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Aside from Shannon's son being Superman and aside from Chris being my own, personal Super Man, there is still one other.
So, in response to Tek's comment about her fabulous cousin...
Did I see him ... I ran up to his waxy self and gave him a great big hug, damnit!
Signed,
Kerri.
Official Superman Groupie.
So much to keep track of: blood sugar results, boluses, basal rates, low bloodsugar reaction treaters, medical alert bracelet, A1c levels, blood pressure, cholesterol, weight management, food intake, hiding the pump in my daily ensemble, carbohydrate counting, insulin to carb ratios, medical insurance deductibles, appointments at Joslin, extra battery for pump, back up infusion sets, insulin pen, meter log book …
Oh, and have I fed the cats? Or changed the oil in my car? Or put on my pants?
It’s difficult sometimes to keep track of everything in life that needs attention. With diabetes, it’s as though there are two lives to keep track of: One Life that is filled with the same things that all lives are filled with and The Other Life that exists for my diabetes. Often, the lines are blurred between the two and I find myself out to a fabulous dinner with my boyfriend, blending the arrival of the food and a mental calculation of carbs, testing my blood, and then the subsequent bolus without noticing the seams. Or I climb into the car to drive home after work and test my blood sugar just as instinctively as I put on my seatbelt. One Life and The Other Life are often just My Life. 
And then sometimes I feel so crummy about the whole thing that it lays so heavy on my chest that I can’t breathe right.
It’s strange how something as simple as a little blog can bring such focus for me.
Writing about this disease makes it easier for me to deal with. Putting my thoughts on paper (and then on the internet for the whole world to see … what am I thinking?) gets them out of my head and takes some of the pressure off my heart. Hearing that there are people who are experiencing similar frustrations, encountering similar roadblocks, feeling what I feel, means so much to me. I feel like I lived alone with this disease for so long. That doesn’t mean I didn’t have the support of my wonderful family or my loyal friends or my romantic relationships, but they can only understand so much. Now I have a vast network of other people with diabetes that makes the lines between One Life and The Other Life blur.
It struck me last night, as I added two more new diabetes blogs to my blogroll and marveled at how long I had to scroll down to view all the voices. How many people out there know how I feel. I feel comforted. And inspired. I read a post last night about a woman who wondered how she would fold her pump into her wedding gown and I thought, “That’s exactly it! This is how we take the best care of ourselves as diabetics and have tremendous lives.” And I thought about it again this morning, as I sat down at my job where I write for a living, and I thought about how un-lonely I felt. How grateful I was for just the presence of other people living, every single day, with this same disease. How the spin cycle of my life rinses out neatly when I don’t feel as though I’m the only one.
The world is whittled down to a more manageable size when I don’t feel alone.
The Team Six Until Me. Rally Message:
Over the course of the last twenty years, I have seen tremendous advances in diabetes management, including the blood glucose monitoring meter I use every two hours and the insulin pump I wear every day. These advancements are life-changing and they make my day-to-day living with diabetes easier.
However, these advancements are not a cure. Despite the fancy gadgets and technological developments, my pancreas still does not produce insulin. I will be tethered to these devices and reliant upon many maintenance drugs for the rest of my life.
Unless there is a cure. A real cure.
And if anyone can find it, it's the JDRF.
I am proud to announce that Team Six Until Me. will be taking part in the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation's "Walk to Cure Diabetes" on October 15th.
Our goal? To raise at least $3,000 towards the cure for diabetes.
I am looking for your support as I chair Team Six Until Me. for our follow-up to last year's raging success. It was fun. And this year, it will be ... funner.
Want to walk with Team S.U.M.?
Register here: http://walk.jdrf.org/index.cfm
Want to donate to Team S.U.M.?
Click here to Donate Now! Or email me for mailing information by clicking here.
Today I say, "I live successfully with type one diabetes."
I can't wait to say, "I used to be a diabetic."
Thank you for your continued support!
-- Kerri.
After spending Friday night at the movies (thank you, Mark Wahlberg and your Invincible self) and Saturday plotting out our next marketing moves with Exist over a delicious dinner at The Fat Cat Pie Company, Sunday was shaping up to look pretty boring.
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know."
Eyes light up as though someone hit a switch.
"New York?"
An hour later, we were on the train to NYC. Our mission?
Robin and I, reuniting after a long hiatus, discussed the possibility of bringing Six Until Me. to the stage. I was unwilling to subject myself to red suspenders, so the deal never sealed. Maybe next time. He looks at me with such waxy affection.
Ah, our old pal Bono. He's interested in writing a song about the plight of medical insurance in America. I told him to consult the blogosphere for further insight. Then we high-fived. All wax.
I guess this sort of makes it official: Hillary and Kerri in 2008.
After a few songs with the lads from Liverpool, Chris and I said our goodbyes and headed out to a little Italian cafe in Manhattan for pizza and a bottle of wine, as we waxed poetic about our afternoon adventures.
...Waxed poetic. I think the whole reason for this post was to utilize that pun.
Is it a much-needed basal testing?
Or maybe a carbohydrate ratio dry run?
Perhaps we’re calculating the patterns of how many nights in a row Siah will instigate a full-out brawl with Abby, waking us up in the middle of the night?
The Experiment is a ratty old peace lily that I received as a gift a few years ago. It was nice and alive for about seven months, then it began to wilt in my old apartment. I brought it to my old job. The lack of happiness there almost killed it. And the long car ride from Rhode Island to Connecticut last month with the move just about did the poor thing in.
Can dLife can save it?
The Experiment is this: Can the sunshine from the dLife skylights and the generally motivated mood around this joint save The Lily? (The sign reads: This plant keeps dying at home. I'm hoping dLife can revive it. Start date: August 23rd.)
It sits on my bookshelf at work. It has about one live leaf left. It also has no name (any suggestions?). Essentially, it’s a big pot of dirt with a piece of grass in it.
But I want to bring it back to life. I plan on keeping it here until it either sprouts new leafy life or it gasps its last breaths and I’m forced to plant something more tolerant, like actual weeds.
That I should learn to sew. Pockets in every pair of pants, tricky little places sewn into skirts to drop in that little pump.
About little kittens and their affinity for the tasty tubing.
That the infusion set needle wasn’t this enormous horse needle that would pierce me straight through. Instead, it’s a small, thin intrusion that pulls out as quickly as it entered, leaving behind the plastic cannula that I can hardly feel.
That I could house the infusion set somewhere other than my abdomen. If I had known I could use my thigh, my arm, my hip, and my stomach, I may have switched sooner.
That my pump consultant was serious when she said to check for air bubbles in the tubing. One little teeny air bubble can be the difference between a bolus of five units and a bolus of three.
That I should buy more than one pump clip, because one bounce in the Bouncy Castle at my cousin’s family cookout sent the pump clip flying across the castle and left my pump dangling from my waistband. (Yes, I was a bit too old to be bouncing around in the bouncy castle, but that is not the point. And I would definitely do it again.)
Doorknobs. It’s like they have hands and they reach out specifically to grab pump tubing.
That the phrases, “I’m pumped,” and “Pumped up,” would send me into a fit of giggles and smirks for the few months after the pump came in that big FedEx box. Pumping has made puns even more delicious for me.
To add a syringe to my kit, just in case the pump malfunctioned and I needed to draw a dose from the reservoir itself. (The syringe fits neatly into the top of the reservoir and you can draw back from it, just like you would a bottle of insulin.)
To get an insertion device right off the bat. I spent two full weeks fussing with bent cannulas because I wasn’t manually inserting the sets correctly. That QuickSet thing makes life much easier. I have three of them in various places in my house, car, and office.
That I should be thankful for my breasts because they have successfully hidden my pump between them at many fancy functions.
Oh, and that thigh thing contraption that wraps around my thigh and has a pocket for the pump. I own three of them and use them at least a few times per week. They make dresses and skirts a snap.
That the tubing is resilient and strong enough to withstand the pump dropping from my hand. But the tubing is not a yo-yo string and the pump cannot “bounce back up” if I give the tubing a snap.
That it is easy to disconnect and set aside.
That calling myself “A Robot” to my nephew generated a laugh. Same response from Chris. And my mother. And me, to be honest.
That both Chris’ niece and my beautiful nephew would nod understandingly when I referred to my pump as “my medicine”:
"Okay,” my nephew Connor said. “Let’s go play zombies.”
Chris’ lovely niece stared for a minute, then asked if she could wear my pretty diabetes bracelet. (Which, of course, I let her.)
That I no longer needed to wear a watch because the pump kept such exquisite time.
That I could use the backlight on the pump in my darkened hallway at night when I’ve slipped out to the kitchen for a glass of water and need more than mental breadcrumbs to find my way back.
That pumping isn’t right for every diabetic and just because someone isn’t pumping doesn’t mean they aren’t taking the very best care of themselves.
That the little plastic cap that comes in the infusion set packaging was the best thing for me to wear in the shower and the ocean when I’m disconnected, and that (again), little kittens love those tasty things.
That wearing the pump and my bikini would be a pain in the ass, but I would still be on the beach every weekend of the summer. And that the white infusion set would leave an equally white tan line when I moved the site around.
That I could leave an infusion set in for more than three days. And I wish someone had shown me how to refill a reservoir right off the bat.
That this shit is EXPENSIVE and to be prepared for exorbitant costs and battles with insurance companies.
That the little boop beep boop noise of the pump trying to get my attention would become something I said conversationally back to the pump. “Boop beep boop,” says the pump. “Boop beep boop to you,” responds Kerri to the inanimate object.
That Duracell batteries are crap and to not bother buying them, even though they were on sale at CVS and significantly cheaper than their Energizer counterparts. Little did I know, they would be sucked dry within four days.
That my body is still the same, except for this white plastic circle that is less than an inch in diameter. Maybe it’s healthier.
That sex wouldn’t be ruined because of my pump. That my partner would find my body desirable and sexy and wouldn’t be phased by the fact that I disconnect an insulin pump before we make love. That I felt almost a little bit sexier because I felt like I was in better control of my diabetes.
That someone can say, “I love you,” and I know they mean every little bit of me, including my smile and my laugh and my ambition and my pump. That the same person can also say that they don’t think about diabetes when they think of me. They think of just Me.
That it would drop my A1c by a half a point within six months.
That it isn’t as big as I thought it would be. I pictured something not unlike a toaster oven, clanking from my hip and sounding a siren when my bloodsugar was cresting out of range. I wasn’t prepared for the little beeper sized machine that I could hide in my pocket.
That when people catch a glimpse of the pump, they might stare. But I couldn’t blame them. If I wasn’t diabetic, I would probably stare, too. It helps to smile at them.
But I can’t mislead you. Some days it feels like the pump accounts for most of my body. Some days it doesn’t hide neatly in the folds of my skirt. Some days it falls from my hand and bangs against the floor, tugging the tubing and causing the site to ache. Some days the boluses burn and the sites ooze infection.
Some days I feel like I want to toss it against the wall and watch it explode into a thousand little pieces. Some days I feel like I am exploding into a thousand pieces.
I wish I had known that wearing a pump didn’t make me “more diabetic.” It didn’t mean defeat or acceptance. It means that I decided to utilize the precision of an insulin pump to deliver my insulin. It means I will be bonking it against door jams and tables and boyfriends while dancing. It means I wear this device. It means I feel strong and healthy and on my way to securing my future as a good wife and mother. But it doesn’t make me any less “Kerri.”Maybe it makes me able to be more.
A while back, The Anonymous Lurker Mom posted an open question in the comment section of SUM. The online community responded with the compassion, resourcefulness, and honesty we're known for.
There's now another de-lurker with a question:
"Hi,
I'm a long-time lurker and new-time pumper. Actually, infant pumper. As in, one week (I’ve been diabetic for 15 years). I have a couple of questions and I’d appreciate practical advice.1. How long do you actually leave your site in? If you leave it in longer than 3 days and you run out of insulin, do you just change/refill the reservoir without changing the infusion set?
2. I think I remember reading that you’ve used pen cartridges to refill a reservoir? I tried unsuccessfully to do that and then gave up because I didn’t want to waste any more insulin. But I also don’t want to waste my leftover cartridges.
Maybe you could do a post about things you wish you had known or had been told when you first started pumping? Not that you need ideas. I don’t have any diabetic friends, but I really enjoy reading your blog and the blogs that I found through Six Until Me. There is always something there that I can relate to.
Thanks!
Em"
This is "Em" and she's a self-proclaimed pumping infant, having just started on her insulin pump this past week. Looks like she's in hot pursuit of the real life, everyday bits of insulin pumping, from finagling an extra day on the infusion set to making the most of her insulin cartridges. She's looking for practical advice. And we're a veritable treasure trove here in the blogosphere.
This is what we're here for, F.R.'s. Let's help our newly de-lurked, infant pumping friend.
Capes en route.
With the sand still stuck to my Reefs and the sunshine of the weekend still warm on my face, Six Until Me. proudly present the Patient-Consumer Parade: Volume 6(UntilMe.)
Gold Medal Post: Diabetic Guilt at Beanie Baby
It’s relatively common knowledge in the blogosphere that with diabetes comes the tangled web of blood sugar balancing, insulin administration, and maintenance medication. Not often discussed, however, is the impact of this routine on the environment. Andrea writes, “I'm not just a diabetic, I'm not a selfish bitch who cares about nothing as long as I can stay alive; I'm part of the world and I care about it.” Her post stopped me in my tracks, prompted a lively discussion with my Inner Environmentalist, and was brilliantly written.
Silver Medal Post: Most Difficult at CuriousGirl
Diagnosed with diabetes as a young girl, Nicole once thought that the toughest part of her condition was the daily finger sticks to test her bloodsugar. Now an eloquent adult, she discusses the chaos of cost in maintaining her diabetes and grappling with the healthcare system. “Everyday I live. Everyday I test my bloodsugar 12 times a day. Everyday I brush my teeth, brush my hair, get dressed in something I like. Everyday I also wear an insulin pump.” The fibers of her diabetes and her life are so closely stitched that you barely see the seams.
Bronze Medal Post: I’m Just a Bill at Scared to Health
Have you ever received a bill from your insurance company that just doesn’t make sense? Not that you’re unable to make sense of the presentation of the bill, but that you can’t conceptualize how your medical procedure/prescriptions cost that much? Kim made my jaw drop with her description of a bill for over forty thousand dollars and her perceptions of the final accounting. The cost of healthcare in this country is enough to make anyone sick.
Honorable Mentions are awarded to:
The Mom & Me Journals offers “The Three F’s” of Being Where You Are Now.
The Wilcox Zone discusses how the devil of diabetes is in the details.
Tales of my Thirties talks about being a “foodie” even after a diabetes diagnosis.
Somebody Heal Me feels as though her “bad choices” are a direct result of her desperation to find treatment for her chronic illness.
The Gimp Parade pens her reflections on the little things having help with daily tasks changes.
The Tangled Neuron writes about issues that crop up in the daily lives of caregivers.
Innovations in Healthcare discusses the effects of internet resources on doctor’s visits.
A Chronic Dose deals with the transition from crisis-recovery mode to the everyday maintenance of chronic illness.
And The Daily Headache slips in with her commentary on the challenge for a consumer to muddle through the media in search of the Truth about medications.Thank you to everyone who submitted entries! They were fantastic and the perfect way to invigorate my mind up after a menacing three hour ride home in Connecticut traffic.
The next Patient-Consumer Parade is September 4th at InstaHealth. Email them to host your own Parade.
Oh and as promised:
Soft serve ice cream,
bears on unicycles,
and fancy socks for everyone.
I shall brave Route 95 north from Connecticut to Rhode Island during rush hour on a Friday afternoon. I have packed a snack, dinner, a change of clothes, blanket, pillow, extra insulin, CB radio, flares, astronaut ice cream, pup-tent, and a map of every rest stop between Norwalk and home.
Enjoy a nice dinner with my friend Batman and our respective beaus tonight at Café Paragon in Providence.
Join forces with College Roommates and have an almost-end-of-summer hurrah at Johnny’s Atlantic Beach Club in Newport, RI on Saturday.
Watch as Chris amazes his cute little niece with newly-learned magic tricks. (When we went to Toys “Backwards R” Us in NYC, Chris picked up a magic kit and has been practicing “wowing” me at the house. So far, he’s made a pen disappear, he’s pulled loose change from my ear, and he’s made a matchstick suspend in midair. He’s also stolen my heart, the fool. And subsequently turned it into a rabbit.)
Figure out what the hell is going on with my bloodsugars. My m
eter average has kicked up 10 points in the last week and a half based on these bizarre elevations in the morning. Looks like a basal testing will need to happen on Monday. This new work schedule requires a little more tweaking before I’m good to go. As a sidenote, my fasting bloodsugars have been great lately. Ranging from 88 mg/dl – 130 mg/dl, I’m very pleased with the way my mornings are starting. Midmorning sugars … eh, they’ve been better. I don’t like all these 200’s peeking their little heads in.
Format the PCP6UntilMe. I’ve received many fantastic entries so far. Deadline for entry is Sunday night at 6 p.m. Email them to me to have your entry considered. Remember, the theme is “The Fabric of our Lives,” and assuming I don’t get sued for ripping off the Cotton people, the PCP6UntilMe will be posted on Monday morning.
Teach S. Sausage a lesson: Little Miss Siah has been climbing up onto the bookcases and eating my plants. I know this because there are nibbles in every single leaf and a smattering of dirt with little sausage-sized footprints. Punishment may include being squirted with a spraybottle. Or being hugged.
And poor chubby Abby is just startled by the whole scene. (Yes, I'm doing my best to get her to lose some weight. My God she's massive.) She just doesn't know what to make of the little Sausage.
Have a good weekend, everyone!
Insulin is a given. Every type one diabetic is addicted to the stuff, either by injection or pumped or inhaled.
We don’t make it, so we take it.
However, there’s all this buzz about different supplements that can assist in diabetes management. It’s being talked about in the blogosphere. It’s the subject of my online chats with fellow bloggers. And this information rolls across my desk here at dLife every single day.So what to make of it? I know that there isn’t a magic cure for diabetes. (There was this one guy from my old job who tried to tell me that a special chocolate shake every morning would cure my type one diabetes. I mean, of course chocolate cures diabetes. Foolish Kerri for not thinking of that on her own.) I know that there is no substitute for insulin, but are there other tools that can make management a little bit easier?I have already tried L-Glutamine and I was happy with the results of that little project. Unfortunately the move to CT ended up losing Mr. El Glutamine in the shuffle, so I haven’t started taking that again. Now that I'm working regular hours and sucking down coffee like a wild work beast, I'm picking more up on my lunch break.
Then there’s the whole cinnamon debate. Does it help? Doesn’t it help? Does it sound weird that I want to just break open the enormous supplement capsules and sprinkle them over a latte?
My new supplement since the move to CT has been a prenatal vitamin. No, I’m not pregnant. Nor am I planning on becoming pregnant (I can hear the frustration from some and the sigh of relief from others). But prenatal vitamins are suppo
sed to prepare a woman’s body for pregnancy, helping her achieve optimum levels of wellness. Why wouldn’t I want that? And, when I'm ready to start a family, my body will be extra-prepared. Since I started taking the prenatals, I’ve noticed a change for the better in the health of my hair, skin, and overall feeling goodness.
But maybe that’s the effect of not working in insurance anymore. Point to ponder.
Have any of you guys in the blogosphere tried any of these? I need some user feedback. Before GNC takes more of my money...
The deal: Six Until Me. is hosting the Patient-Consumer Parade next Monday, August 21st. There's sure to be soft serve ice cream, bears on unicycles, and fancy socks for everyone.
The desire: The theme of PCP6UntilMe. is "The Fabric of our Lives." (My apologies to Cotton advertising campaign.) I'm looking for submissions that weave our daily doses of patient-consumerism into our everyday lives. The accounts of how we are constantly maintaining our chronic conditions or our individual healthcare needs, all while grocery shopping, driving our cars, paying our bills, jumping on trampolines, eating peanut butter straight from the jar ... you get the picture. How is patient-consumerism woven into the fabric of your life?
The deadline: I need all submissions by Sunday, August 20th at 6 pm. Email them to me directly with the subject line "PCP6UntilMe." Be sure to include the permalink to your post and your blog name, along with a brief description of the post.
The debut: This is the first PCP that has ventured off to hang out at a host blog, so help me make it a success! And if you are interested in hosting a future Patient-Consumer Parade, send an email to The Host.
The steady click clack click clack of the train as it rolled along the tracks almost put me to sleep, despite the fact that it was one-thirty in the afternoon. I rested my head against Chris’ shoulder and watched the Connecticut skyline whiz by as we approached New York.
Ah, New York.
To be honest, I’ve never understood the pull of New York. While I enjoy the chaos of a night out and the bustle of the city lifestyle, I’m much more the country mouse, content in a house
by the beach with a beat up VW and a typewriter. (Okay, so maybe I should have written “laptop,” but typewriter sounded so much more “author by the beach.”) I don’t know. My friends are all about The City and talk about The City and some have moved into The City. I just didn’t understand.
Until I walked out of the door of Grand Central Station on Saturday and saw all the Everything.
It was awesome.
We milled around Times Square, stopping briefly in Toy “Backwards R” Us to watch a magic demonstration and to marvel at the fact that there was a ferris wheel in the store.
Lunch at a BBQ place just past the MTV TRL filming location (I could feel the mere presence of screaming teenyboppers as we walked by). Big mess of a cheeseburger, ribs, french fries … nice, hearty bolus and a bloodsugar of 106 mg/dl an hour and a half after eating. Ah, the lovely bloodsugar effects of walking around the city. A long (read: expensive) cab ride to the financial district brought us to the site of the World Trade Center towers. I had never seen the WTC while it stood and it was very sobering to stand where it once was, marveling at the wound left in the city. A huge metal fence kept visitors on the peripheral, but our camera lens caught the enormous steel cross from 1WTC that was found in the crater of 6WTC.
A silent stroll, hand in hand, into the park by City Hall. A fountain served as the soundtrack to our afternoon. I noticed a father and his three little boys kneeling on the edge of the fountain, peering into the waters. The youngest boy’s red balloon skimmed along the edges of the falling water.And in that one moment, I fell in love with New York, too. 
I changed my infusion set last night, moved it from one thigh to the other. No big deal. Except upon inserting the cannula into my thigh, I felt this icy cold feeling.
“Weird. This is weird. Hey Chris, this is easily the most bizarre feeling I’ve ever had from a set change.”
He stopped typing on his computer and looked over at me on the couch. (The couch that should be in our living room but is instead stuck in our den. More on that later.)
“What’s the matter? Did it sting?”
“No. This is strange. It doesn’t hurt, but the bit where the little plastic tube is … it feels ice cold. I can feel my pulse in it, like when you cut your finger and it throbs.” The quiet, icy feeling was not enough to make me want to rip the set out, but I kept touching the plastic cap to make sure it wasn’t leaking.
“Are you feeling the insulin injecting?”The night progressed and my bloodsugar, which was a sticky 200 mg/dl after leaving my pump off too long after the gym, had climbed to 313 mg/dl after the set change.
“I feel like shit. I’m not sure if the insulin is even getting in my system.”
Quick trot to the bathroom to check for ketones.
“No ketones. I’m not wasting this site. I’m going to bolus hard for this and test in the middle of the night to make sure it’s working. If I’m still high, I’ll rip the site and redo it.”
Lace in four units. The icy feeling is gone now, for some reason. We work on our respective computers for a little bit longer until it’s almost one-thirty in the morning. I test: 265 mg/dl. On the downslide. I wonder if that icy feeling had anything to do with that persistant high? Was something blocking the cannula? Hmmm...
Tucked into bed. Still no ketones. Stick a sports bottle of juice on the bedside table. Feeling exhausted from the extended high bloodsugar. The sweaters on my teeth are revolting and I’m wrapped up my Red Sox t-shirt to protect me from the chill of my hyperglycemia.
Ah, sleep.
Three-thirty in the morning.
"Kerri.” Shakes me gently. “Kerri, wake up.” A little harder this time. “Kerri. You have to test now.”
“Whaa… what’s the matter?” I roll over and ignore his request, my sweaty forehead against the white pillow.
“You need to wake up and test.”
Propelled purely by learned instinct, I fuss open my black meter case and load a strip in. Click of the lancet device. 41 mg/dl.
There is suddenly a bottle of juice in my hand and I’m throwing it back. Lay back down. He rubs my back as I wait for the juice to do its thing. A few minutes pass.
“I need you to test again to make sure you’re coming up.”
“No. I drank the juice. I don’t want to waste a test strip.” Damn insurance.
“Okay. I’ll wait up until you’re okay.”
And I drifted back to sleep, the fan whirrs beside the bed. Abby and Siah lounging on the floor, flat like manta rays. My boyfriend, always at the ready, keeping watch to make sure I’m okay.
Thursday morning chaos. 
People talking, laughing, drinking coffee, playing music, typing away on their computers. Phone calls. Meetings. Remember to test bloodsugar. The train whirrs by and people grab their luggage and make their way to their cars. Yesterday I saw a black limo filled with soccer moms get pulled over and the women escorted into the back of police cars, their Prada bags hanging in the breeze. Horns honking. Cell phone keeps buzzing. Email like a flood on my desktop. Threats of terror on every newstation and the bustle of New York City just minutes away.
She's 79 years old. The surgery won't be over for another 4 hours.
I can hear every quiet click of the second hand as I wait.
Update: A phone call from my mother, at the hospital with Grammie in Boston, confirms that surgery was successful and Grammie is in recovery - minus her spleen, one and a half of her kidneys, and part of her pancreas. We're hoping that the cancer has been fully removed and that she'll recover quickly.
Thank you all for your prayers ... here's hoping that they did the trick. :)
Last week, I had a pretty sneaky low pounce on me while I was on the treadmill. Readings have been steadily improving but aren’t back on track yet. So I’m erring on the side of caution as much as possible. This is resulting in many “dead test strips.”
My initial meter reading when I started my workout was 170 mg/dl. The pump was stashed in my purse and I had a bottle of juice and my kit on the treadmill with me. (Not running beside me, mind you, but in the little holder compartments.) Fifteen minutes into my workout, I was 100 mg/dl. That’s quite a drop. Sip the juice, keep going. At the thirty minute mark: 84 mg/dl. Hmmm. I’d rather finish my workout at 200 mg/dl then have to stop because of a low, so I finish the juice off. Forty minutes: 113 mg/dl. Spot on. No problems. Fifty-three minute mark … all of a sudden sweating like a maniac. I was reading the closed-captioning on the TV screen just a few minutes earlier, but now the words are dancing along the bottom of the screen. Headache.
We know where this is going.
Turn off the treadmill. As the machine stops scrolling back, I prick my fingertip. 51 mg/dl. Damn it. 113 mg/dl only thirteen minutes earlier.
Reaching into my kit, I grab the only money I have on me: a one and a ten dollar bill. Walking determinedly towards the juice machine, I notice that juice is two dollars in this (god-forsakenly expensive) Connecticut town.
“Excuse me. Can you please break a ten?”
“Sure thing. You want me to break it like I’m a ninja? Put my hand straight through it?” The guy behind the counter grins and means so well, making jokes with me, the New Girl at the Gym.
“It’s okay. Just ones are fine.”
“I can make it into a paper crane. Watch my paper crane.” He starts to fold. I lean on the countertop. This will not be a repeat performance of the Showcase Cinemas episode.
The money shift under his hand and I watch as wings take shape. I’m running out of time to wait.
“Listen, I’m a diabetic and I’m having a low bloodsugar reaction. I need to buy some juice. It’s okay. Just please give me a dollar and I’ll come back for the rest of my change.” I smile. I’m not a completely hypoglycemic mess so it’s easier to be in control this time.
“Sorry. Here. Here you go.” He casts his eyes down, hands me a five and five ones and I wander off to the juice machine.
I drain half of the bottle. It’s going to be just fine. A few minutes pass. I test. 94 mg/dl. Back on the climb.
I walk back over to the counter, where the man behind the counter is deliberately not looking at me.
“I’m sorry if I was short with you. I just needed a hand.”
He didn’t look at me.
“I appreciate your help, you know.” I start to walk away from the counter.
“Hey.”
I turn around.
He gently places a paper crane made from a post-it note on the countertop. Wings flutter from the ceiling fans.
“My cousin has diabetes.”
Insulin is not a cure, but it is quite the magical substance. Every single day, my body fails to produce its own insulin. And every day, I am able to supplement my physiological failures with some nice, cool synthetic hormones. Mmmm, delicious.
I’m very careful with my insulin supply. I have the little white boxes neatly lined up in the fridge like my army of miracles. I take careful note of the expiration dates and I always reorder on time. One time, while I was in college, I dropped my last bottle of Humalog on the floor and it shattered into a million pieces. I drove 2 hours to the closest 24 hour CVS to purchase a bottle out of pocket.
I’m dedicated to the stuff.
Which is why this past weekend surprised even me.
Chris and I went home to Rhode Island for the weekend to visit grandparents and hang out with our friends. A few of my College Roommates (there were seven of us) were heading to Narragansett Beach for some sandy shore festivities and I was running late (per usual) in joining up.
“I’m about twenty minutes away.” The first sip of my iced coffee and a quick half-unit bolus on the pump as I waited at the stop light on Route 1 South.
“We are already at the beach. Just park at the hotel and meet us down here.”
“Will do.”
Drove like a maniac to the hotel. Tossed the car into a spot, hung the parking pass in the mirror, and chucked my overnight bag (complete with change of clothes for later and all my medical supplies) into the trunk of the Jetta.My navy blue Jetta with black interior. The one parked in the hot, hot July sun, no shade in sight.
Stupid girl. Not thinking...
I spent all day on the beach without thinking much about my car. There were other things to concentrate on, like trying not to kick sand up on other people’s blankets, playing in the Atlantic Ocean, and making sure my bathing suit didn’t suffer the consequences of the rough surf.
A day on the beach laughing and talking and making plans for that Saturday night. Around four o’clock, we walked back to the hotel and started calling dibs on who would shower first.
“I just have to grab my bag.” I popped the trunk and retrieved my overnight bag. The zipper was hot to the touch. I still didn’t make the connection.
In the hotel room, I noticed that my pump site was completely sticky from sunscreen, sand and salt water. I could barely get the infusion set to reconnect to the site. Luckily, being ever-paranoid, I had the Quick-serter, a back-up infusion set and a bottle of insulin tucked neatly into my overnight bag.
A nice, steaming hot bottle of insulin.
Oh for crying out loud.
Almost a brand new bottle and I had cooked it. Even worse, I didn’t have enough insulin left in the pump cartridge to freestyle for the rest of the night – the reservoir had to be changed.
“Moron,” I muttered to myself, sticking the bottle of insulin into the hotel fridge, hoping that the insulin would be magically useable if I just made it cold once more. After a cold shower, I took the bottle from the fridge and began priming the pump.
“That wasn’t in your car all day, was it?” one of my Roommates asked.
“Yeah.” I rubbed the IV prep on my thigh and waved my hand at it to dry it off.
“Is it still going to work?” Roommate looked concerned.
“Here’s hoping...” Inserted the site, fixed-primed, and took a p
