This is the first in a seven-part series chronicling a week of life at family diabetes camp.

I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes 21 years ago. In a blink of an eye I had a new life that included twice-daily insulin injections, multiple daily blood sugar checks, urine tests, and a diet that limited me to certain starches, fruits, proteins, milks and fats at each meal. I was told that candy was no longer allowed (this was long before carbohydrate counting), and that I could eat as much green vegetables as I liked.

Green vegetables, or "free foods" as they were known, such as broccoli, brussel sprouts, asparagus and lettuce, were limitless because they contained no sugar and would not affect my blood glucose levels.

Exercise, I was told, was now critically important and would help me with "my condition." Birthday parties would be different as I would have my own special meal. Birthday cake with icing was out. I would be ordering "diabetic meals" when I flew on airplanes. I would have to always have juice on me wherever I went, and I had to be sure to always be in tune with my body.

I was introduced to a concoction of horrible tasting sugar-free candies that would upset my digestive system. And, as if all of that was not bad enough, that coming August I was going to be sent to a summer camp. This summer camp was not a regular summer camp but was one for kids "like me".

I hated that summer camp. It was not so much the camp itself that I disliked, but everything about it: the routines, the activities, the food, and the counselors. I hated being apart from my family and my parents, but most of all I hated the idea of being at a camp filled with "diabetic kids".

I cried the week away. My tears did not just flow sporadically, but were constant and endless. They started when I woke, continued through meal times, throughout the afternoon, the early evening, and as I was put to bed. With determination, I repeatedly snuck out of the cabin in the middle of the night and begged any one who would listen to use the phone to call my parents to come and pick me up, with no such luck. When the week was over I was grateful to return home, back in the safe arms of my family and my routines, determined to have nothing to do with camp ever again.

The next year, I was forced to go back. My parents needed a break from diabetes, and this was their one week of the year that they could receive the respite from the rigors of the condition. It was their vacation time away from diabetes and a much-needed vacation from me. Thank god for vacations.

That second summer was the week that I feel in love with diabetes camp and everything about it: the routines (what could be better than flag raising every morning, a daily swim in the lake in the afternoon and nightly campfires?), the food (the camp mac and cheese was out of this world), and the counselors (whom I remained in contact for many years). I loved being apart from my family and my parents, and most of all I loved the idea of being at a camp filled with "diabetic kids".