What Happens Tomorrow?

In honor of the low I rang in at after lunch today (56), I thought I'd list all the symptoms of hypoglycemia I've had over the years:

• Mouth & tongue going numb
• Mental confusion
• Irrational thinking (I need juice, not glucose tabs...!)
• Blind spots in both eyes (during Officially Scary lows)
• Sudden onset of depression/sad thoughts
• Shortness of breath
• Chest pain
• Shaking hands
• Excessive chattiness (this one drives my DH nuts sometimes)

And, most recently, tingling in my limbs/extremities. Right now my left arm apparently enjoys favored nation status for this particular phenomenon...no idea why, it just starts when I'm going below 70 mg/dl. It's like my elbow is a tuning fork when I'm hovering in the 50s. Weird.


Like all things associated with the D, I'm sure this too shall pass. At least I can still tell when I'm low, for the most part. How about you all out there in OC-land?

Road Trip

This past weekend my husband and I attended a family reunion in Kentucky. We decided to drive from Chicago due to the sky-high airfares, which meant 6+ hours on the highway each way. Our annual trip always includes a visit to Natural Bridge State Park, which soothes the senses after a long day of traveling. Take a peek here: http://parks.ky.gov/findparks/resortparks/nb/gallery/.

Managing diabetes on the road can be tricky, even under the best of circumstances (such as a non-PWD to take turns driving, which my DH did quite often). For me it helps to keep a nonstop supply of fluids going in, which means more frequent bathroom breaks. I also need to eat on a more regular schedule than usual. Apart from other standard precautions (juice on hand, testing before driving and also during the trip), these two things go a long way toward staving off unwelcome highs and lows.

A couple of times, however, the D reared its ugly head at inopportune moments. I dropped to 57 while navigating through crazy Indianapolis traffic, and during a tense morning I went from 124 to 370 in the space of an hour after misjudging my carbs at breakfast. I wasn't myself at either time, and I'm not proud of it (note to self, don't discuss sensitive issues with DH while high or low). It just seems that the normal pains of travel take a little more out of me than the average bear. Sometimes it's hard to get that across to the non-PWD population...

For now it's back to work and the routine. Ugh :( Hope everyone out in the OC had a good holiday!

Say Hello to My (New) Little Friend

Due to a Vista upgrade on my home computer, I found myself needing a boost in the meter department as well. My old piece o'crap cheapie model was reliable but slow, and data was difficult to upload. Using Vista also meant losing the ability to log in to the Web-based data management software for the thing, which of course only works on XP/Internet Explorer 6. So thanks to an online freebie offer, I now use the OneTouch Ultra II. So far I'm liking it -- amazing how going from a 10 to 5 second wait for results makes life that much easier :-) And the data uploading capability, so far, is a gem. (Yay! If I had to manually enter all my results I'd go mad.)

I'm no fan of the black zippy case that came with it, however. I always carry my insulin bottles and syringes with my meter, and there was nowhere to put them. So I'm working on a solution...my choice right now is a $5 bag I got at Walgreens:

I've looked at some of the nicer meter cases online, but nothing fits my tastes (or budget) right now. I'm also trying desperately to avoid carrying a yet-larger purse to hold all my stuff. Ah, the joys of being a girl with diabetes :-) But, more importantly, we'll see if the OneTouch helps keep me in the 5% club come July, when I have my next A1C done.

Now, about those Mac commercials...really, Apple, aren't you over this by now...?!?

Eyeballs: Check

Continuing in the grand tradition set forth by fellow OC'ers Scott, Donna, Landileigh and Cara, I present my eyeballs for your consideration (eek!). My retinas, I am happy to report, are fine. There's no evidence of changes, the pesky microaneurysm in my left eye is gone, and my glaucoma pressure readings were 16 and 14. Woo hoo!

The Baby Dance

Warning: serious post ahead!

Being an anonymous blogger has its benefits. But I still struggle with revealing my thoughts on some topics, and this recent news is one of them. I've always had a very conflicted, highly personal opinion about having children; Nicole has broached this subject before, and some others have too. Here's my say.

I've never been told I couldn't have kids, but no one ever pretended it was an easy thing for a PWD to do. My family never really talked about it when I was first diagnosed; I think the then-imperfect tools for diabetes care posed enough of a daily struggle for them, and having 'the talk' with your teenager is tough without diabetes (!). In my 20s, I had the typical challenges of any young person nowadays trying to build a stable adult life for myself. Diabetes has always been happy to take advantage of any spare energy--or finances--I may have had along the way, but it didn't really stop me. Had I made it more of a priority to settle down back then, a baby or two (and a father!) might well have come along. I don't know if the ticking clock would have been louder had I not had diabetes; I just know that, for me, it wasn't in the cards at the time.


Since I've been married, people have asked me when I'm going to start a family. And this is when it gets difficult for me to write about the subject (even among you, my wonderful OC friends). I like to keep private things private, as they say, especially with such an intensely personal topic. But where diabetes is concerned, I'd have to say my outlook on having a baby is like my attitude toward a cure: a nice thought, and perhaps a possibility, but not something I actively seek out or wish for every day. God has already been kind to me, sparing my eyes and hands, my feet and life, especially after some rebellious younger years when I probably did fewer tests in a month than I do in a three-hour period nowadays.


I also don't know how fair it would be to a child to have me for a mother, someone who might become ill and be a burden to them, a weight on the whole family, or worse, leave them too young. And then there's the frenetic worrying, which occupies me too much of the time already. I would never forgive myself if a child of mine had to deal with diabetes too. All of the nightmarish possibilities down that path quickly drain my enthusiasm whenever I hold my little niece's hand, or smell her baby-soft hair. In my heart I think: I just can't. Every extra sip of water, every moment of fatigue, every ounce of lost weight would send me into a tailspin. I don't know how some mothers do it--in my own family, some have gone through pregnancies with gestational diabetes without so much as a follow-up for mom or baby, or a worry about a future monster lurking for both of them.


But I haven't closed the door, so to speak. I seek out God when this subject comes up, in public or private, and I pray for guidance. Sometimes even a control freak PWD like me realizes every decision may not be mine alone. I also don't want to cast a downer on the parents of kids with type 1 out there, especially those of little girls. Things have changed so quickly in the world of D care, it's no surprise children nowadays can achieve the kinds of A1Cs some grown-ups would love to have {:-) Everyone's journey is unique. And the same goes for my fellow OC'ers, who may have different views. Your diabetes may vary, of course. I just wish sometimes that I were braver about making decisions with mine, especially the big L-I-F-E ones. I wish I had the imagination to see a world with children as a real possibility instead of an abstract thought.

The Mind Reader

I'm not liking my numbers these days. It's nothing dramatic, but I'm spiking in the 200s after meals more often than I would like. Of course, all this started happening just after I caught myself thinking, "Wow, my averages look really good, I've really got my blood sugars under control."

It could be stress, or hormones, or the particular version of ick going around in my neck of the woods. But why is it that I suspect diabetes is able to read my thoughts and know when to throw me for a loop? How does it know when to pull a fast one on me? What is it about this disease that makes it such a head game?

Ugh...oh well, it's Monday. Here's to better days--and numbers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SJzeuqYqO0

Rolling Your Own

Did your parents do it?


When was the first time you did it?


OK, class, minds out of the gutter (!) Insulin injections are a tricky topic for me. I didn't start off doing my own shots. Like everyone else I learned how to do them in the hospital--several unsuspecting oranges later, I successfully injected myself with saline a few times. I was nervous when the first "real" needle plunged into my body, perhaps more than anyone realized. But I played the role of compliant patient perfectly. At twelve, my doctor considered me mature enough to handle my diabetes on my own.


When I finally went home, though, all that changed. I didn't protest when my mom took over the first few days--"just to make sure you're all right", she said. She had worked in a hospital for nine years and was comfortable with needles. Those days stretched into weeks, then months. We silently fell into an arrangement: Mom would draw up my dose, carefully rolling the Lente bottle, mixing it and the Regular into a cloudy column inside the syringe. I would "try" to do the shot myself, and when I finally gave up after two or three half-hearted pricks, Mom would take over. We then dutifully marked off the site on my rotation sheet and forgot about the charade until the time for my next injection came around. This continued for about three years.

One summer day, I decided I'd do it on my own. For good. Mom didn't say anything, but she seemed relieved. Most of the time she still did the rolling and the mixing, but from that day on she never had to "help" me with the actual injections. I look back now and think of the pain she must have endured, sticking needles into her little girl. I never cried or complained, but it must have bothered her. I never meant to cause my mom any heartache. It was something unspoken, unintended. I thought she preferred it that way, and I liked having her take care of me. She used the backs of my arms a lot, or a leg in the warm months. For me, it was far easier to do abdomen sites, which I use 95% of the time to this day.

So, when did you take charge of your own care, fellow OC'ers? Did your parents "help" like mine?

Where Will You Be in 2033?

Maybe it was the movie we rented. "I Am Legend" was good, but unsettling. It got me to thinking about this, our current age of nihilism. Why are we so bent on destroying humanity (in film, if not in real life) these days? Between "I Am Legend" and other dark visions I've seen in recent years (like "Children of Men" and "28 Days Later"), it's hard to feel cheerful about the future direction of our kind. I was a huge fan of the "The Terminator" back in the '80s, yet somehow it had a different attitude. There was still some hope left in the face of dread--the future was "not set", and the main characters fought like hell to carve out a more peaceful alternative.

Then I logged in to Diabetes Daily and saw this thread. Reading the article it cited, this statement caught my eye: "The Joslin Diabetes Center has undertaken a study of patients who have survived with type 1 diabetes for more than 50 years. There are likely to be only 500 to 600 individuals in the United States who have been so fortunate." Being a type 1 for 25 years, I initially read this thinking I was lucky, since I'm halfway there. But the movie set off my imagination and, in the middle of the night, my mind started turning over the alternate endings. I have no complications...so far. My numbers and my A1Cs have been great...so far. I seem healthy...so far. I have yet to experience any "real" pain from this disease. But the suspense is killing me. When will the plot thicken? When will the true attack begin?

But there is hope, I realized. There are plenty of others out there to refute the statistics. People like the OC's very own Richard, who posted his inspiring story about living with type 1 for 60+ years. People like Bernard and Donna, and Scott and Kerri, and all of the other veterans who may not blog but continue to live well as PWDs. We live in an age of amazing medical advances, with powerful tools to help us fight the shadowy monsters of death and disability. As long as we have the will to keep trying, we can beat the odds. The future is indeed not set just by having diabetes.

Now, about that dog...

Oh, great...just what we need...

...a headline with the words "diabetes" and "terror" in the same sentence. Ugh.

http://www.canada.com/edmontonjournal/story.html?id=957a81e6-6c88-40ba-a8c7-d2433656b4c1&k=44269

Whatever happened to this poor guy, the news media will only inflame the situation by scaring the crap out of the misinformed masses. What next, revoking all type 1 driver's licenses?! What about his poor girlfriend and family?

In a similar vein, Bernard's talking about diabetes prejudice today. Head over to his blog and see what you think.

Today's a frustrating day to be a PWD.

It's 3AM. Do you know where your blood sugar is?

I'm sitting at the computer, typing. I've just consumed five or six Fudge Stripe cookies, a handful of chips and half a glass of orange juice. I went to bed on the high side (210 mg/dl), confident this wouldn't happen. And yet here I sit with a glass in hand, having come to after an episode of nighttime eating. My shirt is damp with sweat and my pulse is down from a gallop to a trot. Who am I? How did I get here? I'm in a daze as I survey the damage.


One of the hardest things for me to deal with over the years has been the urge to eat everything in the kitchen when I bottom out. I practice Kerri's sip-counting method, I really do, but when the wolverine takes over I'm powerless. I'm always so scared the low won't come up.


Oh, how I wish I could sleep through the night without wondering where my blood sugar will be when I awaken...

The Luck of the Irish

The Irish saved civilization, among other things. St. Patrick's Day always makes me think of a time during my first trip to Dublin when they might well have saved me. Had it not been for a simple act of kindness, my own personal Rome might have fallen.

Going to Ireland for a month in July, 2005, I thought I'd taken care of everything. My bags were packed with extra insulin, double the syringes, emergency information everywhere and stashes of snacks and treatments for lows. Solo travel wasn't new to me but I'd never been abroad; when my graduate school offered summer classes overseas, I jumped at the chance to return to the land of my ancestors. The day of my arrival, I hopped a ferry and took a bus to Scotland to attend the Make Poverty History rally in Edinburgh. Things had gone smoothly on the long flight from the States, and though I was tired my blood sugars were only slightly higher than normal. I stood out in the bright sunshine all day with new friends, soaking up the event's energy and sipping water. Slowly the jet lag finally began to hit me, so I wandered off to get some food and rest. I found a spot, pulled out my kit, and did a test.

The meter counted down and I looked at the screen. "HI". Oh boy. I washed my hands and retested. 442--not much better. I didn't panic; the stress of traveling and unfamiliar food always affects my readings. Although this high was Officially Scary, I figured a 6u Humalog bolus shot, rest and fluids would bring the number down to the 200s at least. I drank a liter of water and walked around a bit over the next two hours, killing time until my bus began the long journey back to Ireland. Since I'd eaten little "real" food all day, I got tea and a sandwich in a shop and did another 6u bolus to cover my meal. An hour later, seated on the bus, I tested again: 553. I did an 8u shot, then drank water, fought nausea and waited another half hour. Next test: 525. I tested on both hands and different fingers, but all the results were in the same range. Now I was scared. I felt hot and puffy. After another hour the numbers finally began to go down: 401, 323, 283, 204. I felt better, but tired. I noticed my test strip supply was getting low, but I thought little of it.

When I got back to my room in Dublin I sank, relieved, into my bed. A few hours later I was up again and getting ready to attend an evening event at school. I grabbed my kit to test before heading out, and noticed only a few strips were left. That's right, I used up all those extra strips in Scotland, I thought. I opened my suitcase. Amid all the spare syringes I figured I would find the extra bottle I thought I'd packed. But soon the suitcase was empty, along with my purse and my backpack, and that was when it hit me: Oh no, I think I forgot them back home! Ugh. I cursed my stupidity. Now I would have to find a pharmacy and hope they sold my brand of strips. Who knew how expensive they would be, what with the high value of the Euro and my lack of insurance in Ireland? I gave myself another hard mental kick and asked a few colleagues where the nearest drug store was. Someone pointed me to a place down the street, and I walked over the next morning.

The pharmacist carefully studied my empty test strip bottle. "Sorry miss," he told me. "We don't carry this brand over here." I stood at the counter, shellshocked. Now what do I do? I figured I had no choice now but to ask my family to FedEx more strips to me. While I was mentally calculating how much the shipping would cost, the pharmacist tapped me on the arm. "You must check your blood sugars, miss. Here's a meter no one bought, why don't you take this with you?" And here's a bottle of strips to go with it." He gave me an Ascensia Breeze still shrink-wrapped in its packaging. I stammered, unbelieving. Didn't this cost something? Didn't I have to pay? "No, the meter's really no cost to us, and anyway you must have it." I thanked him profusely and left the shop, still stunned. Back home the Breeze was $80.00 at least, and the strips another $100.00.

I used the Breeze for the rest of my trip and avoided further highs and headed off most of my lows. I still have it, an odd souvenir of sorts. It might not have seemed like the grandest gesture to the pharmacist, but he really saved me a lot of stress and expense with one simple act. So that's what I think of on St. Patrick's Day: a pharmacy on Drumcondra Road, a kind-hearted Dubliner, and the bit of wee Irish luck that touched me there. So to one and all in the diabetes OC, Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

A brief assessment.

Things I Know:


1) How to do a fairly accurate insulin dose via the SWAG method, especially at lunchtime.


2) That I can't eat if my blood sugar is above 225-250 mg/dl, without suffering the consequences. Therefore I strive to keep my levels within range at all times, in case the munchies strike.


3) How to sneak a shot or a test in just about any environment, whether at my desk or in my car, or in a Cessna. (Where have you done it?)


4) That I need to be proactive with any health issue, no matter how minor, especially in cold/flu season. And that my blood sugars will always be wacky so I need to be patient with myself. Rest, fluids, test, rinse, repeat.


5) How to manage a low and not break a sweat.


6) How to feel empathy and compassion for the broken, who are often so much worse off than me.


7) How to organize and multi-task like a pro, like all PWDs :)


8) How to "just say no" when it came to peer pressure to drink or smoke. With diabetes as my excuse, who could argue? Besides, beer is nasty...


9) How to be always be prepared, with the exception of an "oh sh**" moment or two.


10) How to be self-sufficient, tough and strong, and how to be my own best diabetes expert.


Things You Would Think I'd Know By Now:

1) That my friends, family and darling husband, try as they might, cannot always tell when I'm high/low. If I don't communicate my state of crapiness, they won't understand the mood swings that may ensue.


2) How to avoid the post-workout crash 4-5 hours after the gym without inhaling massive carbs before/during exercise, thus negating the effects of my effort.


3) How to stop insulin from leaking out after a shot sometimes, even after holding the needle in place for 10 seconds, pinching up an adequate amount of skin, or all the other little tricks. Ugh.


4) How to avoid the one spot on my left middle finger that hurts like h*** when I lance it. After 25 years you'd think I'd remember exactly where that spot is.


5) That sometimes, you can't have your cake and eat it too (literally). (See #2 above)


6) That most people, sadly, have no idea that type 1 diabetes is any different from type 2. Like others I've heard my fair share of Fantasy Diabetes League comments and gotten some inadvertent brain farts from well-meaning relatives.


7) That high-heeled shoes will always make my feet hurt, and that I will always have to spend the next few days checking them more carefully than usual for problems.


8) That for me, weight gain, like it or not, seems to go hand-in-hand with good control.


9) How to handle unexpected medical issues without so much anxiety. You'd think being so familiar with this stuff would keep the panicky "what-ifs" from taking over...


10) That sometimes, like it or not, I just can't run as fast in this hard-charging world as people who don't have diabetes.


Things I Learn All Over Again Each Day:

1) How amazingly cool and wonderful the diabetes OC really is. Where were you guys all this time...?!?!!


2) What a beautiful gift each day is.


3) How to calculate the insulin I'll need for whatever I'm going to eat/drink and how my blood sugar will react, even if I eat the same thing two days in a row. It's all in the balance of exercise, illness and/or hormones, and sometimes it's just a mystery.


4) That the human body is a reslient thing, and yet so fragile it's heartbreaking.


5) How I'll react when faced with adversity or challenging circumstances.


6) How to fit my diabetes needs in with those of my boss, my husband, my family and the other parts of my life.


7) That sometimes diabetes is front row, and everything else needs to take a back seat until I'm well again.


8) That highs and lows mutate through time. My low feelings will change in six months or a year from shakes to sleepiness to chest pain to hunger pangs. Meanwhile, the highs I never felt as a younger person make me absolutely miserable now.


9) That, if you've ever banged your eyeball and gotten a corneal abrasion, rubbing it will only make the pain come back to haunt you. And you'll wish you never did that (ugh). Right now I'm learning that every day, because I was fool enough to ignore my own advice...


10) That no matter what happens, I'm grateful for the chance to keep hanging in there.


In closing, here's a funny link in anticipation of the coming holiday.

Tell Me, Why'd You Have to Go and Make Things So Complicated?

Every once in a while even a normally well-prepared PWD has an "oh ****" moment. Here's one of mine...

Nappanee, Ontario. Birthplace of Avril Lavigne, who at the time was still somewhat popular. I was driving with my dad and a friend from Montreal to Toronto, nearing the halfway point of the trip. It was around lunchtime and, since no one in the car had eaten breakfast, we decided to hop off Highway 401 in Avril's hometown for a quick meal at Tim Horton's. (Ahh, poutine... ) "I need to go do my shot. Be right back." I left Pop and my friend to collect our orders and headed to the bathroom. (Why I preferred to "shoot up" in the facilities I don't recall; nowadays I just poke away at the table.) I recoiled in horror at the conditions inside. Clearly Mr. Horton needed to review his cleaning staff's work. To avoid touching any surfaces, I balanced my diabetes kit carefully on my leg. The kit was new, as I recall, and I still hadn't figured out how to keep my insulin bottles from rolling around inside. Nobody thought to add extra loops or velcro straps back then, in the pre-Stick Me Designs era. I tested, did a Humalog shot for my lunch, then proceeded to juggle things a bit to get my daily Lantus shot ready.

Lantus bottles always strike me as delicate. I cradle them carefully, like rare and wonderful bugs, afraid to let them so much as touch a hard surface. Such thin glass surrounding such vital fluid. Really, how could the Germans be so careless? (;-) Especially when other vials like Humalog, by comparison, take such a licking and keep on ticking? I've all but driven over Lily's various vessels, and have yet to crack one. The mystery continues... But in the Tim Horton's bathroom in southern Ontario on a cold November afternoon, I was about to discover what happens when suddenly faced with the inevitable collision between the fragile and the unyielding.

"Oh, shit." The Lantus bottle rolled out of my case and, in slow motion, fell to the floor. I bent over and picked it up, and the smell hit me--freshly opened Band-Aids. Oh, no. "Dammit!" I shouted to no one in particular. Given the string of obscenities that followed, I'm glad the room was empty. Avril herself might have been proud. There it was--a crack the size of Gibraltar in the bottom of the bottle. Bits of glass were scattered on the floor, and hardly a drop was left. Worse, I realized, too late, I didn't have a spare. This vial was brand new, and I hadn't thought to pack for an emergency. I was only going to be gone for a few days and hey, didn't they invent insulin in Canada? It never occurred to me there might be a snafu. Or that my previously perfect trip would go astray. (Note to self and reader: The Boy Scouts know one thing...always be prepared!)

Crisis operations were now in order. I sat down calmly next to my party and began to eat. After a moment I stopped and made my announcement. Oh boy...."OK, so I don't want you guys to panic, but I have a little problem." (Another note: Never say this, especially to a parent. When you have type 1, there are no "little" problems. And even saying the word "panic" guarantees there will be some...) Dad, unfortunately, flipped out. You would think I was 12 years old again from his reaction, poor man, but this had never happened before. My friend really had no idea what was going on so she kept quiet, but I could tell she was upset too. It was going to be a long day. I laid out my plan. We would stop at the nearest pharmacy to get another bottle. I would call my doctor and find out how to manage in the interim--surely I wouldn't keel over in the 2 or 3 hours it might take to find long-acting insulin. The answering service took my message, and we set off asking strangers how to get drugs in this little town.

Nappanee may have its charms, but a pharmacy open on Sunday was not one of them. After an hour of fruitless searching we got back on the road and continued our drive. I called the places I could think of in Toronto, assuming someone would have Lantus. In the pre-PDA, ante-wireless era, the only database I had was in my own head. I burned through precious roaming minutes on my cell phone. Toronto General Hospital was finally the one to break the news to me: Lantus was not yet available in Canada. This was when I panicked.

What would I do? Dad wanted to head to the airport and sit at the Air Canada counter until we could return home. My friend noted that we had already made plans to visit another friend the next day, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. I weighed the thought of having my brother FedEx a bottle to me, but the cost of such an adventure quickly outranked its viability. I pondered as the endless ribbon of featureless grey pavement stretched out before us. Finally the doctor's office called. The on-call physician didn't know me and sounded annoyed at first. He didn't have my insulin management schedule, he said, and could offer little beyond what I already guessed (frequent testing and dosing of Humalog every few hours). Then he casually mentioned, "Do you still have any old Lente insulin with you? You could use that temporarily."

The lightbulb went off in my head. Lente! Yes! My old friend, responsible for more rollercoaster highs and lows than I cared to remember. Lantus was new to me then, and luckily I still had my old Lente numbers written down somewhere. Then I ran up against another roadblock. Not only did I not have any with me, I wasn't sure I could get it in Canada. Did I need a prescription? Toronto General Hospital wasn't sure, but I wasn't out of ideas yet. Thanking the doctor I pursued my last idea: Wal-Mart. Yes, they may be evil, but they have a pharmacy. And diabetes supplies. Crossing my fingers I picked up the phone and tried my luck.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

In the next few moments I learned a few wonderful things: 1) Some Wal-Mart employees are actually helpful; 2) Insulin is available without a prescripton in Canada; 3) A bottle of Lente costs only $18.00 in Ontario. No tax. And, 4) Wal-Mart is pretty much the only place open on Sundays in Ontario. Hallelujah! One hitch: the pharmacy would be closed by the time we got there. "But it's no problem," said the helpful voice. "I'll just put it in an insulated bag and leave it at the manager's desk. We'll make sure you get your medicine."

Suddenly the sense of impending doom lifted. Dad breathed a sigh of relief, no doubt at the fine prospect of salvation. (I figured he was probably happy to avoid some hefty airline ticket change fees as well.) My friend relaxed a little, still unaware of the true depth of my drama. Me, I kicked myself hard and well mentally until the bottle of Lente, its milky white liquid cold in my hands, was safely in my possession. I learned a valuable lesson about being prepared, but more importantly, I was able to get through the rest of my trip without incident. Sure, I had a couple of highs and lows, but when I stepped off the plane back home I knew I'd been lucky. And I also knew that never again would I ever want to see, hear or recall anything to do with Nappanee, Ontario. So sorry, Avril, but for me you'll always suck. Wal-Mart, not so much.

Next time on "Oh **** Moments", find out what happens when you run out of test strips far from home--Ireland (:-O

Not What You Think

Note to self: Cold fingers give wrong readings...


After the heat in my car cranked up, and my digits were pink again, my blood sugar was 120. Weird.

Hurry, Spring!

25 Years Ago...Part 4: Conclusion

The hospital staff were kind as they escorted my mom and me up to the 9th floor. We walked into a room already occupied by a sleeping girl about my age; my bed would be next to the window, facing out onto a busy street. I sat down and the nurses pulled the curtain around me. Suddenly I was alarmed. I thought this was only going to take a minute, and now these people were asking me to undress and get under the sheets...as if I were going to be there a while.


I obediently held out my arms for what seemed like endless blood draws. One came from an artery in my wrist, and to this day it's still the single most painful needle I've ever had to deal with. A nurse complimented me on my beaded barrettes, while another inserted an IV needle into my left hand. The cool saline fluid entering my body made me feel better immediately, as did the first few doses of insulin I was given. I don't remember being scared of all the needles, but having to sleep and shower in a strange place was hard. Later I learned that my blood sugar level upon admission was 490, and I had probably been in DKA for at least a week.


Some time later on that first day I remember my dad coming into the room, clearly upset. They talked to my doctor, an older man who turned out to be an expert on type 1 diabetes. Dr. Traisman was kind to me, although later I would learn the limits of his patience when dealing with teenagers (!). Mom and Dad spent the next week rotating their shifts at my bedside; Dad worked during the day and spent the evenings with me, while Mom took her vacation time off to stay with me during the day. (I found out later that my friends at school thought I was dying, because the principal announced my name over the PA and asked the school to pray for me. They were shocked when I came back, very much alive!) My homeroom teacher brought my school books, and my godfather, a policeman, told jokes and took me for walks around the hospital. I was lucky to have so much support around me. The sleeping girl who shared my room for a time had only one visitor, an elderly grandmother. Dad and I watched TV together, including the famous last episode of "M*A*S*H", and I spent the days making up the assignments I was missing at school. After a couple of days I was able to eat solid food--though waking up at 3 AM to be tested and fed became an unwelcome ritual.


Some things about being in the hospital were okay. The other kids on my floor taught me how to "ride" my IV pole down the hallway (much to the staff's chagrin!). I also remember a nice young nurse who told me about how she had lived with type 1 herself, and that I could still be healthy and have children someday. At 12 I didn't really want to hear about babies, but I know she meant well. Another volunteer, a Navy sailor, drew me a great Snoopy cartoon. After a while my IV came out and I could wear my own clothes again. I learned how to give myself shots with an orange, and figured out how to manage the chemistry set of urine testing. But I wanted to go home. I missed everything, especially Tiger, my cat.


On Sunday, March 6, 1983, I was finally discharged. It was a warm, blustery, sunny day. In the weeks that followed I experienced a minor, short-lived miracle--I could finally see the chalkboards at school, which were a blur for weeks beforehand. It turned out that my "honeymoon" from needing glasses lasted only a year, and probably had little to do with diabetes. Oh well (:-) Another miraculous occurrence had more staying power--my first AccuChek glucose meter, which was literally the size of a brick and took over two minutes to produce a reading. Without these tools and the support of my family, especially my mom, I would never have made it this long without complications. I am lucky, indeed.


Other things also remain after 25 years: the daily mental calculations of insulin dosages and food, the challenges of high and low blood sugars, RPS, and, as Kerri has written about recently, stress management. I've thought about a CGMS to solve my persistent pattern of nighttime crashing lows, but like others will need to see how the situation with health insurance coverage for these devices shakes out. But thanks to you out there in the Diabetes OC, I realize I'm walking among kindred spirits. I appreciate your time in reading this blog, and I look forward to sharing more with you in time to come.

The "C" Word

This weekend was the first time I heard him mention it. My husband never deliberately avoided the subject before, mind you. It's just that most of his conversations about diabetes are more focused on short-term issues ("Do we have enough juice? Your eyes look funny, maybe you should test your blood sugar"). For someone who's only ever seen diabetes in the most negative light, he's very good about asking questions and learning how this complicated monster works. But the "C" word--cure--never really came up before.

"They might not be able to cure it in your lifetime, you know," he said. Tentatively, as if it might make me burst into tears. He looked at me, and held my hand.

I smiled at him, feeling a little sad. "I know, honey. It's OK." He hugged me, and said nothing.

Though some really exciting, interesting research is now being done into the causes of type 1 diabetes, I've never really believed I would be "cured". I never thought about the future much as a teen (who does?!), and later on I just tried my hardest to maintain good health on the bumpy ride through life. Meeting my husband opened a window I'd never known was there; we talk about things I could never have imagined five years ago, and I'm impatient to run headlong down the path of our new life together, my heart full of joy. But a cure is a dream for someone else. It's a wonderful dream, don't get me wrong, and I raise funds and advocate in the hopes of making it come true. And sure, there are days when the whole routine gets old, and I wish it would just go away. But I'm happy with what I have in my small life. As long as I'm healthy and free of complications I can't ask for much more.

My husband worries about my long-term health more than any spouse should, and I know it isn't easy for him to understand all the ups and downs. So, if a cure does arise in my lifetime, he'll be the reason I get in line. Til then, I'll leave it for others to divine.

Whoa.

Lately some fellow bloggers (Kerri, Elizabeth, Nicole and Amylia) have been talking about their experiences with severe hypoglycemia, and how our bodies miraculously manage to function despite the crisis raging inside. This afternoon, in the middle of a two-hour meeting, I had my own similar bout with a crashing low.

I normally eat lunch at my desk, and today I was very careful (or so I thought) with my mealtime bolus shot in the hopes of avoiding a drop later on. After my presentation at the beginning of the meeting, our client asked several long, drawn-out questions about my work. I felt weird and knew I needed to go test, but couldn't. I should have eaten more for lunch, I thought. But with a fading case of RPS and an antibiotic floating around in my system, the low really could have come from nowhere. Finally my boss took over and moved the discussion to another agenda item.

Not wanting to be rude, I put off leaving the room as long as possible. A balled fist formed in the pit of my stomach and my fingers tingled with alarm. My pulse was galloping along, a colt intoxicated by the wind. Something very strange and skewed was happening to my eyesight. Finally I knew I couldn't stand it any longer. I picked up my silenced cell phone and pretended to receive a text message. (This dodge seems to go over well in my workplace--a good thing for a "closeted" PWD like me.) No one glanced up as I slipped away and stumbled to my desk. I felt eerily calm, even though the voice in my head screamed, 'Eat something!'

I grabbed a bag of dried tropical fruit and gobbled up what I could while fumbling for my meter. All the while I clocked my time away from the meeting, concerned my boss would notice if I took too long an absence. After a couple of minutes to catch my breath and get down the fruit and a granola bar, I felt steady enough to go back in the room. I picked up my pen and went back to my role of attentive assistant, as if the floor hadn't just fallen out from under me. I didn't even break a sweat. What's weirder, the 34 today felt less intense than a 60 I had a few weeks back. To think of all this happening in the dead of night (as it often does to many of us PWDs) scares me.

It's tough trying to be human. So often I feel more like a little machine, especially when my body's doing its damndest to keep running, even on empty. I just hope the signals keep working to let me know when the tank's almost dry.

25 Years Ago...Part Three

Telling your diagnosis story seems to hold special sway in the diabetes OC. I was "lucky" in that I was old enough to realize what was happening to me, and that years later I can still recall everything. For others the memories are dimmer, less vivid, steeped in the language and fabric of childhood. For those who were diagnosed much later (as older teens or adults), I can imagine the mental anguish that might come with recounting every last detail. Is it good to remember so much, I wonder? Maybe the answer depends on your feelings about diabetes in general. For me it's cathartic to write about, because growing up, no one ever asked me about my diagnosis. My parents and other family members were too worried about taking care of me, and in doing their best to give me an otherwise normal life avoided dwelling on the subject. It caused them too much pain to relive it. My friends, while supportive in other ways, never asked about what was wrong with me or why I was in the hospital so long. I'm grateful if you've been reading along as I journey back to my own "d-day". Only among you do I feel like this has some importance, some recognition. Thank you.

In keeping with a thread on Diabetes Daily, I'm posting my "before" picture. This was taken at my 12th birthday party about three weeks before I was diagnosed. I went from 96 lbs. to 75 lbs. before diagnosis. I am struck now by how thin my arms were. (Even my fingers were skinny!) I was also very pale and my hair was limp and falling out. But at the party I remember having a great time, laughing and playing with my friends. My mom, as usual, made the day special even though it was in the dark of winter (my parties were always indoors, and boy was I jealous of kids born in the summertime!). I'll post an "after" picture sometime soon. Til then, here's one of my favorites from recent days:

Show Me the Money

Some other bloggers (Bernard, AmyT) in the OC are talking about the various costs of diabetes care today. This has been a past topic as well (for Kerri, Scott, Amylia and others), but it seems the "outside world" is only just now getting clued in to how much these numbers mean to us PWDs.

Personally I've been lucky to avoid complications all these years, but I know others have these additional burdens, and someday it may be my turn in their shoes. My relatively good health hasn't come cheap, though. In preparing for my taxes, I discovered that I spent over $2,000 out-of-pocket on prescriptions and doctor visit co-pays for last year alone. This is no doubt far lower than what some others pay, but it still adds up. Add to that the days off work for things regular people don't usually give a second thought to (the flu, bad colds, and the ensuing blood sugar rollercoaster). And healthy eating can be expensive. Thank God I'm able to work and my husband also has a job; I'm also grateful for all the years my parents were able to help me out with either insurance coverage, or help with the hefty premiums. Without them I don't think I'd be as healthy as I am now.

All the same, we can't doubt the value of our care--after all, what's the alternative?

25 Years Ago...A Souvenir

Some other OC bloggers have mementos from their diagnosis. This is a pillow case I made in the craft room while staying at the hospital. I was way too old for the only play group there, and I really didn't want to hang out with the little kids. So one of the volunteers gave me some fabric paint and a pillowcase, and invited me to make a 'keepsake' of my stay. I remember missing my cat, Tiger, intensely...I also remember wanting to make something that looked happy to cheer up my mom and dad. I didn't feel like sunshine and flowers at the time, that's for sure.

Back then I also loved E.T., and I vividly recall my brother bringing my favorite E.T. doll to the hospital for me. I have never asked him how he felt growing up with his 'special' sister. He has always been a model big brother to me, the classic strong and silent type who rarely talks about his feelings. When my niece was born last year, she suffered hypoglycemia for a few days afterwards. (Her mom probably had undiagnosed gestational diabetes.) It's sad to think her father knew instantly what those low glucose readings meant after so many years of being around me. So today I am thankful for my brother, my first friend, steadfast protector and steady presence throughout my life.