Last week I put up an essay here that I wrote about Mike’s type 1 diagnosis.  I wrote the essay before I knew about my own diabetes.  I think quite a bit about the difference between my reaction to Mike’s diagnosis and the reaction I’ve had to my own.

When Mike was diagnosed I felt driven to find a cure for him.  I wasn’t prepared to resign him to a life of diabetes.  With my own diagnosis it’s been different.  I haven’t been focused on finding a cure for myself–surprisingly-I’ve hardly thought about a cure.  I’ve jumped into living a healthy diabetic life, and most of the time, I think I’ve come to terms with it. That is, afterall, the idea behind A Sweet Life.

But then there are moments, despite the sweetness, when the fear sinks in.  It happens to me often in the middle of the night, while I’m nursing my baby, Adam.  My body feels strong and useful while I feed Adam.  It feels like it is doing exactly what it was meant to do.  I try to stay focused on that, and on the wonder in my arms, but I find myself asking how I can be doing so much right, while so much is going wrong with me.  And  panic has a way of surfacing in the dark…