My head has been in the clouds lately.  But I want to thank you for your very kind comments.  They've provided me with much-needed solace this week.  I'm currently regarding this issue in my eye as a very annoying Squirrel that has taken up residence.  I will drive him from my tree (read: head) and send him on his merry way.  Whatever it takes:  more time at the gym, tighter blood sugar control, easing off the stress in my life to keep my body calm ... I'll do everything I can to keep this Squirrel at bay.   And if he's still there in six months, so be it.  As long as he doesn't bring more friends.  Because if I end up with a head full of Squirrels, I'm going to laser the hell out of them and they'll be sorry they didn't leave when they had the chance.

Posted by Kerri. at 09:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

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My eyes were wide, wide open and my pupils were dilating further by the second.

It’s strange, sitting there as the dilation solution starts to affect your eyes.  Things start to look a bit wavier and the light seems brighter.  Then it’s almost too bright to focus and you ask them to turn off the fluorescents above you.

“No problem.  Now let’s talk about your diabetes.”

“Yes, I’m a type one.  Since 1986.  I just marked my 20^th year a few weeks ago.  …  I’m trying to get it under 7%, yeah.  No complications.  I do take Altace for high blood pressure, though. … yeah, it’s working okay, I think.  How many times?  Um, I test about twelve times per day, on average.  … Yeah, it makes me anxious not to know what my bloodsugar is.  I did have a  cotton wool spot about a year and a half ago, sort of prompted the whole Altace thing.  It was gone as of September 2005, though.  I’m feeling pretty good.  I exercise a lot.”

He shines the light in my eyes.  Looks at me with that weird miner cap with the light on it. 

“Look over my shoulder… okay … at my left ear … okay …”

The visit goes on and my eyes are wide, wide open. 

“Left eye looks good, kiddo.  You work hard to take care of yourself, don’t you?”  The light shines brightly in my face and I wince a little bit.

“I do.  I do my best.”

“Right eye has that little cotton spot and a very, very small hemorrhage … two very small hemorrhages.  Nothing to worry about, though.  They’re so small.  So over at dLife, what exactly do you do?...”

And I start to cry.  Not big, sobbing, aching tears but the ones that just spill out and you can’t stop them and they burn so hot on your cheeks. 

“Bit leaky there, eh?  Those eye drops make people react differently.  I’ll grab you a tissue.”

Blot at my eyes.  My eyes. 

“So, nothing to worry about.  I wish every patient I saw who had been diabetic for 20 years was as fastidious as you!  Your eyes look great.  Nothing to worry about.”

“The spots, though?  The hemorrhage?  What do I do about that?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, Ms. Morrone.  You are testing often, eating very well, exercising more than most patients I see.  You are doing a fine job.  Twenty years is a long time with this and you are doing just fine.”

My face is so streaked with tears but it’s okay because the lights are still dimmed and he can’t see me clearly.  I can’t see anything clearly.

“Can I do anything differently?  I want those spots to go away.”

“Well, see how tight you can run your sugars.  And maybe increase that blood pressure medication, because a higher BP doesn’t help.  But just stay on top of things and you’ll be just fine. This is nothing to worry about.  You're doing a fine job.”  He snapped my chart shut.  “Just visit the girls at the front desk and they’ll set up your six month follow up.”

I work hard at this.  Harder than I’ve ever worked at anything before.  I devote so much of my time to trying to monitor my diabetes that sometimes it makes me ache.  I’m scared that it’s never enough, that no matter what I do, it’s won’t ever be enough to keep me safe.  Monitoring bloodsugars, seeing the best doctors, eating a very healthy meal plan, exercising diligently, keeping myself as educated as possible – and it isn’t enough.

People tell me that they wouldn’t know I was diabetic by looking at me.  And now that secret hides in my eyes and I wonder if people know. 

I’m scared.  And I can’t help but blame myself a little bit.  There’s so much guilt with this disease sometimes that it suffocates me. 

I thought about not writing about this on the blog because I’m scared to see it actually written down.  I’m not sure if I’m ready to really face how scared I am of this sometimes.  And I know that it’s just a little smudge in my eye and it may correct itself and all I have to do is work harder, but to have someone regard it almost as what is expected to happen to me … I don’t want what is expected.  I want to defy expectations and have my doctors say, “Wow!  Fifty-three years with diabetes and you are in terrific condition!  Wouldn’t know by looking at you.”  My stomach is in knots at the thought that I’m 27 years old and I’m forced to face more of my journey as a diabetic.  The doctor said there’s nothing to worry about.  My family says it will be okay.  My boyfriend says he loves me today and will love me 50 years from today, regardless of what happens.  I don’t feel sick.  I hardly ever feel sick.  But will it get me?  Will it change the course of my life and make me sick?  Will I ever feel safe or am I always waiting … waiting for that next bit of dodgy news, that sharp poke of a complication, that fear making my heart it’s home. 

Posted by Kerri. at 12:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (44) | TrackBacks (0)

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I hope you’ve noticed the change here on Six Until Me.  I have a shiny new logo, designed for me by a graphic designer here in Norwalk.  She worked closely with me to create exactly what I wanted, right down to the jazzy (threw that “jazzy” in there for you, Diane) hibiscus flower.

She also created a terrific logo for the JDRF walk t-shirts for Team Six Until Me.

I love it and think she did a tremendous job.  Check out how her design translates on to t-shirts and whatnot over at the SUM CaféPress Store.

If anyone needs a graphic designer that is extremely talented, open to any and all feedback, and a complete pleasure to work with, email Ashley Plumly at this email address or feel free to contact me for further information.  (Note:  She’s not a co-worker or Chris’ best friend or related to me in any way.  She’s just plain GOOD and deserves plenty of freelance referrals.)

Up Next:  Tom Carvel, Kettle Cooked Popcorn, and Shea Stadium 

Posted by Kerri. at 10:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

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We had scheduled to bring EXIST to a media conference in NYC last night.  Chris was already in the city for the day, so I worked at dLife and then hopped the train to New York. 

The train dumped me off at Grand Central Station and I made my merry way to the concourse, happy that I at least knew what direction to go in.  It was 6:19 pm and the conference started at 6:30.  I was right on track to be fashionably late. 

Texted Chris:  I’m here.  Just getting a cab and I’ll be to you in 20 minutes.

Walked out onto the bustling sidewalk.  Roads were closed due to the UN summit, so there were even more people spilling out than usual.  Horns beeping.  A man dressed as a piece of pizza shoved a flyer in my hand and hollered (to no one in particular), “Everybody loves pizza, man!”  I walked towards the corner of the street, heels clicking, fashionably late … very Mary Tyler Moore of me.  Started humming “You’re gonna make it after all.”  Raised my arm to hail a cab, for the first time in my 27 years.

No one stopped. 

Maybe I wasn’t out far enough.  Maybe they couldn’t see me.  Raised my hand again as a trio of cabs ripped by.

Hmmm.  I am clearly doing something wrong here. 

There was a police officer standing about 30 feet away from me.  I walked over to her, keeping my eyes locked on the gridlock for an empty cab.

“Excuse me?”  The cop turned around.   “Excuse me.  I need to catch a cab.  Would I have more luck on another street, because of the roads being closed?”

The cop looked me up and down. 

“Would have helped if you wore a skirt.” 

“A skirt.  A skirt would help.  Next time wear a skirt.  But good luck finding a cab tonight – roads are closed, it’s rush hour, and everyone is looking for a cab.  Cross your fingers, miss.” 

Feeling more and more like a country mouse, I stepped back to the curb and scanned the road for cabs.  A man with luggage and a cell phone walked up beside me.

“Waiting for a cab?” 

I nodded.

“Good luck with that.  It’s crazy in this town.  I’m just in from San Francisco and I’ve been waiting for ½ an hour for a cab to stop.”  My eyes widened.   I heard a bell ring.

“Hey lady!  You need to get somewhere fast?”  A voice called from the street.  Out of seemingly nowhere, a bicycle cab/rickshaw peeled out next to me and a tall, skinny man leaned off his bicycle and shot me a craggy grin.

Oh for crying out loud.

“Yes, yes I do.  Can you get me to The Puck Building?  Off Lafayette?”

“No problem.  52 blocks from here.  Gonna cost you $60.  Hop in.”

It didn’t look safe.  It was an updated version of a horse-and-buggy outfit, only instead of a horse pulling the cart down a country road, it was a skinny guy with an almost-beard toddling through Manhattan traffic.  I shouldn’t do it.  And sixty bucks?  I definitely shouldn’t do it.

“Okay.”  I climbed in.  He buckled me in like it was the Scrambler at the fair and off we plunged into the sea of buses, town cars, and cabs that didn’t want me as a patron.

Texted Chris:  I’m on my way.  I’m in an f@*&ing bicycle rickshaw.  This is my life.  $60.

I have never been so scared in my life.  This skinny man rode like he was rally driving, weaving in and out of traffic, skimming by the sides of buses, pitching wildly in potholes, and occasionally pointing out the scenery.

“Lady.  That?”  He pointed, taking both hands off of the handlebars and causing my heart to almost stop.  “That’s a very beautiful art exhibit.  It’s so nice.  I like art.”  We came about six inches from rear-ending a Mercedes.  “You like art, lady?  You been to the city before?”

The wind blew through my hair and I clutched the side of the seat for dear life.  “NO!”  I yelled, hoping these words wouldn’t be my last.  “BUT I LOVE ART!  I REALLY LOVE ART!  AND LIFE!  I LOVE LIFE, TOO!”

Texted Chris:  I may die in this thing.  I love you.  Don’t forget to feed the cats.

“Hey lady!  I take pictures.  You like pictures?”  He didn’t wait for a response.  “I would like to take your picture.  I have a nice, Polaroid camera.  You like to have pictures taken?”

“NO THANK YOU, SIR!  I WOULD JUST LIKE TO GET TO THE PUCK BUILDING, THANKS.”

“Okay.  I take good pictures, though.”

Life continued on for 30 harrowing minutes.  We finally turned on to Lafayette.  My hair was enormous.  My cheeks were wind-whipped.  My knuckles were white from hanging on for dear life as he pedaled furiously down Manhattan streets. 

He cut through a gas station, crossed between three buses and another bicycle cab, and drove up the sidewalk, to the very base of the Puck Building.  People were staring.  We skidded to a stop.

He rang the bell.

I unbuckled myself from the cab and he took my hand, helping me from the cart as though I were some sort of Disney royalty.  It was 7:15.

“Thank you very much, sir.  Here’s your money.”

“No charge, lady.”

“What?”

“No charge.  You can’t look that scared when you’re waiting for a ride, though.  Someone might take advantage of you!  You seem nice, lady.  Where I am from, we are nice to our women and we make sure they are safe.  No charge.”

I handed him a twenty dollar bill and shook his hand.

“Thank you very much, sir.  It’s been quite an experience.”

He jerked the bike back onto the street.  “The subway is probably more scary than this.  I see you next time, okay?”  And off he went, towards some semblance of a sunset, but most likely within two inches of the bumper of a bus.

Texted Chris:  I’m here.  My hair looks a fright.  People in New York aren’t as mean as I thought.  I may make it after all.

Posted by Kerri. at 02:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (0)

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Insulin.

It’s the core of my daily maintenance routine.  The stuff is crucial and I’m completely hooked.  (I would have said “pumped” but the pun would have been too obvious.  Tune in later for more subtle puns.) 

So when I was first diagnosed, insulin was the crux of my regimen.  Whether it was NPH, Lente, UltraLente, Lantus, Regular or Humalog, insulin was all that my body required to keep it running tight.

Posted by Kerri. at 09:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (2)

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We went arrived at the festival in Boston around 4 o’clock, after driving from RI.  Hours later, I felt the churning, swirling ache in my stomach.  That irritability and emptiness, making the railing of the theater’s chair almost ... chewy.

“When did we eat last?”  I whispered to Chris as the fifteenth short film started.

“At 3 o’clock.”

My stomach rumbled.

“And what time is it now?”

“I don’t know.  Check your pump.”  Quick hit of the button to illuminate the screen.  “It’s 9:30.”

A little bit shaky.  Kind of weak.  What was going on?  I must be like 50 mg/dl.  I pulled my meter from my purse and, by the backlight of my pump and meter, watched the countdown from 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ...

174 mg/dl.

Okay, not even close to low.  I bolused a unit and a half to bring me back towards 100 mg/dl and sat back in my seat to watch the rest of the film.  My stomach ached in protest.  “Hey lady.  Go eat something.  It’s been like seven hours.  I’m empty.  Whahh.”

Is this what hungry feels like?

Before I went on an insulin pump, I never really knew how “being hungry” felt.  Back when I was using NPH and Lente and UltraLente insulins, I kept to an eating schedule that protected me from the peaks and valleys of my insulin.  Even transitioning to Lantus had me eating on a scheduled basis, as the insulin seemed to peak a bit in my body.  Going more than three hours without a little snack was unheard of. 

Flash forward 17 years to the insulin pump.  At the age of 25, I started using my Paradigm 512 and it allowed me, for the first time in my life as a diabetic, to eat when I felt like it.  I could sleep until noon and not have to worry about blood sugar fluctuations.  I could go to bed at 3 in the morning and my A1c didn’t suffer the consequences.  (Though the bags under my eyes were impressive.)  And I didn’t have to eat every three hours to ensure that my sugars would remain range-ish.

For the first time that I could remember, I felt “hungry”.  And the feeling was so new and startling yet familiar and uncomfortable that I couldn’t help but associate it with being low.

We finally left the film festival and wandered towards the car.  “Eat something,” Stomach pleaded, lurching and trying to turn itself inside out. 

Posted by Kerri. at 11:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

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We're off and running (sigh ... more like driving for countless hours) back to Rhode Island for the weekend because Chris' film is screening at a few festivals this weekend in RI and Boston. 

I'm not anticipating any paparazzi, so I may leave my curling iron at home. 

In the meantime, if you have the opportunity to see The Illusionist, do it.  We saw it last week and it was terrific.  Makes me want to grow orange trees from fancy garbage cans.  (Go see it ... you'll know what I mean!)

Have a good weekend!

Posted by Kerri. at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

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1.  My sister was up from Virginia this past weekend, for the first time in almost a year.  She’s a good kid and we love her dearly.  Now she’s gone and I miss her goofiness.  Here’s a picture of my brother, my sister, and I on the back porch of my mother’s house.

3.  My car is nothing but trouble and I am aiming to toss it in the spring.  Burns oil like a champ.  I think I may actually be ready to let go of my obsession with VW Jettas.  (Someone needs to talk me out of this.  Seriously.)  Any suggestions on a nice, reliable car that’s kind of cool and on the smaller side?  I’m thinking about the Acura RSX (I had one when I worked for Acura, many moons ago, and it was a hot little ride that went exceedingly fast), but that might not be the best choice for my lead-footed self. 

4.  I just finished “Magic for Beginners” by Kelly Link.  It was loaned out to me by Chris’ sister (I definitely took the book jacket off while I was reading it, for fear of wrinkling it up) and it was a bizarre collection of short stories.  Some I found to be very interesting – the kid who inherits a phone booth in Las Vegas was tremendous - but there were a few that came across as abstract art-ish.  I could pretend I understood them, like that Seinfeld episode where no one understands the New Yorker cartoon, but that would mean I’d have to lie.

5.  Looking very much forward to meeting another fellow blogger next week.  They are one of my personal favorites, so it’s a bit of an honor.  It’s so odd to think that I’m meeting someone I don’t know, yet I know.  The gray areas of blogging are vast in that there are people who know the intimate details of certain areas of my life, and I have no idea who they are.  Same goes for me, poking around on blogs and thinking I know these people when, in fact, if they passed me on the street, I would have no idea who they are.

6.  Diabetes has been quiet and behaving itself lately.  No tricky lows, no sticky highs.  Bit of a red spot left from my last infusion set, but aside from that, nothing of note.  I’m going to ride this little moderate wave for as long as I can.  Feels nice.  That, and I put on a pair of pants from last fall that were slightly snug and now they are too big.  It makes those daily treks to the gym worth it, even those days when I have to dra-aag myself there and force my way through a workout.

But he whispers in my ear sometimes, while I’m working out.  “You are doing a good job.  Keep at it, Kerri.” 

And I turn to him and say, “Thank you, Larry.” 

Posted by Kerri. at 08:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (0)

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Twenty years.

I thought I would feel this epiphany, this moment of clarity, a feeling of pride and accomplishment that I have lived such  a normal life with diabetes.  That I would have sage words of wisdom to impart.  Some tips and tricks, maybe.  Advice.  Something I could look back on in another twenty years and nod my head in agreement with.

Twenty years of insulin. Of blood sugar tests.  Of diet plans and food exchanges and carb counting and ratios.  Twenty years of my mother worrying.  Of doctor appointments.  Of explaining the disease to new bosses, new friends, new lovers.  Of meters and needles and glucose tabs.  Of highs and ketones, of lows and juice.

But I don't have any words of advice.  I'm not an expert.  I deal with this the best I can.  There are days when I feel confident and in control.  There are others when I'm not sure which way the world is spinning.  Just like you. Just like everyone.

Twenty years ago today, I was diagnosed with diabetes.  Today feels good.  I feel no different from yesterday.

Here's to tomorrow being just the same.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (42) | TrackBacks (0)

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The house was completely quiet this morning when I woke up.  A sliver of sun cut through the bedroom shades and hit a patch on the floor that Fat Cat Abby was stretched out in.  Siah was napping on the bed, tucked neatly against Chris as he slept.  No noise from outside.  I reached for my testing kit, which was sitting on the bedside table and the zzz-iiiip of the case broke the silence.

There’s a steady hum of diabetic white noise in my life at all times.

Even if I don’t notice as much anymore, there are signs of diabetes everywhere in my house.  My black zipper kit sits on the bedside table.  Cake gel is tucked in to the little drawer of the table, laying flat against the bottle of blood pressure medication I take every night. 

The master bedroom closet houses all of my clothes and shoes.  I am a complete clothes horse (another phrase that makes about as much sense as eating a horse) and there is barely enough room for my summer wardrobe, nevermind every item I own.  But there is also a large, white cabinet tucked within its doors, which holds all my back-up pump supplies, lancets, bottles of test strips, and some spare pump clips. 

Bathroom cabinet?  Moisturizer, eye makeup remover, toothpaste, a bottle of Clean Provence perfume, and the Quickserter for my infusion sets.  Cake gel is in there, too, just in case.

Refrigerator?  Aside from the stock of produce and milk, thirteen vials of insulin stand at ready attention in a compartment in the door, alongside my stock of Humalog “just-in-case” insulin pens.  And the juice.  Always juice.

Dead test strips: on the floor right by the bedside table, under the couch cushion in the living room, a shoe in my closet, one was on the bottom shelf of the fridge this morning, and scattered around the garbage can in the kitchen.  (It’s like they rebel against being thrown away.  I make the effort to toss them and they still don’t make it in.)

Even on my own body:  You wouldn’t know by looking at me that I was diabetic, but the spotty scars on my fingertips and the dots (and tan lines) of past infusion sets on my thighs tell a silent story.   My purse is never without my kit, some juice, and some kind of carbohydrate source.  My boyfriend checks my forehead for beads of sweat every time he wakes up in the middle of the night. 

All these little signs.  Tucked away into compartments and drawers but at every turn and in every room.   I noticed them all this morning.  Every last one. 

Always there, humming away like white noise in the background, like the air conditioner at your office or the fan in your computer.  You barely notice when it’s on, but imagine, just for a minute, how much you’d notice if it starting spinning out of control.  Or if it hiccupped and stalled. 

Or if it just stopped.  Creating silence, like my house this morning.

… and the silence is broken by the sound of Ms. Siah, who found a ping-pong ball underneath the couch and is chasing it frantically across the kitchen floor.  I just picked a test strip out of my computer keyboard. 

So begins another day.

Posted by Kerri. at 09:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

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I realize what a desperate pun the title of this post is, but moving past that, I am sick of spam.  SICK OF IT. 

I have a serious filter on my Movable Type system here, but it doesn’t delete any comments or trackbacks without my consent.  So, three or four times a week, I go poking around in the “questionable comments” to see what kind of spam was skewered.  Today just about made my head explode.

I found the following comments that were attempted to be left on Six Until Me. (note:  All typos were left as is.  And any links have been disabled but bolded, so you can see where these villains want to lure you away):

“Hey, found ur sight thru another blog.  want to send nude pics to me thats kewl.  Talk to you tonight luv.”

“Want to increase the size of your UNIT?  Click here.  Click click here.”

“Thank you for blogging about DIABETES.  Maybe we could chat about it sometime?  Click here for more information on me.”  (I almost believed this one.  Until I clicked there.  And went blind momentarily.)

“test.”  (I did.  167 mg/dl.  I corrected back down to 100 mg/dl.  Thank you, Spammer.)

“DIA BET Ess is for you to write about.  Come visit my site and see what I am writting about. XOXOXO.”

“Can’t you tell me how to find someone in this big, fast world?  I’m looking for love and have tried every online dating service.  Maybe this will work.”

“Need affordable car insurance?  Click here.”

“Wicked hot deals!  Buy ur drugs online from Canada and save billions of dollas!  No disclaimer and u can have them shopped to a PO Box if u want to.”

“test”  (What are they testing?  To see if they can comment on my blog?  I think NOT!)

“Big?  Bigger?  Biggest?  Come see.”

This crap makes me crazy.  I do my best to run a blog that is pretty much PG rated (again, the sigh of relief from my mom, Chris’s mom, and Chris) so I can’t figure out how I’m reeling in these creepy spambots.  There is no foolproof filter.  The best I can do is set my spam-filter as high as possible and go delete the offensive ones that sneak through.  Is it as rampant on the entire blogosphere as it is on my little corner of it?  Is there some secret way to thwart these spammers, casting my site away from their prying little devices?

But I do have a secret favorite spam comment:

“I have three turtles.  Don’t you wish you had three turtles, too?”

No link.  No URL.  No email address.  Just someone telling me, gently, about their love for three turtles. 

And I’ll admit, for a moment, I did wish I had three turtles, too. 

Posted by Kerri. at 01:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

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<whine>

I feel crummy. 

Headache:  foggy and achy, wanting nothing more than to just hold my head in my hands, occasionally mussing up my ponytail.   Stomach:  apparently doing flips inside my body, refusing to accept more than a spoonful of oatmeal at a time.  Temperature:  I haven’t taken it yet but I’m pretty sure I have a little fever because my skin is horrified to have my clothes near it.  Every brush of my sleeve against my arm makes my skin scream.  Bloodsugars:   at a jolly old 155 mg/dl, but my insulin:carb ratios are through the roof this morning.  My oatmeal, which is usually covered by 2 units of insulin, was countered with 5 units this morning.  Last night’s sugars, however, were content to hover around 300 mg/dl.  Ketones:  none.  Thirst level:  extreme.  I could drink a horse.*  General mood:  whiny.  Seriously whiny.  The kind of mood that makes me want to go home and flounce around the house, eating popsicles and napping on the couch and enjoying the furry company of one little, gray Siah cat.  Miserable, pouting Kerri.

</whine>

*  “I’m so thirsty, I could drink a horse,” doesn’t make nearly the amount of sense that “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse,” makes.  Although the “eat a horse” expression is ridiculous on its own.  Whatever.  I’m at a feverish loss.  This is the best I can come up with this morning.   

Posted by Kerri. at 07:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

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Here we are, at the dawning of September, and the editors of EXIST Magazine (read: Chris and Kerri, who are very tired today) present:

The September Edition.

As of this month, we're looking for Letters to the Editor for our October launch.  If you, or anyone you know, has something to say about the past issues or EXIST Magazine itself or the state of affairs in the world or the plight of S.Sausage vs. The Dish Washer (which, by the way, ran for the first time last night and spooked Siah so badly that she became easily 3 times her normal size, all puffed out), submit your letters to The Editors of EXIST Magazine.

Also, because we understand the benefit of free and viral marketing, you can visit our mySpace page for EXIST. 

I hope you enjoy the September edition!

Posted by Kerri. at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

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