put yourself out there" but I feel we all have a story to share. My story is one I did not think I would write, but then again, here I am sitting at the kitchen table, belly full of lunch and a small circular bruise on my stomach where I just gave myself some insulin. My new reality hasn't quite sunk in, Adult Onset Type 1 Diabetes. It is considered an autoimmune disease. Only about 10% of the diabetic world is considered Type 1. It isn't caused by the food I eat but rather my body just decided it didn't like my pancreas anymore. So slowly but surely my body is destroying all the glorious cells that once produced insulin. My body has done such a good job at destroying its own organ, that I now require synthetic insulin to survive