My life has been filled with adventure, tragedy, thrills, and a whole lotta boring.

It was difficult to choose

three items to bring that represent me. For one thing, I am not a fan of possessions. (*jedi wave* You do
not see the suitcase I roll around campus.) I’ve had to learn the painful lesson that things do not make
you who you are… repeatedly.

With that caveat, I have managed to cobble together something that resembles a snapshot of me. (At
least, one I’m willing to share with a group of lovely strangers. *eyebrows/ look*)

I begin chronologically… with history. (*hopeful pause for laughter*) I hated history in school. I don’t
think you understand. I HAAAATED history. It was a random collection of facts force-fed by dusty, boring
guys who would be better utilized for insomnia patients. Joe Pera could take notes.

Another school year begins, and I have World Civ. Uggghhhh. *facepalm* The teacher is clearly excited
about his subject this year, and speaks with passion and excitement. Holy cow, I’m paying attention in
history class! We get this short blurb about the Sumerians and how they had a whole civilization with
<<RAPID LIST>> intricate culture and the written word and math and taxes and lawyers and multi-storied
buildings! Then he promptly launched into the portion about the Phoenicians. I listened, distracted,
hoping to get back to the Sumerians. Surely, we know more than what we were just told?

After the lecture, my teacher asked for questions. My arm shot into the air. “Surely we know something
more about the Sumerians? Lawyers? Taxes? Isn’t there any idea about where they came from?”

(Low. Measured.) My answer came swiftly and dismissively. “No.” then he moved on.

I was in 8th grade. That question never left me. In fact, that question, along with a few other
“unanswerables” haunted me to adulthood.

Just after I graduated high school, I happened upon a book written by an archaeologist who specialized
in ancient languages of the region of the Sumerians. I picked up one of his books and began to read. It
was a long, difficult slog. I believe the more socially acceptable term is “scholarly.” Oof! If I thought
those other history guys were tough to read, this was the mama of ‘em all!

But I got a few answers… and a LOT more questions… so I read more books. I branched out to many
other scholars and authors. They often contradicted each other, and sometimes even contradicted
themselves – sometimes within the same book! It was maddening, but I was also gaining a better
understanding of political and social struggles, as well as natural disasters and climate struggles.

26 years later, and I consider myself an armchair history scholar. My expertise stops well before we get
to Ancient Greece, but it’s cute to see what they thought of previous civilizations. *eye roll*

I brought The Gnostic Bible as a representation of all those history books I’ve consumed. They are not all
this big, but this one contains valuable annotations that explain historical concepts, which has been
invaluable. The works in this book also contradict one another, but, hey, without the dispute, you’d
already know where the Sumerians came from! Yay, history. It’s only boring until you’re caught in the
saga.
So, you’ve heard the boring part, now how about a thrilling one? (Well, I guess thrilling is subjective.) It
was thrilling to me!

I love to sing. It is like breathing to me – if I could not do it, I know I would die. It sounds dramatic, but
it’s that dramatic. The thing about it is, I never sang in front of people. I had a tough childhood, and I
didn’t receive any positive feedback for my singing, only negative, so I thought I was bad at it. Every
situation I sang in public – for YEARS – was because I friend had forced me into an embarrassing
situation, where if I didn’t sing I’d be embarrassed, but if I did sing, I would be embarrassed.

I always had so many people telling me how good I’d sung afterward, but I just couldn’t hear it. I had
foundational beliefs that told me I wasn’t a singer. These people were just being kind. Fastforward five
years. My exgirlfriend, Maria, and I had gone to see a band one Saturday night. When the band took
their first break, she told me she’d be right back, and ran over to the lead singer.

She’d driven us, or I’d have left then.

*close eyes, deep breath, focus, resume*

I was usually forced into karaoke situations. This was a band… people who did this for a living. They had
a gig to play. Ohmygod, how RUDE to try to shoehorn me in. I was dying.

The singer looked at me while Maria talked to him. I wondered if I had time to have a shot of tequila
before this train wreck went down. I did not. The singer made his way to me directly.

“Do you know Me and Bobby McGee?”

“Yes.”

“From the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“Good, you’re not drunk. You’re on right after the break, you have less than five minutes, don’t make us
wait.”

I don’t remember a lot after that. It went amazing. That bar was absolutely raucous after the song. It
was overwhelming. I remember we had some three-part harmonies going. The band was tight. It felt like
we’d been singing together for years.

Afterward, a couple of the guys from the band came over to talk to me. We exchanged numbers and
they invited me to join them for their next show…. And that’s how it all started.

This mic was a gift from a friend online. We’d been singing karaoke together online for a few years, but
he was a professional musician. He was a music director for his megachurch in Peoria, so I’d often pick
his musician brain with questions and ideas. When he heard that I’d be getting on stage, he wanted to
support me, so he gave me his first mic. This was the microphone he used when he was gigging in
college bands. It has been with me throughout my short career, and continues to serve me at home with
the small PC mixer I have. (The pop filter is newish, though. I’ve been through several of them.
*chuckle*)
The last thing I brought is a more recent addition to my life. This has only been a staple for a few years,
but it’s already earned a spot on the “items that identify me” list. Before I show, I’m going to tell,
though. It’ll be a bit of a PSA, but helpful in my narrative.

The term “diabetes” is tossed around fairly casually nowadays. In fact, there are some people that don’t’
know there are many kinds of diabetes – not just Type 1 and 2. There are forms of diabetes that
scientists are still struggling to understand and define. I am lucky enough to fall into one of those grey
areas.

Let me quickly define the two main types of diabetes for the sake of clarity.

Type 1 is an autoimmune disease. The combination of insulin and beta cells – a normal process – is,
instead seen as an intruder by the immune system. Eventually, the source of the “intruders” is traced
back, and the pancreas makes its last stand. In the meantime, the insulin that would normally escort
glucose to the cell to be used as energy is MIA, and the glucose from carbohydrates floats around the
body looking for a home. Usually, the T1D will become very ill over a short span of time, sometimes
falling into a coma. Glucose thickens the blood very quickly. It’s scary. Death is eminent without
immediate medical attention, even before the coma.

In Type 2 Diabetes, insulin is produced normally, but the cells that should receive carbohydrates are
gummed up with lipids. Even healthy fats – when not eaten in moderation with plenty of whole grains –
can clog your cells. When the glucose has no where to go, it floats around in the veins until it finds a
home or an exit. Glucose will hide in organs, muscle tissue, and hang out in the blood stream. Glucose is
a crystalline structure. It’s like filling your body with tiny, sharp rocks. It does damage. It’s life-
threatening over time, but weight gain and nagging doctors will happen long before death.

Then there’s me. I looked like a typical Type 2 case to my doctors… except that I eat very healthily. My
meals were small and well-balanced. I didn’t even have a particular bad eating habit, other than
occasionally skipping a meal when I was involved in a project.

Regardless, I was labelled “prediabetic.” I really stressed over how I could possibly be healthier. I began
to walk 2km per day. I ate 2 small meals – fresh fruits, whole grains. Nothing processed. I just did NOT
understand how this could be happening, and I couldn’t’ reverse it.

When my son was diagnosed with Type 1, it was an emergency situation. He had the classic Type 1
symptoms. He was the right age. His test results showed the antibodies which indicated Type 1.

Trial Net is an international organization which seeks to identify Type 1 Diabetics as early as possible.
They have a program wherein families of newly diagnosed Type 1s can all be tested for the antibodies.
They really encourage it when there are siblings, so, to get my 4 year old daughter to sit for bloodwork, I
also had the test done.

They called 6 weeks later. My daughter was clear. “Please bring her back in annually and we will to
continue to monitor her.”

“What about my results?”

“I only have hers here, I’m sorry.”

Three days later, I got a call, not from a receptionist with a call list, but from the head nurse of the local
Trial Net office. I had tested positive, and they were SURE there was a mistake. Could I come back and
let them try again.

The second test showed increased levels and even more antibodies present. After I received the results,
I had to ask, “Does that mean I have Type 1?”

There was silence. Then some verbal stumbling. And eventual, “Yes.”

“What do I do? Where do I go?”

The answer was my doctor. But I didn’t have a doctor. I didn’t have insurance. I lived for 7 more years
with the keep knowledge that I was a walking time bomb.

It was a huge relief to move to a state where I could have health insurance. Because I’d been caring for
my son for so many years, I was very good at taking care of my own diabetes. So good, in fact, that I
have a non-diabetic A1C (which is the measure of glucose in the blood over a long period of time).

Keeping such good control over my blood glucose means I can get TOO low sometimes. (We don’t make
insulin, but we also don’t make glucagon, which is the hormone that releases glucose stored in the
body.) This brings me to my last item. I present to you, a month’s supply of Smarties!

I always have these with me. They’re in every pocket, purse, box, container, jar, and bag around me. I
have Smarties stashed in every pocket of my school bag. I eat them on the go like a marathon runner,
even! I wake up in the middle of the night and eat them. I eat them before I walk across campus. I eat
them with a ham; I eat them with a clam. I eat them outside; I eat them in my ride. I eat them on them
bus; I eat them I eat them with no fuss.

They’re perfect because they don’t melt, they dissolve quickly, and they taste awesome altogether! (The
purple and blue ones are lame, surprisingly. I prefer the yellow and orange ones – that’s where they
hide the citric acid! *conspiratorial wink*)

So, while I may be ancient, I have had an exciting past, and I am pretty sweet.

((For being SUCH good sports about the grueling biology lesson, I’ve brought Smarties for everyone!))