Diabetes Worksheet Answers: Fill & Download for Free

(Read the other answers, too.)About the only jobs that I can think of that involve “just typing” are as an amanuensis for blind pupils and students. People who can’t see very well need someone, often working as part of a support unit, to re-type textbooks and worksheets and so on, retyping documents that can’t/won’t scan, then reprinting it in a large font, or even in Braille.Some legal secretaries (and, apparently, some medical secretaries) still take dictation, but it’s a specialist role, you need to be able to type accurately and know the terms, and especially spelling, properly. Words like sub judice, habeas corpus, hyaluronic acid and neurogenic diabetes insipidus often can’t be easily recognised in spoken text, especially if the doctor is moving around and the dictaphone is moving and people are interrupting. Even then, they spend a lot of time checking their work with the doctor/lawyer.It’s not much of an ambition, though, you seem genuinely thoughtful and only a little reactionary, are you sure you don’t want to do something more involving, challenging, complex? Even if you think that audio or shorthand typists “just typed”, that ignores a whole load of phone calls, correction meetings, reviews, background interactions, adaptations, re-wordings and so on; there was maybe half of their time that wasn’t “just typing”, and most of those jobs have turned into data entry posts over the past 40 years and then, in many instances, have disappeared as data doesn’t need entering, it transfers from one computer to another. Cheques were entered by hand, now they are just checked by eye, and most bank transfers are digital. The old typing pool has gone, Google “typing pool” and see how many of those photos are recent, or even in colour. Obviously, you’d just have to enjoy the eye problems, back problems, cramps, carpal tunnel syndrome etc., from poor posture and poor lighting.

The following is one of the sweetest things that was said to me when I was a teacher. It was his mother who actually said it to me. My student, unfortunately, could not speak at the time. Nevertheless, I was very moved by what my student’s mother said.I began teaching when I was 23. When I was in my fifties, I realized that I badly needed a change. I decided to transition from teaching high school English to teaching elementary. I had taught for over 30 years, and I felt I was burning out. I didn't want to hate my job. A teacher should love what he or she does. The children deserve it! If you grow to hate it, you leave.I still looked young and I felt young. I was strong then, no illnesses. I had plenty of energy. I had no diabetes, no high blood pressure or glaucoma like I have now; I was up for it. I was so excited.I found a position in a Southern U.S. state in a rural area, where migrant workers from Mexico worked. Almost half of my first grade were the children of these workers. I was delighted, as I had taken Spanish through high school and college and I had studied in Spain and Mexico.I had such good memories of my travels in both countries. I had loved the people. They were good to me, so accepting.I am not of Spanish heritage myself; my mother was Italian-American. She spoke fluent Italian. It was probably listening to her, and the rhythms of her speech that helped me with my Spanish accent and speech. It makes sense. Spanish and Italian are Romance languages, and I had studied Latin in high school. That helped.My father was Bohemian and German, also born in this country. From him I think I inherited my love and openness of countries, travel, and the people who live in those countries.Despite this, I would always worry before a trip, and my dad would say,“Annie, wherever you go, if you go with an open heart and mind, and treat people with kindness and respect, they will treat you like a princess.”It was kind of a silly thing to say--well, the way he said it--( my dad was old school), but as usual, his advice was correct! My travels through the countries I was fortunate enough to visit, are now such precious and lovely memories.Thankfully, at that time, I remembered more Spanish then than I do now. Still, I will not claim to have ever been an expert. Now that I am getting older, I sometimes seem to be forgetting more of everything every day. That is why it is good to write about it.I was so excited about my new job. I was now an Elementary teacher. I had studied hard, passed the test, and I had a huge room for my first grade. I had never taught that grade before--and I decided to make the most of that enormous space. I turned one corner of the room into a section where my young students could be exposed to different cultures all over the world. Of course, I already had so many souvenirs from Spain and Mexico. I also gathered other objects from France and England (where I had also traveled).I included a carved wooden African mask that I loved which had previously graced my apartment. A donated papasan chair sat in that corner, as well as cushions where students could sit and look at picture books showing beautiful pictures from different countries all over the world. I put up gorgeous laminated maps and colorful posters. Teachers love to decorate their rooms. This could be our “international Corner”.I had learned that many of my new students and their families struggled with extreme poverty. Despite this, I wanted my little students to understand that so much in life was still before them, that the big beautiful world was waiting for them, and they were an important and vital part of that.I was a little disappointed that some of the teachers on my team did not feel quite the way I did. I had hoped everyone would feel as excited as I was. But of course they didn't. They made it clear to me that they didn't really want to teach the children of the migrant workers. Learning that I spoke Spanish, one of them angrily said that she didn't know Spanish, never planned to learn one word, ever.I was new there, and I realized that I did not want to make enemies with anyone on my team. I was so new to elementary teaching in general; I would need their expertise. They were seasoned in teaching elementary school.As far as my own love for languages, the countries, and the people who lived in those countries and spoke the languages, I hoped that, I too, could lead by example in a positive way. A good example is the best way for teaching something. I did not believe that this teacher would not soften when her class got there (She did! People talk tough. I saw her with her Hispanic students. She loved them. I think she just could not help herself).No matter what, I would not ever change my own views.I understood that it was so different for me. I felt like I was starting something new and fresh. It was all so exciting and challenging. I had a skill, no matter how small, that I was now thrilled to use. I felt that my knowledge of Spanish could only help me. After all, when is knowledge ever a bad thing?But it was more than that. I would often find that I held a very different view of life and my fellow humans. This sort of thinking made me often feel at odds with others.I am no saint. I had fortunately been blessed with parents and teachers who painstakingly taught me that all people were worthy of respect. I didn't arrive to this way of thinking on my own. I had help along the way, a lot of it. Here, I must also give a huge thank you to my own teachers, the Sisters of St. Joseph. They were the first in our area to implement integration in my high school. They taught us Black poetry, literature, and history. They were Freedom Riders in the Deep South in the sixties.They all encouraged me to think beyond my own race. I am forever grateful to my thoughtful, kind and caring parents (who are now deceased) and my high school nuns, all of whom helped raise me. Heaven only knows what I would have become!I was also soon to learn that there was some pushback in the area of my new job, due to the influx of migrant workers who had come to work in the location. It was an uneasy truce. Even the local residents who benefitted from their presence, knew that the migrant workers were far more skilled at the job that they did, than the locals themselves. They were not taking their jobs away. Yet, sadly, many resented them. People tend to fear what is new to them or what they don't understand. I understand that.I have also come to understand that the study of another language is very disorienting for some people. They don't like it at all. When other people speak it, and they can't understand it, they sometimes become suspicious or angry. My mother and her family often spoke Italian around me. I heard it so much, I guess I developed a type of immunity, to that kind of thinking.The other teachers knew that I planned to honor my Spanish speaking students by speaking a little Spanish (often as little as translating one or two words. Example: school--escuela, roja--red) to my students. Of course, I knew that my Mexican born students were there to learn English! I would always translate, or the Spanish speaking students would. They felt pride in their home language, and I wanted them to.The kids loved it! I didn't do it a lot, and I was criticized a lot. But I didn't think that I should behave as if half my class were not learning another language. Soon, I knew that my little Spanish speakers would be bilingual. Some already were.I had also found a few children's books where the story would be told in English and Spanish. Again, I did not do this often, but the children loved it. I think it helped the general knowledge of the entire class.I was so lucky with my first grade that year. They were a bright, sweet class, eager to learn. My small students always stepped in to help one another. As I guessed, their progress in English was fast.They were a delight to teach.I never enjoyed a job so much. By the way, my commute was a 148 mile round trip every day. It certainly beat my little car up each and every day, but I was also energized each day. My destination did that for me.One of my students was a sweet, (tall for a seven year old) young student who was from Mexico. He was unable to speak English when he came to the class, but by early December he was doing very well. He was quite bright. He became a leader, the first to help any student who needed it. He had the most beautiful wide smile! It was like the sun on a cloudy day. It brightened everything. We all liked him.Unfortunately, tragedy struck. His family had thrown a party and there was a bonfire. He had seen older boys jumping over it. When he tried, he did not make it. Fortunately, everyone acted very fast. His rescuers got him out very quickly. Of course there was still damage. He must have thrown his hands out to protect himself. They were badly burned. There were also some burns to his feet and legs. He was sent to the university hospital which had a burn unit for children.Our class was devastated. His mother knew some English and kept in touch with me. The class spoke of him every day. We wrote letters and made cards. Due to the far away location of the hospital and possibility of infection, we could not visit. Eventually, by phone, we could talk to him, but he could not answer us.His mother explained that, although the doctors said there was no physical reason for him not to talk, he no longer did. What she also missed, she told me was,“My boy's beautiful smile. He no longer smiles, Maestra.”That was what many parents called me: Maestra--teacher. I had asked them to just use my name, but they insisted on calling me “Maestra”. I did not feel worthy. There is honor attached to that word.It made me sad to learn that my student with the most beautiful smile no longer talked or smiled. I kept up with his family, sent them cards from the students, gifts, and any schoolwork that was asked for.Then one day in the Spring, I received a wonderful call. His mother had brought her son to school. I was warned that he was on a cane. His hands did not look good, not to be surprised. He still didn't speak. They asked that only I come to the room near the lobby to speak to them.The principal sent a substitute teacher to my room, while I gathered any cards that had been made, as well as any worksheets my student might need.They were waiting for me. I was so happy to see him. He did not smile, his head was bent down a little, but I sat between him and his pretty mother, and chattered enough for both of them. I gave him the cards the students made him. I told him everything that was happening in the class.When he reached for the cards, I saw that his hands had some sort of wrapping on them. I hoped that the good doctors would be able to effectively improve his hands. I noticed that he had a cane beside him.I told my student how much the other students missed him; they asked about him every day. That is when he raised his head and smiled at me. Oh, I thought. His mother was wrong, or else she didn't mention this to me. I was thrilled. I thought: he does still have that beautiful wide sunny smile!Finally, it was time to leave. I gently patted my student’s cheek as I was unsure where to touch him. I did not want to hurt him. I told the mom good by.As I was walking away, I noticed he still wore that wonderful smile that I so remembered. Suddenly, As I headed for the hallway, I became aware that his mother was running after me. She hugged me.“Maestra! That is the first time time he has smiled since the accident! Thank you! Thank you!”Really, he smiled when I mentioned the children asking about him. But no doubt, it was sweet to hear that.I will tell you that he was back in the classroom with us before the end of the school year. And yes, he was talking AND smiling.This is dedicated to all the wonderful teachers who bring smiles to their students' faces every day. Some of them will be putting their lives at risk during this pandemic. Stay safe.

I felt the need to update this answer a little.I have long since gotten out of public school in America, and in retrospect can offer my story and some advice perhaps (forgive me if I meander a bit).Firstly I am an INFP, and for whatever reason (in retrospect) throughout elementary and middle school I felt intensely that I didn’t fit in. I don’t know why, I just know that I didn’t. That I was relentlessly bullied by other students to the point of abuse up until high school did not help the situations I found myself in. Namely, I was at best an inconsistent C- B student despite my best efforts.I was constantly frustrated with the curriculum and my grades. In third grade while the class was rushing through lessons, I remember thinking a very INFP thought, “Can we just slow the f*** down and think about things.” I hated that class subjects were only 45 minutes long, that we were given so much homework that didn’t seem relevant to me or ever explore things on a deeper level. Maybe because of this I was more or less labeled as a student with a learning disability. To date I never had a learning disability. I won’t go into the mess with IEP’s and the IQ tests that followed, save to say I was smart enough (to get a Masters Degree later on), but the classes I found myself in were not teaching me in the right way.How do I know this for certain? I’ve contemplated it through out my life. A lot of times during my summers in middle school, I spent a lot of time writing and venting, curling up into the ball of writing about fantasy worlds and sci-fi, while thinking about a lot of things regarding life in general. Thankfully I was at least told by a few teachers I was a good writer, despite one English teacher telling my mother and I to our face at conference time that I was a “Space case” in class. Sorry Ms. Culligan but if you bothered to engage us with writing in 7th grade English class rather than diagramming sentences and reading really boring books and spelling tests (which I aced), maybe I wouldn’t have sat down and read through most of your classes. Add to this Mrs. Bell in 8th grade who told me I would NEVER get into college with my grades, a quote I will never forget but have completely proven wrong since… and you can get the picture. I was going no where in my the public school I attended. By my first year in an overcrowded high school I knew I needed to change things, so I applied and auditioned for a high school for the arts in the specialty of literature/writing. After a full year of working on my audition piece with a mentor. I got into the arts school.This school was quite different from normal high school in that the classes were much longer, the assignments weren’t frivolous worksheet homework day after day. Instead we had semester long projects and essays to write. Some people hate essay tests, but I loved them. I loved working on semester long projects and having the ability to engage in my art. Suddenly, away from the bullying, standardized testing, and criticism, I no longer had a learning disability, and discovered that I was just a normal artsy kid. I was capable of having a few very good friends (friends I still have as an adult!) I am still an artsy adult now and a writer. I’ve come to terms with a lot of things in my childhood. Namely there really wasn’t anything wrong with me… (with the exception that for most of my early years until the summer of my senior year in high school I was a Type-1 insulin dependent Diabetic who was undiagnosed for a long time which kind of explained some of my sloppy grades and moodiness over the years, regardless…)I graduated from high school, and went on to college. College is completely different from high school and much like the high school I went to. Longer lectures, interesting reading, some homework, but much more in depth than high school or middle school. True I went to community college before going to a 4 year school, but the quality of education at the community college was amazing (and much cheaper than a 4 year school). There is absolutely no shame in going for a 2 year, or tech school degree. Yes everyone wants to go to a 4 year school after high school but if your ACT is average, proving yourself at a 2 year school can get rid of a lot of requirements and gets a lot of grunt work classes done… also, there’s nothing wrong with going to a state university rather than a private university either. (There’s a lot of pressure on kids about this, don’t let it overwhelm you).It seems a truth that things do get better.When I went to the arts school and later college ( I went to college in the late 90’s to 05′). I had a rule for myself in school, “You get out what you put in.” What this meant to me was that if I put in my best effort, tried as hard as I could, even if I stumbled, I would keep trying to learn. I thought, felt and knew, that if I put in the effort I would get the reward of a good grade but more so a deeper understanding of a subject. That deeper understanding of a subject, to understand the greater scheme of things is something I think many INFP’s in their hearts long for. We are big picture thinkers… and I know when I can think of something as a whole, like movements or theories throughout history or science and their relevance, it’s then that I truly understand a subject. When that happens that feeling is like a warm hug, I suddenly understand an external thing, and have internally processed it. I know where I stand in relation to the information, and it helps me to figure out who I am inside. Those moments are rare, but they are worth the hard work. Those moments helped me endure through several college degrees and through life in general… and I finally came to terms with the reality that sometimes I have to take a chance and learn in my own way, because sometimes teachers are wrong (they are human), and institutions aren’t always right. Life itself is a sort of precarious middle ground, not everyone learns the same way, just as not everyone finds happiness in the same way.All this said, I can wholly sympathize with a phobia of school.It is hard to become comfortable with who you are when you’re in a system that doesn’t nurture or support you. Try as you might on your classes day after day, study as much as you like, filling out worksheets, and all you get in response is a C grade paper coming across your desk, these can be crushing. Repeat the cycle every day, watching other peers get onto the honor roll while you can’t pass a remedial math class or even get through an English class properly because you’re bored by the material, and it’s not a fun scene. In short, the institution doesn’t fit your learning style. The best advice I can say is the advice that was given to me by my sisters and a few wise teachers, you just have to endure it… however, remember YOU can take control of your education. I don’t know your specific situation, but try to adapt the material to your learning style. If you want to go to an alternative school don’t be afraid to ask and look into it. In class, don’t be afraid to ask questions, make the effort to understand the subject (even if you hate it there has to be something you may find interesting about it), and just try to do your best. Know though, that from the responses here, many of us have had difficulty in the traditional public school setting. You are most certainly not alone in your difficulty. If you need to it may be helpful to seek out a counselor to help with the phobia. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one with a fear of being judged! I hate conflict, standardized tests and judging. I have never done well on standardized tests, with a few exceptions. Don’t get discouraged. A lot of those tests are honestly meaningless. Though I do remember 2 times having a near nervous breakdown after receiving my less than stellar results. Those test scores don’t define who you are. You define who you are, and it’s a life long process. Hang in there, things can get better. You certainly aren’t alone. Do your best.