Jump through the hoop....
I realized something while walking my dogs today: I hold the leash like I hold reins - between my pinkie and ring finger. It was interesting, because it's just so natural for me I don't even think about it.
I haven't written in a while. I don't think people read this anymore, but that's okay. It helps me to write things down anyway.
Things are going well. My huge presentation, the Spanish AP test, and dance placements are all over with! Though I'm not sure I did very well on any of them, I'm glad they're over with. I'm looking forward to summer so much it's unbearable. We'll have one month left this Friday. I have so many things to look forward to this summer: horse camp, Gallo, Frosty, Gallo, Mrs. Luscher's dance class (with Annie!), Gallo, maybe Thunder, Gallo, the beach...I can't wait. It's all going to be so great! I'm going to be very tan (yay!), since the only thing that's indoors is the dance class....
Other issues:
When I went out to eat with my parents the other day, my father had to go to the restroom to take his insulin shot. (He's a type 1 diabetic for those of you that don't know.) Usually he takes his shot before we leave or in the car before we go inside, unless we know the wait for a table will be long. This was one of those times. As a child I remember asking my mom why he had to go to the bathroom to take his shot. He had taken shots all my life, and it wasn't exactly an irregular occurrence as far as I was concerned. I understood perfectly well why he did it: he needed the insulin to keep his blood sugar down.
"It's not something you can just do in public," she had answered, though I was still confused.
That night, looking back on it, I understood. Some people don't like needles. Others would have questioned what he was doing. Still, isn't it interesting that he has to hide away from everyone while he's giving himself his insulin injection? Other diabetics may have understood, but other people would have stared at him questioningly. He's doing what he has to to stay healthy and not fall into a coma, or worse. It was then that it hit me that my father was a diabetic. Sure, I knew he had diabetes, but my father is a diabetic. He isn't normal.
My father, on his sixteenth birthday, was sent to the hospital. He was diagnosed with diabetes. My father, at the same young age, had to learn to give himself insulin injections. My father now checks his blood sugar at least four times a day. My father has to watch what he eats and drinks. My father, years later, still gives himself those insulin injections every single day. My father's life was shortened by about 15 years. My father will never know what it's like to be normal again.
But my father is happy.
I haven't written in a while. I don't think people read this anymore, but that's okay. It helps me to write things down anyway.
Things are going well. My huge presentation, the Spanish AP test, and dance placements are all over with! Though I'm not sure I did very well on any of them, I'm glad they're over with. I'm looking forward to summer so much it's unbearable. We'll have one month left this Friday. I have so many things to look forward to this summer: horse camp, Gallo, Frosty, Gallo, Mrs. Luscher's dance class (with Annie!), Gallo, maybe Thunder, Gallo, the beach...I can't wait. It's all going to be so great! I'm going to be very tan (yay!), since the only thing that's indoors is the dance class....
Other issues:
When I went out to eat with my parents the other day, my father had to go to the restroom to take his insulin shot. (He's a type 1 diabetic for those of you that don't know.) Usually he takes his shot before we leave or in the car before we go inside, unless we know the wait for a table will be long. This was one of those times. As a child I remember asking my mom why he had to go to the bathroom to take his shot. He had taken shots all my life, and it wasn't exactly an irregular occurrence as far as I was concerned. I understood perfectly well why he did it: he needed the insulin to keep his blood sugar down.
"It's not something you can just do in public," she had answered, though I was still confused.
That night, looking back on it, I understood. Some people don't like needles. Others would have questioned what he was doing. Still, isn't it interesting that he has to hide away from everyone while he's giving himself his insulin injection? Other diabetics may have understood, but other people would have stared at him questioningly. He's doing what he has to to stay healthy and not fall into a coma, or worse. It was then that it hit me that my father was a diabetic. Sure, I knew he had diabetes, but my father is a diabetic. He isn't normal.
My father, on his sixteenth birthday, was sent to the hospital. He was diagnosed with diabetes. My father, at the same young age, had to learn to give himself insulin injections. My father now checks his blood sugar at least four times a day. My father has to watch what he eats and drinks. My father, years later, still gives himself those insulin injections every single day. My father's life was shortened by about 15 years. My father will never know what it's like to be normal again.
But my father is happy.