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Words. I don’t have too many left at the moment.
Today marks the end of NaNoWriMo and I crossed the finish line about five minutes ago. Clocked in at 50,224 words.Today also marks the end of NaBloPoMo, and this post marks my final one for the month of November.
To quote another one of my fellow NaNoWriMo winners, if I start talking about doing NaNo again next year, “Please get your glove and slap me before then.”New to the Crew:
Molly, over at Dam Diabetes, has added her voice to our chaotic d-chorus. You have to stop by her blog and check out the graphic. I laughed and laughed. Nothing like an over-medicated beaver to start your day right.
Also, one of my personal favorite serial commenters has taken the plunge and started her own blog! Hooray!! Check out Chrissie from Belgium’s blog, Chrissie’s Diabetes Blog.
Have you seen Carey over at Up High … Down Low? He writes about his son Charlie (such a cute little guy), who was diagnosed with type 1. Check out the bit about the robot dad talking to his robot son … it made me honestly laugh out loud at my desk.
You can’t miss Chris and Emma over at Rub Eyes When Needed. Emma is a precocious little girl with a loving, supportive family. She was diagnosed just a few weeks ago and they are learning the ropes as we speak. Stop by and give them your support.
And lastly, if you are looking to add your blog to yet another diabetes blog listing tool, take a skip by The DiabetesBLOGNetwork and sign up. I have been speaking to the creators of this site and they are looking to establish another cumulative resource for the blogosphere. The more, the merrier, I say! They have a relatively comprehensive listing of diabetes blogs, professional d-resources, in addition to other services. Become a DBN affiliate today!
The Mighty ‘Sphere is growing by the day. It never ceases to amaze me, when I think back to May 2005 when I was one of five or six d-bloggers. Now I’m one of more than 140 bloggers.
Cheers to that.
EDIT: Comments are acting up on this post today. I think they're working now. Let me know if you run into any other problems commenting. :)
It was strange to see those hands, the ones that hold mine and write screenplays and play guitar, pulling the bright orange cap off of a syringe.
“The plunger one first, then the cap,” he murmured to himself, exposing the tiny needle.
“Pull back to get some air and then inject it into the bottle, to keep it pressurized.” I instructed, watching him as his hands clumsily held the needle. Odd feeling, to watch him struggle with something I did so naturally, like breathing. He drew back the plunger, eased the needle into the top of the Humalog bottle, and pushed the air inside.
“How many?” He asked, peering at the glass vial.
“Hang on, let me check the bread.” I checked the package of bread for the carbohydrates per slice. “There are 27 carbs total, so three units.”
“Three units,” he repeated.
I was taking a lunch time shot instead of a lunch time bolus because I was trying to stretch out the life of my infusion set.
I have been using an insulin pump for almost three years, but I’ve only known Chris for two. He’s never known anything other than the pump. He’s only seen me take a shot once. We figured that he should know how to draw up a syringe and inject me, just to become familiar. One of those things that the partner of a diabetic should know. Strange, though, to think that this was new to him. For over seventeen years, this was all I used to know.
Stranger still was the fact that the syringe looked foreign to me, too.
“Okay, I think there’s an air bubble in this. See? Right there.” He tried to point with one finger, only it seemed to require more than two hands to hold the syringe into the bottle without bending it.
“I see it. Just give the syringe a tap and the air bubble will scoot over to the middle. Then you can shoot it back into the bottle and draw the plunger back to three.”
He tapped the syringe. I watched the bubble scuttle over to the center and launch back into the bottle of insulin.
I rolled up my sleeve.
“Just pinch up the skin on the back of my arm and we’ll put that needle in at a 90 degree angle. Go ahead, you can pinch more than that.”
His hands closed around my arm.
“Are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Gently pressed against my skin. The needle slipped in and he pressed the plunger. The needle was at a funny angle in my arm but I didn’t want to say anything. I felt the cool sting of insulin. His unsteady hands pulled the syringe out.“All set. Did it sting?”
“Not at all. Thank you, baby.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Always.”
I’m cheap. Frugal. Stingy.
Or maybe just bitter?
I’ll spend an obscene amount of money on a pair of pants or a shirt,
but I will reuse a lancet until its bitter, blunted end and I will stretch out the life of an infusion set until the site starts to throb a small bit. I’d rather spend my money on something normal instead of shelling out any more than is necessary to the diabetes supply fund. Sounds sort of whiney but it’s true: I spend as little money as humanly possible on maintaining the D. I’ll exercise and eat right and keep things as tight as possible every single day, but I'm cheap about supplies.
Like today: I went home for lunch. Grabbed my handbag and some paperwork from the front seat of the car and closed the door with my hip. Felt that “hey!” from the outside of my left thigh, where the infusion set is living. The lip of the door snagged on my site and gave it a solid yank.
Oh man, that hurts.
I trotted upstairs to my apartment and scoped out the site. The edge of my QuickSet had ripped a little bit, leaving a peek-a-boo spot that I could spy the cannula through.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I pushed against the cap of the infusion set and watched as the cannula imbedded itself deeper into my thigh. Pulling the plastic wrapping off a band aid with my teeth, I stuck the band aid over the infusion site and pressed down hard.
Too cheap/frugal/stingy/bitter to replace the site. I mean, there was still 8 units left in the pump. Enough to last me through the end of the work day, when I could rip the site before the gym, workout, and replace it after my “pump-free shower” tonight.
“Please work. Please just hold out until the end of the day.” This makes the second time in a week that I’ve had a conversation with my leg.
So now, a few hours later, I’m enjoying a blood sugar of 116 mg/dl. My pump keeps hollering at me – boop beep boop – because the reservoir is less than 5 units, but I’m riding it out. I have a brand new infusion set and a bottle of insulin in my bag. I have an insulin pen stashed in my desk drawer.
What I don’t have is the desire to rip out a set before I feel it’s due to be removed.
Conserving test strips. Re-using syringes. Re-filled pump reservoirs. These are the financial tricks of my trade. Even though I know it’s better to switch the site every three days and to change the lancet every time I test, I just don’t do it.
I’m trying to convince myself that I’m recycling, but it’s a bit of a tough sell at the moment, with this sore site in my thigh.
Other people do this, don't they?
After an exceedingly busy past few days and the end of November looming close, no time for a decent post today. There's no time like NaNo time. I have almost 35,000 words to wrangle in and five days in which to make it happen.
Confidence, sliding.
Insanity levels, rising. :)
(Note: If I start blabbing about wanting to do this again next year, someone please smack me upside the head.)
Adventures on Black Friday:
The vast expanses of coffee in the marketplace at Grand Central. (They don't sell cups of coffee, however. I had to trot out to the Oren's in the station itself to grab a much-needed cup of java.)
There are some very bright people in NYC. Especially the people who knew that diabetics do love their sugar-free holiday treats. This sign was like a blog-beacon.
It was a nice surprise, these gorgeous flowers dotting the landscape along the back wall of the marketplace. The colors were tremendous.
Of course, we ventured off to Rockefeller Center and watched people skate around. I saw one girl who appeared to be a professional, spinning like the proverbial top until she came to pause in a flurry of ice. I also saw a bunch of clumsy fools (much like I would be) who fell over one another every five minutes and laughed like lunatics.
Not much shopping was accomplished, although we did brave the turmoil of Toys "Backwards R" Us that churned with the excitement of 50 million kids. And I also scored a terrific Kate Spade knock-off on a sidestreet.
And while in Saks, I saw one tall blonde-haired girl wearing boots over her jeans (explain this horrific trend to me, please) pick up a $710 Prada wallet and murmur to her equally-as-fussy friend, "Oh, this would be a great trinket for Missy."
A $710 wallet is a trinket?!! Sounded more like rent to me.
Today, Ellis Island. After that, some freaking sleep, please. :)
We watched from The Blue Fin, which is located on the corner of 47th and Broadway.
The M & M guys watched from a billboard across the street and made me laugh out loud when I saw how intently they were "watching" the balloons go by.
Scooby scuttled by, low and lazy due to the rainy, whipping winds.
Garfield kept a low profile, too. Chris' niece whispered in my ear, "That cat is almost as fat as your Fat Cat," and nodded to make it true.
The Energizer Bunny was unaffected by the weather, tall and proud and an obnoxious shade of glucose-tab pink.
Occasionally, we ducked back inside of the restaurant for a refill on coffee and a chance to warm our noses. It was as I was taking a long sip of cappucino when I almost spit it out at the shock of seeing this enormous bandit through the plate glass windows, running like he'd stolen someone's purse.
Since I'm short on time to post today, save for these few lines, I'm leaving you with the November edition of Generation D.: Giving Thanks.
And, like last year's foolishness, I offer up my hand turkey:
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Clean the house, including that spot underneath the couch where Sausage hides all my pump caps and hair ties and the Chaos Hub that is my office.
Wash the laundry. It’s not fair for all of those gym sports bras and random socks to be tangled in the dirty clothes bin like that.
Fill up the pump to the absolute brim. Thanksgiving is notoriously food oriented (readers gasp in shock) and we’re starting our day on Broadway for brunch as we watch the parade balloons stroll by. (More on that - with pictures! - on Friday.) I need all the insulin I can muster up!
Remember where I put all the pants that fit me. (Hooray for faithful workouts and clothes that are too big, but a pox on not knowing where I can find a seamstress that can take my pants down a size.)
Work on NaNo. Find out how to cough up 38,000 words in a week and a half.
Wish the blogosphere a very Happy and Safe Thanksgiving weekend!
I went home for lunch (my commute is six minutes – have I mentioned that I love my job?) and enjoyed a sandwich and an ice cold glass of milk. Terrific. Bolused a few units for the meal. Put the dishes in the dishwasher away, entertained the cats with a hair tie for a few minutes, and then drove back to the office.
Staring at the computer screen, I noticed that the letters were leaping all over the place. “For your diabetes life” looked like it was trying to scuttle across the top of the screen. If I spied weights attached to each individual finger, I wouldn’t have been surprised. My eyes were aching and dry. I rubbed them with the back of my fist and reached for my water bottle, guzzling down half of it in one breath. I felt Grade A crummy.
“Oh for crying out loud,” I half muttered to myself as I sat at my desk and tried to make sense of the recipe pages in front of me. “I’m definitely frigging high.”
I pricked my finger and the droplet of blood formed, thick like syrup, on the tip of my index finger.
366 mg/dl.
The groan escaped me involuntarily. Ugh, that’s so high. How did I end up that high?
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my insulin pump discreetly. Too sluggish to calculate the math myself, I listened intently to the bolus wizard as it boop beep booped out a few units for me. I tucked the pump back into my pocket and resumed staring aimlessly at my computer screen.
I smelled the dentist-ish, Band-Aid smell first. Then I noticed that the spot near my outer thigh, where my infusion set was stashed, felt a little damp. Hoping no one would walk by and see me with my hand down my pants, I reached in and felt my thigh for the site hub.
The little sucker was loose. Not connected to my body. The tubing must have swiveled around and tugged the site loose sometime over the last hour or so. Probably just in time to miss my lunchtime bolus, leaving me at this sticky 366 mg/dl.
I reattached the tubing to the hub and re-bolused. “Gotcha now, you pesky high.” One of the marketing people strolled by and I pretended I was on the phone instead of talking to my infusion site.
An hour later- 184 mg/dl.
“About time. You’d better stay connected now,” I threatened my thigh. The marketing person walked by as I stared admonishingly at my leg.
Penguins are interesting little critters. They waddle all over the place and when they run, they stick their arms out behind them and waddle with vigor. Very interesting indeed.
We saw them at the Central Park Zoo yesterday.
We had never been to the Central Park Zoo before, and the juxtaposition of the wildlife set against the skyline of New York City was something that gave me pause. (No, not paws. That would have been markedly more zoo-appropriate, though.)
“Look, a polar bear!”
“Yes, and look! A skyscraper!”
Aside from some amusing (yet highly stinky) penguins, we explored the jungles of Africa, saw enormous snakes, watched sea lions leap in a fountain, and checked out three cuddling monkeys. (The monkeys, for the record, kept staring at us until we felt uncomfortable and left.)
Zoos are always excellent fun.
And so are merry-go-rounds, like the one in Central Park. It went a lot faster than we had anticipated. For $1.50, you can't have a better time. Even grown men like them. As seen in Exhibit A: The Chris-Go-Round.
in Times Square. (Note to self: A hamburger is never worth $16.99. Ever. Don't let the lights dazzle you. It should only have cost $6.00. Thieves. They burnt the bun, too.) And we didn't end up lost. Not even once. Which is a record for our directionally-challenged selves. Which is also why this picture exists: Me, standing exactly where I should have been standing, not lost in the slightest, looking surprised as hell.
"Hey! Know where you are?"
"Times Square!"
"We're not lost!"
"Yay!"
*click*
(Ripped off from Julia.)
Explain what ended your last relationship?
Honestly? I wanted kids, he didn’t.
When was the last time you shaved?
This morning. Every day. I am compulsive about it.
What were you doing this morning at 8 a.m.?
Sound asleep in my bed, tucked in under the down comforter with Abby at the foot of the bed, Chris to my right, and Sausage on my head. (Out of context, that sounds bizarre. Actually, it doesn’t sound normal in context, either.)
What were you doing 15 minutes ago?
Making a cup of black tea.
Are you any good at math?
Complete crap at it. If there wasn’t a bolus wizard on my pump, I would be low all the time. Don’t ask me about my sense of direction, either. It’s on the Crap List as well.
Your prom night, what do you remember about it?
My date wore a white suit, we had a limo with 7 of our friends, and my prom dress was dyed to match my old 1996 VW Jetta. I actually had the dress shop match swatches to the paint job on my car. Yes, troubled. I agree.
Do you have any famous ancestors?
Not really. But on his mother’s side, my nephew is a direct descendant of William Wallace.
Have you had to take a loan out for school?
Scholarship, baby.
Last thing received in the mail?
A copy of “The Record” music magazine. (More on that later.)
How many different beverages have you had today?
Two: A cup of juice to treat a tricky low and a cup of tea to start my day the British way.
Do you ever leave messages on people’s answering machine?
I leave the worst messages on people’s answering machines. I never remember to say, “Hi, this is Kerri.” Instead, I launch right into my message about whatever random thing I was calling for, end up tangled in my words: “Remember that thing we talked about the other day? I was thinking about it on the way home and I heard a song that could work for the thing we were talking about ... and do you remember that time we were at that show and we saw that girl wearing pajama pants? ... so anyway, yeah, call me back. This is Kerri.” Ridiculous.
Who did you lose your CONCERT virginity to?
Radiohead. 1996. Awesome.
Do you draw your name in the sand when you go to the beach?
Unfortunately, yes. That whole “my name washing away in the waves of the ocean” bit is way too romantic for me to resist.
What’s the most painful dental procedure you’ve had?
All of them. I’m scared to pieces of the dentist.
What is out your back door?
A back deck, filled with plants and a ladybug infestation.
Any plans for Friday night?
This past Friday I went to the movies to see “Casino Royale.” (Tremendous, by the way.) This coming Friday, we’re hosting the Thanksgiving weekend, so all bets are off.
Do you like what the ocean does to your hair?
Volume is a nice change for a fine-haired girl.
Have you ever received one of those big tins of 3 different popcorns?
Yes. I find them to be both revolting and delicious at the same time. I’m also convinced they were packaged the year I was born.
Have you ever been to a planetarium?
Yessir. I love planetariums, museums, aquariums, and anything Imax 3-D. They bring me great joy.
Do you re-use towels after you shower?
”Yes,” says Cheap Kerri.
Some things you are excited about?
Getting a letter in the mail (LETTER, not a bill, thank you), a new book to read, writing projects, the prospect of a new car, and unexpected flowers.
What is your favorite flavor of JELL-O?
Jell-O: Every high diabetic’s favorite food. Blood sugar cresting over 300 mg/dl? No problem. You can devour as much Jell-O as you’d like. My personal favorite is strawberry banana. Add a little light whipping cream to the mixture before you put it in the fridge to cool and it makes a lovely little dessert. Yum.
Describe your keychain(s)?
Keys to the apartment, my mother’s house, my father’s house, my car, our old apartment, Nana’s house (some reason, I haven’t let that key go yet, even though it’s been 2 years), keys to the dLife office, the storage area at our building, and other assorted key bits. These are all attached to a ring from the Watch Hill carousel, of which I am very, very proud. It’s like carrying around a bit of my childhood.
Where do you keep your change?
In two almond jars, separated into “pennies” and “silver coins.” I’m very OCD.
When was the last time you spoke in front of a large group of people?
At my Nana’s funeral a few years ago.
What kind of winter coat do you own?
Long black wool coat from J. Crew that I spent way too much money on but I love.
What was the weather like on your graduation day?
High school? Overcast, threatening rain. College? Gorgeous. I had tan lines from my graduation cap.
Do you sleep with the door to your room open or closed?
Open. How else would the cats be able to torture me all night long?
An annoying critter since I first brought her home, Ms. Siah has notoriously shoved herself into every corner of the house. When she was a teeny kitten, she hid in the recycling pile:
She tried to help us put up shelves when we moved to Norwalk, but the best she could muster was hiding beside the toolbox:
(She looks like that dog that warned about the advancements of The Nothing from The Never-Ending Story. I loved Falcore, just for the record, and always wanted my own luck dragon.)
Little Siah also makes attempts to clean Chris' bathroom, but there's really no helping him on that one. Instead, she hangs out in the sink:
And most recently, we moved a dresser into Chris' closet to accomodate new furniture purchases and to store his winter clothes. Of course, the little rat had to stick her nose in that project, too.
Sigh.
The is no sleep for the Sausage. And not much for Chris and Kerri, either, due to her manical ways. Good thing she's cute, or we'd have long since fed her to the bears at my mother's house.
(Wouldn’t you think there would only be three questions on this one? Tricky. So I added the bunnies, to drive home the "three" concept.)
Three Things I Do Every Day: Take a hot shower. Test my blood sugar. Grin at somebody.
Three Things I Wish I Could Do Every Day: Hug my niece and nephew. Achieve steady blood sugar control. Feel at peace.
Three Hopes I Have for Today: That people stop saying how nice the warm weather is right now and instead contemplate how to stop global warming. That my eyes continue to find the ladybugs hiding in the plants on the back deck. That I’m not too scared to publish this book once it’s done.
Three Things I Hear: The inspiring sounds of Damien Rice’s “9,” the sound of my fingers against the keyboard, and the “More Cowbell” skit coming from the speakers of someone in the IT department.
Three Ways I Have Changed my Life: I have achieved, and since reset, my fitness goals. I have found an outlet for my writing. I have found a man who inspires me.
Three People I Wish I Could See Again: Bumpa, Nana, and my Grammie.
Three Items I Wish I Owned: A car that I felt was worth the monthly payment, a CGMS, and living room furniture that fit in the living room.
(Here’s the deal with the couch: We were given a very nice, very cool couch that didn’t fit through the front door. So it was hoisted onto the top of the U-Haul and then coaxed in through the sliding glass doors on the deck of the second bedroom by Chris and a few of the neighborhood gardeners. However, it is too big to get out of the second bedroom. So we have the futon in the living room and the couch in the bedroom … ahem, the couchroom. I’m going to take a chainsaw to it when we move out. That should be satisfying.)
Three Wishes I Had When I Was Young: To live to be 100 years old, to be a writer, and to be someone’s mother. These are wishes I still have.
Three Fears I Have: That “my best” won’t be enough. That my body will give in to diabetes complications. That I will always feel uncertain about the future of my health.
Three Things on My Desk: My meter, a mug-warmer for my fabulous SUM coffee mug, and Larry Bird.
Three Thoughts in My Mind: “Happy Birthday, Darrell!” “I wonder how much coffee I could drink before I start to feel un-workably jittery.” “NaNo … you’re toast, kid. Fire it up.”
No need for tagging. Just tossing it out there for whoever wants to take a spin through. Happy Friday, Internet!
I listened to his album, O, until I had every subtle sound committed to my heart. Excellent album. It was nearly impossible to tear from my cd player. Fantastic artist. He heals heartaches, evokes poetry, and I'm not altogether unconvinced he can't fly.
Damien Rice has come out with a second album, a huge follow-up to his tremendous debut. Check out this clip from Jay Leno and see for yourself.
(With a tip of the hat to Julia and McSweeney's)
Dear Pancreas,
I’m not sure what the hell happened to you, but you’ve taken it upon yourself to stop working. You did have that job for about six years, where you got up early every day and produced my insulin, but apparently that was too much for you. You were laid off or fired or something. Don’t blame it on that virus again. I think you just slept through the alarm and were let go and you just don’t want to admit it.
All you do is sit around, hiding out behind my stomach, reading smut novels and watching reruns of The Facts of Life. Sure, you push out the occasional juices and you can sound important when you talk about “trypsinogen” and “chymotrypsinogen,” but you and I both know that you don’t do much. It’s not even like you empty the dishwasher or anything. The least you could do, after I’ve been testing blood sugar levels and bolusing all day long, is have dinner on the table when I come home. Is that too much to ask?
Oh no, you’d rather just sit there like a bump on the duodenum, letting me do all the work. Don’t worry, Pancreas, I’ll make sure I count the carbohydrates in every little scrap of food and bolus accordingly. No, no, don’t get up. God forbid you raise an islet these days to let me have a cup of coffee.
And I don’t care that you’re jealous of The Pump. I’m sick of listening to you whine about it. “She gets all the attention.” “Everyone loves her best.” “You never made me a special pocket in your skirt.” Sigh ... Pancreas, if you would just do your job, I could toss The Pump forever.
Remember what it was like when you were working? How happy we were? I was playing outside and drinking the Bug Juice Kool-Aide that Grammie made and you were secreting insulin and everything was cool. We had fun, didn’t we? Just you and I? A Girl and her Pancreas? No pump, no measuring cups, no medic alert bracelet. Just you and me.
And now this: Unemployed. Lazy. Would it kill you to even just make some glucagon? Or maybe cover a meal or two?
I miss the way things used to be.
That’s it: you need to find a job. I’ve had just about enough of this. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to load your resume onto Monster and see what happens. I know that the Wonkas are always looking for help.
Signed,
Kerri
NurseBestFriend (hereby referred to as NBF) told me we were going out on Saturday night.
"Be to my house by six o'clock. Wear something fun. Don't be late."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise. You'll see."
So I showed up, 6 o'clock on the dot, dressed "fun," and ready to party. 
"Where are we going, NBF?"
She smiled wickedly. "I thought we'd go to the casino. Foxwoods sound good to you?"
It did indeed.
We climbed into her car, clicking out seatbelts. I nodded after she asked, "Do you have your kit and some juice?" Both of her parents have type 2 diabetes: NBF knows this drill cold. (She also waitressed with me for a number of summers and saw some wild low blood sugars while I was slinging coffee and eggs for the Misquamicut beach-goers. Needless to say, she knows how to take care of me.)
We drove for a while, talking about all the things that had gone on over the past few weeks, what with Baby A being born, some gossip about our friends and family, and the passing of my Grammie. We sang along to horrendous pop music and contemplated precisely what "Fergalicious" actually meant. Arriving at Foxwoods, we circled around trying to find a parking spot.
"Man, it's packed tonight. There are about a million people here! Maybe there's a fight or something tonight."
"I don't know," she said, easing the car around the parking garage.
We finally found a space, parked, and listened to our heels clack against the concrete garage floor.
Elevator shot us up to the Casino. The doors parted and we made our way along the window-lined corridor. I noticed a sign advertising a concert near the entrance of the gaming floors.
"Hey, [NBF]! Jewel is playing tonight! That must be why there are so many people here. Damnit, I wish I had known. I would have gotten tickets."
I love Jewel. NBF and I had been to see her three other times. Everytime Jewel played near us, we scored tickets and went to see her. It was one of Those Things we always did together. I felt like a crumb because I had missed this one.
"No kidding," NBF replied. "Okay, now we have to hurry because the show starts at nine."
"What??"
"We have tickets for the show! You had such a crappy few weeks and you needed some fun and I thought this would be a good surprise. So, Surprise!"
This girl is awesome. Have I mentioned that before?
The Foxwoods theater is set up in such a way that there are no bad seats. And Jewel, per usual, was amazing. She opened with an a capella rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and she never looked back. With a voice that sounded even better live than on her albums and with stories that made the audience laugh, Jewel was phenomenal. Goosebumps.
The show closed and we ventured off, chatting animatedly about the fantastic show, to The Hard Rock. I ordered our first round.
"To Jewel," she said, raising her bottle to mine.
"To fantastic surprises. Thank you so much. This was so awesome."
"Make sure you bolus for that beer."
Clink.
There's not too much to say tonight, as I'm just returning from my long weekend in RI and trying to unpack my nonsense, check emails, and figure out where the Sausage hid my Quick-Serter.
But I had the opportunity to visit with the newest member of my family tonight , my niece Baby A. Holding such a teeny tiny baby, listening to those soft little sounds, holding hands that are barely nine days old, and who looks at you for the first time with eyes you already recognize ... makes me the proudest aunt in the world.
Bullet List, as time is tight:
That's all I wrote. :)
We're heading home to RI for the weekend for the screening of Chris' short film, "Balance," on Sunday night, so posts will be sparse. (And NaNo will most likely be ignored entirely. 50,000 words seems like a pipe dream at the moment.)
But we went to the grocery store the other night, bringing back a number of those rustly plastic PriceRite bags and setting them on the kitchen floor. Focusing on putting away the groceries as quickly as possible, we didn't notice that the bags were rustling even when we weren't touching them.
"Turn around," Chris said.
And I looked down to see this:
She looks so hopeful, like she thought there would be a whole chicken dinner waiting at the bottom of this bag. Poor Siah.
I couldn't resist. It makes me laugh every damn time.
“Ow!” I pull my finger back and shake it around a little bit to ease the sting. The blood is pulled into the strip and I wait for the result.
No one in my family knows what that feels like. My family and friends know that this is part of the routine I follow every day – testing blood sugars, taking insulin, watching carbs, carrying juice – but they don’t know how this feels. Do they know what it’s like to prick your finger every day? Or to experience the sensation of insulin spreading beneath your skin? Do our loved ones understand the settling mental fog of a high blood sugar? Or the panicked frustration of a low? What it’s like to understand that the future of your health lies heavily in your hands sometimes? They try their best to understand and they go to great lengths to make you feel like they understand completely, but they can’t. And I don’t want them to. I don’t want my family and friends to feel what I feel sometimes. I want them to be healthy and protected from this.
But those of you with diabetes – you know.
You know what a three hour high blood sugar feels like. You understand how frustrating it is to do “all the right things” and still end up at 212 mg/dl. You have been at the bottom of the well, aching for glucose, clinging desperately to a bottle of Dole orange juice as you lean against the freezer cases at the gas station. You have felt those fears about the future. You’ve also felt the elation at eating a piece of delectable strawberry cheesecake, accurately bolusing for the carbohydrates, and clocking in at a tidy 100 mg/dl. You know what’s like to go to the gym and work out hard and with great ambition, successfully keeping your glucose steady at 130 mg/dl the whole time. Some of you have challenged your body and created beautiful children. You understand how funny it is to find a test strip in your shoe. You have posted a lab result on your fridge with an A1c you’re proud of. You understand and appreciate feeling Good, because you know you’ve worked hard that day to feel that healthy.
We are the success stories. Even as I sit here, 20 years into this and with the beginnings of diabetic retinopathy in my eye, I feel successful. I can’t think of a single thing I have been unable to do because I was diabetic. I have ridden rollercoasters. Taken gorgeous vacations. Danced with reckless abandon with my friends. Moved to new towns and started new careers. Said goodbye to loved ones. Said hello to others. Fallen in love.All with a pump in my pocket and a meter in my purse.
Every day we face this disease. There are days when we feel like we’re on top of the world and others when we feel like we’re trying to keep it from falling on us. But for me, every day is a easier knowing that there are people out there who Understand Completely. You, my fellow d-bloggers, are my heroes. Every day, every post I read, inspires me. You understand what it’s like to really live with this disease.
I’m not sure how my life would be if I hadn’t started blogging, but I’m so thankful for the life I lead. And I’m so thankful for all of you.
Happy D-Blog Day.
Bleary eyes. Not even a pond of Visine could help me today. NaNo is doing a great job of drawing the focus from my grief and channeling it creatively. It’s also doing a great job of depriving me in the sleep department and making me a little fussed. Eight days into this NaNo mes
s and I’m way behind the expected word count. My project is plodding along and the pages are starting to spin out with a bit more ease, but I already hate my main character. I’ve changed her name three times and have plotted a way to eventually kill her off.
All in all, standard fare for a Wednesday morning.
I know there are several bloggers navigating through NaNo themselves – how is that going for you? Am I the only one who is actually typing the words, “Just pick an adjective and get on with it, for crying out loud, Kerri,” leaving little italics breadcrumbs for myself all over the manuscript file? I re-read some of my project last night and snickered at myself when I came to an italicized paragraph that read “Kerri, stop thinking about grilled cheese sandwiches. They won’t inspire you. Write something decent and reward yourself with food, a la Charlie Kaufman in Adaptation.”
If you’re doing NaNo this year, share your username and I’d love to add you to my writing buddies.
For now, it's back to work and back to listening to the rain dance on the skylight above my desk. Tonight, NaNo and I will resume our war.