BEATING DIABETES shame
TYPE 2
HIDING DIABETES
It’s early March in 1985 and I’m in a hospital bathroom. My father is about to undergo a heart bypass; I’m huddled beside a sink, fighting to squeeze out a drop of blood for my new glucose monitor. But the more I try to extract the blood, the less cooperative my finger becomes. I’m scared of the lancet, scared of getting a reading above 8.3mmol/L. I hate the sight of my own blood. And
