I remember bits and pieces of when I was first diagnosed.
Never the whole story all at once, just little random tidbits that don't make sense without context. Like milk with a straw, the nice nurse, and the teddy's fuzzy head.
And the cookies.
My first blood test was in the morning, before school. As said in my stories (here and here), I wasn't taken to the hospital until late at night. I rember the first fingerpoke - the one they took just to make sure I had diabetes like they thought. (It hurt. Darn monstrous hospital machines.) The result was 26 (468), much higher from the 15 (270) of the morning. I remember insisting that it was only that high because I'd had two Girl Guide cookies after school and that I was fine, nothing was wrong. That I could go home, that it was all a mistake.
(Of course, then they tried to explain to me that it was because of diabetes, not the cookies. I didn't believe it for a while.)
Sometimes I have to tell myself that it is because of diabetes, not because of something I did. "I'm low? Must have overbolused." "High? Must have misjudged." No. Sometimes it's just random and there's nothing I can do.
On the contrary, sometimes it is something I did. Maybe I did overbolus, forget to bolus, guess instead of read the carb count.
But no matter what made it happen, I just have to deal with it. And I'm okay with that.