I remember a negative message I received when I was first diagnosed with type 1 diabetes 51 years ago. I had been in the local hospital for three days, where my parents visited me every day, and then I went away to the Joslin Clinic in Boston, where I saw my mother only very briefly every morning during the week of diabetes instruction classes we both participated in. After not spending much time with her for several days, I was finally allowed to spend some time with her in the hospital hotel she was staying in, and I was shocked to find her treating me like a stranger. I realized then that, because I had become some freakishly diseased creature rather than the perfect son she had hoped for, I had become a burden rather than a joy, and there would from now on be an unavoidable distance between us. Until she died, we never overcame this gulf that diabetes had opened.