The last time I woke up in the back of an ambulance, I remember two poignant details: the incessant chatter of a two-way radio, and the fact that I couldn’t remember my mother’s name.

In fact, I couldn’t remember what day it was or how I got in the back of an emergency vehicle in the first place.

What I do remember is the paramedic asking me how I ended up hypoglycemic and strapped to a stretcher.

“Journalism probably f---ed me over again,” was the reply.

Ever since I was seven, I’ve been trying to cope with juvenile (type 1) diabetes.

It was especially hard when I was younger – kids would always sneer and ask me why I was eating a bran muffin at a birthday party when everyone else was eating cake.

There were even the jerks who had the nerve to (seriously) taunt me about it.

Which was fine; I just stopped going to parties in elementary school.

As I grew older, I discovered I could sacrifice my health and eat cake if I really wanted to. Sure, my blood sugar would spike to dangerous levels, but I could take fast-acting insulin to counteract the jump.

Doing that was always a crap-shoot, because I never knew how much sugar a cake had. It worked part of the way through high school, but I eventually gave up trying to be “normal” after I woke up with a doctor leaning over me, politely reminding me that I was an idiot.

When I came to Ryerson four years ago, I quickly learned university was probably the most trying time to deal with type 1 diabetes.

It seems all the traditions of post-secondary education are meant to stick it to diabetics. Whenever I’m asked to join drinking games, my answer’s always the same: no thanks.

One of the symptoms of hypoglycemia (low blood sugars) is feeling intoxicated. If I can’t feel when my blood sugar is slipping and then happen to pass out drunk, well, let’s just say I might not wake up the next morning. Or ever again.

Where it gets really difficult is that I chose journalism as my major. Deadlines and maintaining a healthy meal plan don’t go hand in hand. Journalists probably have some of the worst diets I’ve ever seen, which is saying a lot because university students have awful eating habits to begin with.

The last time I decided to break from my regimen and eat a grease-laden meal, washed down with an entire pitcher, was last October. The morning after wasn’t pretty.

I remember waking up at 5 a.m., disoriented, desperately heading for the kitchen to get my hands on something sweet to save my life.

I didn’t quite make it, but my parents heard the commotion I caused along the way. Luckily my dad caught me before I hit my head on the corner of the kitchen table, convulsing in a seizure. Thanks, dad. Just like that time I fell in the river when I was three and you dove in, you saved my life again.

I’ve now learned to take better care of myself, however. I exercise regularly, eat well and give myself insulin whenever I need it. I’m also not shy about taking out my needle and injecting myself, even in front of strangers, when it’s necessary. It was embarrassing when I was younger; I would run and hide in the washroom whenever I did it. But not anymore.

It’s still hard living day to day with diabetes and trying to be a successful journalist (which is hard to do to begin with). But growing up and taking it more seriously has allowed me to live as close to a normal life as I possibly can.

And that’s all I can really ask for.