The first time I flew after being diagnosed, we were headed from Seattle to Iceland. We got a letter from my doctor to say that everything in my medical bag was OK for me to have, but the TSA people wouldn’t have it. They didn’t even want to see the note. They took my (extremely tightly and precariously packed) bag and literally dumped it out on the counter. They wanted to sift through it, but they weren’t even being careful. Stuff was falling on the floor. It’s a miracle that bottle of humalog didn’t break. When my mom started questioning them and demanding they treat my stuff with more care, we both got searched and patted down. Real fun for 11 year old me to feel like a criminal for having a disease. It’s been 4.5 years, and I haven’t flown in a plane since that trip.
(via mydiabetessecret)
This sort of thing is what I’ve been afraid of happening every time I’ve gone through air port security. Like, I show them allllll the meds and explain the diabetes (and get my pump swabbed for…whatever they swab for)…but it seriously cranks my anxiety up way past eleven. Just thinking about air port security sends my heart rate up.
The anxiety and great desire to repack my 85% medication carry-on resulted in me almost leaving my laptop behind on my first ever flight (yay for having a luggage tag on its case) and forgetting to put my glucose tabs in my pocket on the first leg of my second big trip, which resulted in my first ever cold sweat low (I got orange juice from flight attendant, but had to get more and crackers because the first juice only got it up into the 60s–I didn’t bother to check once the cold sweat hit, I just hit the ‘call attendant’ button) because, lol, running from one end of an airport to another is so far out of the range of my normal activity that I forgot I should count it as exercise and not bolus likely I normally would when I ate pizza.
Kirkwall Was Totally Built On a Hellmouth 