Last night when I left work, my tire looked a little mushy.

"Oh come on, Tire."  Terrible habit, calling the different parts of this ridiculous car by name, but it gives my mind something to do other than hurl insults into the air and see where they land.

"You aren't quite flat, but you look like crap."

The tire shot me a tired look.  "You drive too fast.  And I don't like your hair today."

"Whatever."  I went around to the trunk and grabbed the emergency kit, which includes flares, jumper cables, a pressure gauge, and this incredibly cool pump that you plug into the cigarette lighter and it can refill your tire.  (Thank you, Dad, for buying me boring and practical gifts.  You were right.)

The tire yawned at me as I filled it up.  Once it was tight with air, I climbed in the car and drove home.  Went inside, changed for the gym.  Looked out the window at my car by chance and saw that the tire was flat.  Again.

I swear it winked at me from the driveway.

After changing the tire over to the full-size spare (good ol' cruddy VW does offer a full-size spare, I'll give them that), I went to the gym to workout.  Came home, did some stuff, coaxed Siah off of the bookcase where she was hoarding a stash of gym socks, changed my insulin pump site, and went to bed.

The alarm went off this morning early, giving me plenty of time to shower, get dressed, make lunch, look out the window, notice that now the spare tire was flat, let loose with a stream of curse words not unlike Yosemite Sam, and eat a plum.

The Car Gods are aligned against me today.  I pumped the spare back full of air, drove my six minutes to work, and made an appointment at Town Fair Tire.  (Name brands at discount prices!  Now try and get that theme song out of your head.) 

I'm admittedly Crumbs Morrone about this, and the only thing that is bringing a smile is a memory of Pee Wee's Playhouse (brought to me by Lester22).  Oh this blasted car. 

Today's secret word is:  Tire!   Ahhhh!

Posted by Kerri. at 08:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

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"What is that guy doing?"  NBF whispered over her shoulder as the man behind us sang along to his iPod.

"It's like his stomach is a cotton candy machine.  Oh my goodness, is he singing Celine Dion?"

We talked about our jobs, the wedding next year, and our plans to take Batman out for her birthday that night.  After assessing our sun-burned skin, we headed up Route 4 and grabbed the Batman.

Dinner in Providence.

A drink or two.  (Okay, maybe a few drinks.)

And some dancing.

Blood sugars were a little on the higher side (running from around 180 mg/dl and crested up as high as 265 mg/dl) but it was nice to relax with friends and have a good time.  Focusing on work, developing side-projects, and keeping my eye on the career ball is good, but sometimes you need to just let loose and have a damn good time.

And before bed last night I was 129 g/dl.  This morning, 127 mg/dl.  Good recovery.  Back on track for the work week.   

Posted by Kerri. at 08:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

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Back a few years ago, when I was working in an arbitration firm, I developed an obsession with Fudgy the Whale.  (Yes, we're back at Tom Carvel again.)  The job I worked was thankless, forcing my then 23 year old self to receive payment for only 35 hours when I was plugging through more than 40.  Deadlines were strict, the matters were enormously legal, and my days were spent consulting with high-power attorneys and former FBI heads.  Files piled up.  Stress levels were elevated. 

It was at this job that I decided to start insulin pumping.  I had been struggling to lower my A1c for some time and my morning dawn phenomenon symptoms were becoming a daily nuisance.  Couple those factors with the low blood sugars I was being tagged with and I was a grumpy little diabetic. 

I started making the phone calls to my doctor in November, telling her that I was ready to transition to pump therapy.  After a few training classes at Joslin, some in-depth discussions with my then-partner, and way too many phone calls with the soul-sucking ghouls at my medical insurance company, I was finally suited up with my Minimed 512 and ready to roll.

After I started pumping, I was so tempted to start experimenting with the insulin-to-carb ratios.  Specifically the ones that would allow for, say, some ice cream cake?

"You guys remember Fudgy the Whale, right?"  I asked my co-workers over lunch one day.  They did.  But I wouldn't let it go.

"Man, those ice cream cakes were delicious.  We should totally get one for the office."

"Right.  We should!"

But we didn't.  And the pump clipped to my hip kept whispering to me as I filed my arbitration awards. 

"Pssst.  Kerri.  Listen, you can totally do an ice cream cake.  Just use your 1:10 ratio and read the carb count on the side of the box."

I tried to whisper back without moving my lips.  Didn't want anyone at work to think I was nuts.

"I know.  I'm working on it."

After a few days, my frenzied discussions about Tom Carvel and his fabulous cakes tapered off a bit, thanks to a workload that was holding me by the throat.

One afternoon - "Hey guys, we have a meeting in ten.  Conference room."  My bosses voice rang out over the cubicle farm and we all popped up like overworked whack-a-moles.

I finished up the file I was working on and grabbed my notebook for the meeting.  The conference room was right near my desk, so I strolled on over, opened the door, and saw:

Fudgie.

And on his belly, it said, "Fudgy Loves Kerri."

"Oh!  Fudgy the Whale!  He's here!"  I couldn't help myself.  I regressed immediately, grinning like a six year old at the idea of ice cream cake with tasty crunchies. 

"We were going to write 'You Must Shoot Up Now,' but figured that may be offensive.  But you can shoot up now.  Use your pump thing.  And we'll have cake!"

And we had cake.  As a team, we devoured every last morsel of Mr. F.T. Whale.  I used my new insulin pump to cover bases and enjoyed both a piece of Whale and a stable blood sugar an hour and half afterwards.

Even a crappy job can be momentarily saved by Tom Carvel. 

( And a HUGE Happy Birthday to my friend Batman! )  

Posted by Kerri. at 11:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (0)

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Last night:  In a bit of a fit, I decided to use my abdomen for my infusion set.  Pressing the Quick-Serter against my stomach for the first time in over two years, I had that fleeting thought of "Oh what if this stings???" but it deployed smoothly.  Sitting at my desk and returning some emails, the site on my stomach didn't bother me much.  Resting about three inches to the right of my naval, I didn't notice any issue due to my low-rise pajama bottoms.

Went to bed just past midnight, after texting Chris good-night and knowing he would call once he was back in his hotel room in San Francisco, I fell asleep with Abby to the right of me and Siah prowling around after the cap of the hairspray bottle on the floor.

The phone rings at 2:30 in the morning, 11:30 California time.

I reach over and answer, my head damp and the waves of nausea coming over me violently.

"Hello?"

"Hey baby, it's me.  How's my girl?"

How's his girl?  She's fumbling with the test strip, convinced she needs to test and confirm this low blood sugar instead of crawling to the kitchen for juice.  She's pricking her finger by the lamplight.  She's afraid to say anything yet because she knows this one is bad and she doesn't want to make him nervous.

30 mg/dl.

"I'm low.  I'm 30.  I'm low."  The words are a steady stream of consciousness, falling off my lips and traveling 3,000 miles across the country to my fiance's ears.

"Juice.  Now, okay?  You need to drink it now."  I can hear him trying to be calm, but it's hard when he's not next to me and able to run for the juice himself.

"Okay."  I walk out to the kitchen, Abby following me and wailing.  I open a sports bottle of juice and drain it.  I open a second one and drain that one, too, my phone against my ear and my back against the cold edge of the fridge.

"I drank it.  I'm going to come up soon." 

Most of the time when I'm low, I know it's going to be okay.  I know that I'll regain my control and then I'll smile sheepishly.  But this time, I'm scared.  I'm alone, I'm scared, and these tides of weakness and release are washing over me, making me frightened that if I close my eyes, I won't open them again.

"It's okay, Kerri.  It's okay.  We're going to wait and you'll be okay.  I'm here."

The tears escape without my permission.

"But I'm scared.  I feel close.  I'm scared.."

I sit quietly and wait for the juice to push back the tide.  And it does.

"I miss you." 

"There's my girl.  You sound better already.  You're coming up, right?  Why don't you test?"

62 mg/dl.  Just seeing the number brings me relief.

"Sixty-two.  I'm on the climb.  It's okay.  I'm sorry."

"What happened?"

"I don't know.  I put the site on my stomach for the first time in a few years and maybe it absorbed more quickly than my thigh.  I don't know."

And we stay on the phone for another thirty minutes, his voice coaxing my blood sugar back into range. 

I have a DexCom (thank you, endlessly, Diabetes Fairy) sitting on my dining room table.  I think it's time to give it a go.

Posted by Kerri. at 12:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

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The phone rang at 4:30 in the morning.  One shrill ring cut through the unfamiliar darkness of my mother's house.  I reached over to grab the receiver but it stopped ringing.  My head, warm from sleep and damp with sweat, pounded in the silence.

I switched on the lamp by the bed and unzipped the black case that hides my meter.  I closed my eyes as the screen counted down, not wanting to see the numbers just yet.  I wanted to go back to sleep.   

42 mg/dl. 

My arms like overcooked spaghetti, I spilled from the guestbed in my mother's house and shuffled into her kitchen, my hands tracing the walls to keep me centered.  I switched on the kitchen light and rescued a bottle of juice from her fridge.  Poured a glass of dark purple grape juice, tipped it back into my throat.  Counting back eight sips, a small bit dribbled out onto my blue t-shirt and left a splotchy reminder. 

Back in the bed, I lay on top of the covers and concentrated on the face of a small ceramic doll in the corner of the guest room, locking eyes with it and willing the room to stop tossing like a ship. 

My mother poked her head in.  "Are you okay?  Was that Chris?  Did he arrive safely?"

"I'm okay.  I'm just low."

"Oh."  She pushes the door open and steps inside.  "Did you have some  juice?"

"I did.  I'm okay.  I'll come up in a few minutes.  Don't worry."

"I feel weird going back to sleep now."

I haven't lived with either of my parents since I was 20 years old.  I share an apartment with my fiance and a few cats, maintaining some semblance of adult life and living independently.  Yet a low blood sugar under my mother's roof sends me back to when I was nine years old.

"It's okay, Mom.  I promise."

She nods her head and I hear her go back into her bedroom.  She leaves her door open just enough. 

As I wait for my blood sugar to rise, I understand that despite a career and a wedding and fierce independence, I understand that no matter how grown-up my life may feel, I am still her daughter. 

Her worries don't taper with age.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

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Dear Shoes,

I'll come right out and say it:   I'm concerned.  I'm not sure if you have incredibly swollen feet trapped in shoes made of lead, or if perhaps you are stricken with a disease that leaves you clomping around like a yeti, but either way I want to reach through the ceiling and punch you in the face.

I've lived below you for almost a year now, and at first I didn't know of you at all.  You were just another tenant in this condo building with an assigned parking spot and a cute table and chair set out on the deck. 

Oh Shoes, at first I thought it was a thunder storm, rolling and swirling in a spot strategically located above my kitchen counter.  Then I realized it was you and your fleet of horses (maybe it's just one black lab) running back and forth across the length of your apartment floor (read:  my ceiling) at midnight. 

I'm not the old lady who goes to bed at 9 o'clock at night, but I don't regularly stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning, that is unless I'm lying in bed and listening to you go out on your deck and yell things to your boyfriend in the yard.  I hope he eventually admitted that he was "an asshole, do you know that?!" and that you let him come inside instead of making him "sleep underneath the mailbox" where he was welcomed to "die a lonely death." 

Oh my friend Shoes, I am a night owl.  I'll admit to being up and writing until the late hours of the night, lit by the light of my laptop and brimming with ideas.  I'll also admit that it's tough to write when you're clomping around like Sloth. 

Occasionally, you bring me a small moment of comfort, like last night when I woke up at 4 am with a blood sugar of 52 mg/dl.  As I slid the straw into the juicebox I kept on the bedside table, I knew I wasn't alone because I could hear you fighting with your boyfriend (who apparently wasn't sleeping underneath the mailboxes).  Thanks for being there for me, Shoes.

For the most part, my neighbor friend, you do not cause me much grief.  Oh, I've seen your weird Gwen Stefani styled pony tail, where it looks all-too-similar to a mohawk, but I have faith that you'll outgrow your style stumblings.  But there are occasions where I can't help but wish you did not exist.

I have sincere hopes that a cure will be found for your heavy-footed affliction, which causes you to stomp around All.  Night.  Long.  If there is a walk I can contribute to or a pasta-and-meatball dinner I can attend to raise awareness for your condition, please don't hesitate to ask me. 

Otherwise, I'll wait patiently for your lease to run up. 

Sincerely,

Kerri.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

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Walking along Thames Street in Newport, Chris and I were weeding through the nest of ideas in our heads.  The wind was whipping in off the ocean and danced around our goosebump-covered legs.  The sky became a little overcast, so we decided to duck into Starbucks to grab a coffee and let Chris sketch out his ideas on the margin of a newspaper.

Walking into the coffee shop in shorts and a t-shirt, I couldn't decide which drink I wanted to warm me up.  I knew that it as possible to make some of the drinks sugar-free, but I'm not a Starbucks rat.  I have no clue how to order there - it makes me feel sweaty just thinking about it.  I can't wrap my head around calling something that's a "medium" a "grande."  It's like a caffeinated Taco Bell.  Sometimes I just want to clutch the edge of the counter, lean in close, and whisper madly, through clenched teeth, "A coffee.  Just make me a damn coffee."

But I've digressed once again.

"Hi, what can I get for you?"  The young boy behind the counter had a nice smile and handled the long line of chilly Newport customers with grace.  Chris had already ordered and moved aside to let me in.

"Hi.  Can I get a chai tea?  Is that sugar-free?"

"No, but I can make one with skim milk?"

"Actually, can you do a chai tea with the teabags and steamed milk or something?"

"Sure!  And you can add a few honey packets and then we'll froth it up and it will be delicious."  He grinned. 

I grinned back.

"I can't really add the honey.  I'm diabetic, so I'm looking for something that's as sugar-free as you can make it."

He stopped and looked me dead in the eye.  "A teasto."  (Editor's note:  No clue how to spell that.)  "A non-fat sugar-free vanilla teasto.  No sugar."

"Really?  That sounds delicious.  And then I'll be good to go?"

"Yes.  My father is a diabetic."  He punched in my order on the cash register.  "And so is my little brother."  The girl to his right started making the drink, but he leaned in a grabbed the cup from her.  "Hey Gabby.  I'll make this one myself.  It's important that it comes out right."

A minute later, he placed two cups on the counter. 

"Double espresso for you?"  Chris took his cup.  "And then the sugar-free non-fat vanilla teasto.  For you."  The Starbucks boy leaned across the counter furtively.  "Add like half a packet of Splenda and it's awesome." 

Damn you, Starbucks.  Just when I've thought I'm beyond your caffeinated claws, you reach back out and gently bring me back in.

Posted by Kerri. at 09:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (29) | TrackBacks (0)

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(Ah you pesky Google, you'll search the hell out of this post, won't you?)

Explain to me how Chris stumbled upon Siah stuck in this position.  She sat like this long enough for him to go get his phone, take a video, and still she sat hanging out with her legs all awkward and whatnot.

Also, she's taken it upon herself to pounce on me whenever I'm not paying close attention to her.

Pain in the arse cat.  I fully expect her eyes to roll back and her lids to come down, like she's a little land shark.

In other, less furry news, the May issue of EXIST is live and living in it's little corner of the universe.  Visit!  Read!  Chortle!  And other verbs as well.

Also, I'm very interested in the responses on the Meter, Meter post.  I haven't had any glaring issues since, but it's interesting (and admittedly disheartening) to hear that other people are running into inconsistencies as well.  I appreciate all the feedback. 

I'm off home to RI for the weekend for some well-deserved relaxation and beach time.  (Yes, Chris, we are going to the beach.  I know.  It will be okay.)  We're also scoping out some reception sites to see if we can find one big enough to hold our ever-growing guest list. 

Have a good one! 

Posted by Kerri. at 02:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

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The good news:  Chris is involved with a very cool film project for the next several weeks, shuttling him back and forth between RI, CT, NYC, and CA.  I am so proud of him that I can't keep the grin off my face even as I type this.

The off-centered news:  My fiance's erratic schedule does create a bit of a concern for me, as I'll be spending more time sleeping alone than I have in the past.  He's here one night, gone the next, away for a few days and then back for a few.  Aside from missing him while he's away working, there is that one small concern.

Yes, that whole "diabetes" thing.

I've lived by myself before.  It wasn't a big deal.  Managing the finances, doing all the shelf-hanging and furniture moving and garbage-taking-outing was more of an issue than being diabetic.   However, I took extra-careful measures when it came to preparing for emergencies.  I was, and have reverted back to being, the diabetic girl scout.

Be prepared, right?

Bedside table, stashed each night with glucose tabs, juicebox, a glucagon kit, my meter, and my cell phone in case I need to call someone?  Check.

Fridge filled with juice bottles, juice boxes, and some tasty gumdrop treats (Come on, you can't always treat with juice.  Sometimes a nice, chewy gumdrop makes the low a bit less crumby.)?  Check.

Contingency plan set up with my mother so that she calls me every morning around 8:30 am?  My office knows that I am staying alone some nights, so they are on the lookout for me and they also have my house number?  Check and check.

Internal pep talk about staying on task, being vigilant, and not letting any diabetes fear compromise how much I'm enjoying my job, my apartment, and my life at the moment?  Check. 

Discussion with Abby about the fact that Chris will be gone some nights, leaving her responsible for waking me up from any low blood sugars by drumming her massive paws on my head and mewing until I start to stir?  She and I touched base about it this morning.  Her lick of my hand confirmed that she was on board.  Check.

Sidebar discussion with Siah about being not being annoying, not climbing all over me while I'm sleeping, and not hiding out underneath the couch so she can leap out and attack my feet?  Check.  But that had nothing to do with diabetes.  That was mostly about Siah Sausage being annoying.

While Chris persues this incredible opportunity, I need to hold down the proverbial fort.  That includes making sure I'm safe and sound, so he doesn't have to worry about anything. 

Except for Siah.  That cat is completely unpredictable.

Posted by Kerri. at 09:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

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Too much going on.  Must let these thoughts escape before I lose track of them:

Baby turtles are back!  "The Food and Drug Administration banned virtually all sales of tiny turtles in 1975 after the animals were linked to salmonella infections in children. But a bill passed by the Senate last week includes an amendment that would lift that ban," according to NPR.  Do you think Bush will bother vetoing this one?

Also, I had my first plate of Thai food in the fantastic company of F.R. Jana last night, in a little restaurant near the NYC campus.  The food was tasty but difficult on my blood sugars - one plate of pad thai sent me up to 268 mg/dl, but I landed safely an hour later at 103 mg/dl.  The conversation was about travel and work and college, lightly laced with diabetes anecdotes.

On a much more serious note, the fatal crash in San Jose last summer has brought about a lawsuit now.  The article, on the San Jose Mercury News site, was sent to me by F.R. Nancy.  (Thanks for the head's up, Nancy!)  This is a very tricky case indeed, far less cut-and-dried ridiculous than the bit about the police officer and his pump controversy.  This article compares a low blood sugar to being under the influence.  In my opinion, driving should be relatively unchaotic for many diabetics, so long as blood sugars are monitored and snacks are at the ready.  And insulin should NOT be compared to drinking or illegal drug use.  However, people's lives were lost as a result of this situation.  It's confusing on a number of different levels.  I mean, what about the people who are on their cell phones and reading the paper and ON THEIR LAPTOPS while driving, for crying out loud?  That's true negligence. 

And finally, it's off to the races time after work, climbing on a train and heading to RI for the weekend.  I plan on sleeping for the entire train ride.  And, judging by the bags under my eyes and the empty coffee mugs strewn about my desk, that's not a bad idea.

Have a good weekend!

Posted by Kerri. at 10:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

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(I'm a bit delayed on this post, but it had to be told.  It's too ridiculous to not share.  And I promised Jenn I would.)

Mother's Day brought together various members of mine and Chris's family, gathering around a breakfast table at a little restaurant in South County, RI.  His mother, my mother, nieces and nephews, our brothers and sisters (except my sister was missing - we missed you, Court!), various significant others and one esteemed grandmother. 

Full table.  Lots of conversation.  We aren't exactly quiet people, so the noise level may have been slightly excessive.  There were 14 of us, after all, seated around this table.  Coffee was flowing.  Mickey Mouse pancakes were being devoured by little mouths.  I overheard the following exchange between my 6 year old nephew C and Chris's 5 year old niece MP:

C:  (excited bouncing on his heels)  So when Kerri and Chris get married, we'll be cousins.

MP:  (putting her hands up)  Awesome.

We may have been chatty, but it's Mother's Day, for crying out loud.  (If you are taking your mother to a quiet, romantic breakfast, you may need to rethink things.)  There was laughter and conversation and the beauty of two different families breaking bread together.

Our waitress, a woman who looked about 55 and spoke as though she had been smoking since she was in the womb, was walking by with the coffee pot when we heard her loudly address the table behind us.

"That's it.  That's enough!  You can get out now.  There are five doors - use one of them."

Indistinct mumbling from the table behind us.

"Leave!  Now!"  Hollering now.  Her rough right hand went straight to her hip and her left hand brandished the coffee pot as though it was Excalibur.

The couple at the table behind us violently drank down the rest of their coffee, wiped their mouths angrily with their sleeves, and filed out the door, shooting us dirty looks.

"What happened?"  Someone from our table asked.

The waitress pushed away the lock of hair that had tumbled loose from her ponytail in her fury.  "That woman was mocking you."  She gestured to my mother.  "And you, I think."  She gestured to me.  "She's a drunk.  And couldn't take that you guys were talking, I guess.  Every time you said something, she repeated it.  And then she started repeating me.  No one talks back to me.  So I told her where to go!"

That woman was mocking my mother?  And me?  Was there almost a Mother's Day brawl?

"What?  That lady?  If I had known, I would have gone right over there, sat down, and asked her what her problem was."  My mother puffed up and offered her words angrily.  (Keep in mind, my mother is five-foot-three and has hands that muss hair and cuddle grandchildren - she is hardly a bruiser.)

The waitress refilled a coffee cup.

"I know!"  She pointed at my mother and I.  "You, me, and you - we would have taken her outside and,"  She dropped her voice for the sake of the kids (who could hear her anyway but it sounded badass and dramatic regardless).  "Kicked her ass."

The waitress topped off the table's coffees.

"Yeah! We would have!"  My mother added cream to her coffee and stirred it in. 

"That's right, Ma.  We would have handled her!"  I wanted to add my voice to this chorus.  I'm tough, too, right?

I leaned in to sip my fresh coffee.  In my fervor, I forgot to add cream and Equal, so it tasted bitter and lava-hot.

"Oooh!  That's yucky." 

So much for badass.

Posted by Kerri. at 10:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

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Chris and I took a little jaunt to Boston this past weekend to visit with Shannon, Julia, and Julia's beautiful family.  (We missed you, Nicole!)  It was so nice - not too much diabetes-talk, but more like the reunion of old friends.

Ah, I love Boston.  We tucked in some lunch at the Purple Shamrock (where all items are renamed to sound Irish - hence my "Celtic Cob Salad" and Chris's "O'Hamburger," or some nonsense) and ventured off to the gardens.

On our walk, we saw a rainbow that was encircling the entire sun.  I've never seen anything quite like it.

We also saw some of Boston's finest:  The Macy's Fashion Police.  These girls were an atrocity - O and I had our fun mocking them relentlessly.  If this is your job, you should quit, because there is no need for you.  Seriously.  (Nice hats.)

After a ride in the Swan Boat (where we saw potentially plastic turtles, beautiful spring flowers, and Chris almost knocked Shannon off into the murky water trying to take pictures), we walked along the garden paths and there we saw it.

An old lady in the act.

Signs were posted everywhere - "Keep Off The Grass."  People complied, for the most part, but we watched as one old lady walked around the partition, knife in hand, towards a huge tree.  She leaned up and started to carve her name into the trunk, her friend coming over to help her.

"I'm getting this picture for evidence.  We're caught her red-handed, defacing Boston property!"

And as the shutter snapped, I realized that this old woman was carving her name into a tree for perhaps the last time in her life.  Her withered fingers held tight to the knife, despite her shaking hands, and she chipped away at the bark. 

It was a minute where I felt young and foolish, making jokes while this woman was etching in one last moment of her life.  From her gentle hands to her baby blue socks, if I close my eyes I can hear her asking her friend,

"Help me reach just a bit higher.  I want to make sure people can see it."

Posted by Kerri. at 10:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

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Last Friday, I couldn't believe my eyes.

10:34 am:  358 mg/dl

10:34 and a half am:  259 mg/dl

10:35 am:  189 mg/dl

(Fragile readers, cover your ears.)

What the fuck?!! 

Between the highest and lowest results, I'm seeing a difference of 169 points.  To correct down from 358 mg/dl, I need 5.4u of Humalog.  To bring me down from 189 mg/dl, I need 1.7u.  That's 3.7u difference.  That's either remaining in the crispy 200 range or ending up a mushy puddle of hypoglycemia on my office floor.  How exactly am I supposed to keep my blood sugars in check when I can't accurately check my blood sugars? 

I have HAD IT with this meter.  I changed the batteries.  I recalibrated the machine.  I used control solution (which could have been a bit-outdated, but still came back within range).  I thought about chucking the meter against the concrete floors here at dLife and watching it smash into a million pieces.  I thought better of that last idea and instead wondered if running over it with my Jetta would be more satisfactory.

I was one pissed off diabetic.

Placed a call to my doctor. 

"Hi, this is Kerri Morrone.  I need a prescription for a new meter."  Realizing that I have a closet full of One Touch test strips at home and reluctant to dance for the insurance companies in hopes of them filling another prescription for 1800 different strips.  "Can she write me one for the One Touch Ultra 2?"

"No problem.  We'll call it into your pharmacy now."

Upshot to my lunch break, when I hoof it over to CVS and pick up my new meter.  Cracking it open impatiently in the car, I whip out my old meter and do a test, aiming to compare the results of the new meter against my now-defunct meter.

Guess who only has two test strips for the rest of the afternoon and can't waste strips on a test comparison?

Arghhh ... diabetes frustrations aplenty to end out last week.  However, once I got home and compared the results of the two meters, they were almost exactly the same.  Was it just a fluke?  Just a chaotic chance event?  Something purely to piss me off and make me think I'm going out of my mind? 

Either way, the weekend was busy, but excellent.  A swan boat ride in Boston, an evening chatting with my college roommates, and the most bad-ass Mother's Day breakfast waitress in the history of mankind. 

More on that tomorrow.  :)

Posted by Kerri. at 08:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (0)

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There are many of us who blog about diabetes.  (Thank goodness - for years, I was wondering where all you guys were hiding.) 

I've been fortunate to have this blog as my soapbox, venting station, and outlet for sharing diabetes moments.  The effects blogging has had on my life are tremendous and having the opportunity to share my story has made me stronger.  This community is the best and has made such a difference in my diabetes life.

However, there are so many more who may not have the time to blog.  Maybe they are reluctant to share so much of their life online.  Perhaps they just need a few minutes to "aaaarghh!" or ask questions or connect with other diabetics ... or just plain tell their story.

I've put up a section of Six Until Me. called "Your Story."  It's for people who want to share their story - or questions, poems, pictures, videos, frustrations, successes ... you get the picture - with the ever-supportive blogosphere.  You send it, I'll post it.  It's easy.  And it could be fun.

Are you living with diabetes?  Do you have a child with diabetes?  Your husband?  Mother?  Your girlfriend?  Your uncle or aunt?  Maybe even your cat?  (Oh damnit, Siah, stop playing with the keyboard.  Man, you are annoying.) 

Do you want the chance to tell your story? 

Share your story by sending it to story@sixuntilme.com.  

Posted by Kerri. at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

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Chris and I hopped on the train, bound for New York City and ready to spend the day exploring the city and enjoying the fantastic weather.

We started out the day visiting friends on the lower East Side.  After lunch in a cafe that had their huge, streetside windows wide open, allowing the spring air to come skipping in, we walked around Chinatown a bit.  We also saw what was claimed as Moby's building, where our friends told us that the blue fish and the octopus on the side of the building were painted by Moby himself. 

After lunch, Chris and I headed off to 14th Street and explored Union Square park, where the flowers were in full bloom and absolutely gorgeous. 

And I could not resist frolicking in the tulips.

We explored Madison Square Park, as well, and found what appeared to be two baked potatoes in their natural habitat.  (What the hell are these things?  Art?  I'm so confused.) 

I also stumbled upon a very handsome man, sitting contemplatively in front of a statue of William Seward.  Oh wait, that's my future husband.  (Can't.  Stop.  Grinning about it.)

Fruther in Madison Park, we saw two enormous metal "battle trees" created by conceptual artist Roxy Paine, part of a public art series.  Very impressive.

After dinner at The Crooked Knife on 30th Street (delicious food here, by the way, and fantastic bathrooms.  I would like to model the bathroom in my home after the one in The Crooked Knife.), we trotted around Times Square for a spell, enjoyed a hot cup of coffee, and hopped back on the train for home.

And for tomorrow:  Our NYC 3-D Experience.

Posted by Kerri. at 08:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

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I bought a new vacuum cleaner. 

It was one of my first highly domesticated purchases and I was proud of the fact that I found a vacuum that looked pretty nifty, with it's bright blue handles and 12 lb body weight and "eco-friendly bag-less canister!" 

Standing in line at Target with my cool new vacuum purchase, I was about seven people back from the register on a Thursday night.  I was flanked on both sides by "impulse buys," including batteries, hand sanitizer, one dollar dvds featuring "Sharks of the Deep Blue Depths," and Easter candy that was 75% off.

The line was not moving very quickly.  It's almost 8 o'clock at night.  Man, I have a headache.  The noises of Target dulled down to a cloudy whisper and wrapped around my head like a bandage.

Balancing my purse on the edge of the shopping cart, where my super-cool vacuum cleaner rests, I fish out my meter case, unzip it, and covertly prick my fingertip. 

The countdown.  The result?  53 mg/dl.

Tricky little sucker, that low.  Snuck up on me out of nowhere, but in retrospect, it was 8 o'clock at night and I hadn't eaten dinner yet.  Anyone's body would be hollering for attention by this point.  Mine wanted sugar.  Fast.

The batteries weren't going to do much for me.  I shifted my attention to the discounted Easter treats, honing in on the creepiest candy of all time:  marshmallow peeps. 

There's something altogether odd about little candies in the shapes of sweet farm animals, like chicks and bunnies.  (Bunny farms exist, right?)  I'm more comfortable with M&M's or Twizzlers, because they don't look like anything I'd want to cuddle with.  However, time was of the essence and I needed some fast sugar.

I reached out a grabbed a box of NEW! green peeps.  I popped a peep into my mouth and my teeth shuddered at the presence of such concentrated sugar.  You don't even have to chew these things - they just melt in your mouth and peep their way down into your bloodstream.  Trying to look like a grown-up, I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist and unsettled the nest of sugar granules that had made my lips their home. 

A few minutes passed.  I popped a few more peeps, bringing my peep total to three.  After a few more minutes, I tested to reveal a much friendlier blood sugar of 98 mg/dl.  On the climb. 

The line progressed.  I paid for my vacuum and the tattered package of peeps that looked as though a wild lion had ripped them open.  (I am robbed of my ability to properly open food packages when I'm low.  Boxes of crackers are ripped open from the bottom, juice bottles are missing half their labels, and glucose tab containers never recover their original caps.  I'm a diabetic in the wild.)

Driving home, with the vacuum in the trunk and the peeps respectfully strapped in on the front seat (yes, the guilt I had for consuming their brethren was a bit much), I thought about the peeps.  I hadn't eaten peeps in almost ten years.  I had forgotten how they tasted. 

At a stoplight before the highway on-ramp, I reached over to the passenger's seat and ferreted around with my fingers until they clasped the box o' peeps.  Snaking one more through the cellophane wrapper, I popped him into my mouth and actually tasted it.  And it tasted good. 

Big blood sugar-ups to my peeps. 

(Sidenote:  Peeps are now available in sugar-free style!)

Posted by Kerri. at 09:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (0)

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Diabetes is everywhere. 

It was in my car last night when I climbed in after work, seeing the test strip on the driver's seat.  It was on my bathroom counter, where I placed the pump when I disconnected for my shower.  Little bits of it are at the bottom of my purse, where test strips are scattered.  And it's folded into every meal, with a quick finger prick, some fast calculations, and discreet button pushing.

No one's the wiser.  

Except this morning, when I made a small scene on my way into work.

Making attempts to enjoy the more feminine side of my wardrobe, I decided on a skirt this morning.  Skirt, shirt, underwear, and stockings.  Jewelry.  And insulin pump.  Since there was no good place to clip my pump, I used the thigh holster and viola - the outfit was complete.

Walking out the door to my car, no problem.

Driving to work, no problem.

Arrived at work.  Grabbed my bag and my folder.  Started walking from the car to my office.

Pump.  Slipping.  With every step.

"Oh shit, shit."  Whispering to myself, trying not to make it look like I'm walking as though I've just been startled to the point of staggering.  Every step I take, my knees are bending more and more to keep the pump from sliding out.  Since the infusion set is in my thigh, there's plenty of tubing to send this pump straight to the sidewalk.  The pump is sliding neatly down my right thigh, edging towards my knee, soon to be on the ground.

Wearing a calf-length black coat, I figure I have about two more steps before the pump and the holster drop into plain view of everyone driving by and the entire Westport train station. 

I duck into a side lot and try to make it look like I'm just itching my ankle.  Then I try and grab the holster through my coat, as it hovers just below my knee, hoping I can hitch it up above my knee and at least make it into my office. 

No luck.

The pump drops, hanging around my ankle like a sad garter belt. 

I grab it, holster and all, and hold it against my purse.  The tubing is pulling up the front of my skirt a little, but not in an indecent way, more in a "Are you wearing a garter to work?" sort of way.  My face is scarlet - I'm trying to walk with dignity, as though I'm not holding my pancreas in my hand.

Almost to the building.  I think I may be able to make it in there without dropping it or everything I'm carrying. 

All at once, my phone rings.  The pump beeps.  The train comes roaring into the station.  My meter case falls from my open purse.  My pump slips from my hand, clatters against the sidewalk, just in time for the guy who runs the parking lot to put out his cigarette and say, "Mornin'.  Hey, your phone charger is still attached to your phone, you know." 

Diabetes is everywhere.  And this morning, it was all over the sidewalk. 

Posted by Kerri. at 08:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

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Busy times.  Already on Coffee No. 3.  This can't be good.  (Actually, it's quite tasty.  Nice hazelnut blend, light on the cream, couple of Equals shoved in there.  Piping hot in my ridiculous SUM mug.)

EXIST Magazine:  The April Edition is live and looming large over at www.existmag.com.  Read up on the latest from the EXIST Magazine staff.  And if you're interested in submitting your own piece to the magazine, send your queries to The Editors.

The 30-60-120 Challenge:  I'm having trouble prioritizing lately.  Tasks are starting to swirl around, and not in the lovely soft-serve ice cream sort of way.  Being the busy couple that we are and in efforts to help prioritize, Chris and I have challenged one another to the "30-60-120 Challenge."  We've set goals for one another at the 30 day, 60 day, and 120 day marks, contingent upon what we know means most to one another.  While my 30 Day and 60 Day goals are writing oriented (see also: Kerri Needs to Finish Her Damn Book), my 120 Day goal is decidedly diabetes-related.  I'm not sure if it was the vacation fun, the excitement of the engagement, or just plain old burnout, but whatever the case, the average on my meter is edging ever closer to 170 mg/dl and I'm disgusted.  Couple of spotty 300's and way too many 200's in the memory of my machine. 

I need to focus and fix this.  Now.

I was talking about it with Chris and he has challenged me to lower my A1c.  It's my 120 Day Challenge.  So, over the next four months, my health focus is to reign in this number.  Regardless of work, wedding, and other assorted bits, diabetes management cannot be cast aside.  Instead, it's become paramount.  My fiance and I will tackle this mess together.  Maybe Siah will help by not prowling all over the bed at night and staring at me while I try and sleep.  It's not easy to fall asleep with a purring, gray diaster pawing at your chin.  Blasted cat.

If you had to set a 30, 60, or 120 Day Challenge for yourself, what would you aim to accomplish?

The Ring:  For those of you who asked to see it, here is my engagement ring.  (Courtney, I'm not sure if the picture I sent you made it through, so this is for you!)  I love it.  The sparkle continuously distracts me and makes me grin.

Posted by Kerri. at 09:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

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Right off the plane, we trot over to Budget to pick up the keys to our rental Jeep.

"Reservation for Chris Sparling, please."  Chris leans against the counter and we revel briefly in the fact that we're now in our tropical paradise.

"We don't have a car for you."  The customer service representative behind the counter snaps her gum.

"Excuse me?  I have a reservation.  I gave my credit card weeks ago to hold this Jeep."

"Reservation doesn't guarantee a vehicle, sir." 

Re-serve (verb): to retain or secure by express stipulation.

After much discussion, Chris and I ended up in a Taurus instead of a Jeep Wrangler.  Not the best arrangement for our hilly St. John adventure, but we were determined to keep it from ruining our vacation.  (By the way, an eight page letter is en route to Budget as we speak.) 

However, we weren't the only "bulls" on the road.  Driving along the windy streches of road in St. John, we were accosted by wild pigs charging from the woods, a handful of bleating goats, and a few big ol' Road Cows. 

We stayed for part of our trip with one of Chris's friends, enjoying the beer he and his business partner created and drinking into the wee hours of the night at their bar - The Tap Room.  You have to try the Virgin Islands Pale Ale.  I'm not a beer drinker, but this stuff is so nice and mango-infused that it tastes much better than the regular "carbonated bread" tasting beer nonsense.  Note:  0.8u Humalog per one beer, for me. 

For the other part of our trip (the engagement part!), we stayed at the Concordia Eco-Tents, which were tucked into the southern part of the island and provided the most spectacular views.  We  hiked out to Ram Head and saw both breathtaking shorelines ...

And yes, of course I was sure to test along the way.  I tested all across the nine miles of St. John - on the beach, on the hiking trails, in the eco-tent, and on the Red Hook ferry.  And I did my best to keep all test strips contained, though I fear that one may have leapt out as I traveled.  But damn it, I tried!  (Chris, my fiance - yay! - kept snapping diabetes-related pictures as we traveled.  "For the blog, baby."  Ever my content editor.)

We had such a terrific time.  And now we have the next year to plan our wedding.  Do you think Ms. Sausage will be able to behave herself as she traipses down the aisle?  (Yes, I'm kidding.  Mostly.  Damnit, now I have to go get Larry's address so I can send him an invitation.  He's going to be thrilled!)

Posted by Kerri. at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

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This whole place looks like postcards. 

White sand beaches, (Which, Shannon was completely right.  They are a product of fish poop, or at least a large percentage of the sand is.  I was impressed and horrified, all in one fell swoop. A poop swoop.  Oh dear, I've already digressed.)  towering palm trees, and the clearest, most crystalline water I have ever seen.

St. John is a small island and very hilly (read: we drove up mountains at a 60 degree incline in a Ford Taurus ... more on that rental car later), so every clearing in the road provided a new, more spectacular view than the last. 

Out of the dozens of beaches on the island, we stopped at as many as possible.  Armed with our bookbags, a beach blanket, and bathing suits, Chris and I tanned at Hawksnest, snorkeled with trumpet fish in Trunk Bay, and climbed down a secret staircase to Gibney's beach.  My insulin pump joined us on these excursions, laying sand-free and safely in a little zipper bag by my side.  Funny thing is, we were so active and swimming around most of the day that I remained disconnected for 45 minutes stints at times.  I tested frequently, but blood sugars stayed stable for the most part.  (However, infusion sets did not.  All that salt water had my sites peeling back after barely three days.) 

At these postcard beaches, we snorkeled, after a fashion.  Being a little wary of sharks and other sea critters, Chris and I found ourselves with masks, snorkels, and about eight inches of water.  It was kind of silly, despite the fact that we were having a blast.  We saw little tropical fish scooting around near their coral homes, trumpet fish (that we called "baby barracudas" because it made us sound tougher), and these white, tropical fish that kept circling our heads.  Despite the fact that we're a little bit chicken, we eventually ventured out into the deep.  All was well until we heard two small children excitedly exclaim, "Hey Mom!  We just saw a hu-uuuge octopus!"  Huge?  Octopus?

It was at that point we swam like hell back to the shore.

But there was also our frequent visits to The Tap Room.  And then there was that freaking car.  Oh, and I can't forget the wild road pigs.  How about that Eco-Tent?  And the hike to Ram Head?  More to come.  :)

(And thank you so much for your congratulations messages!  We are so excited and are already in the planning phases of our wedding.  Bridezilla, here I come!)

Posted by Kerri. at 10:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

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He insisted on making dinner, cooking up a meal of pasta accompanied by a bottle of wine, and we dined on the porch of our cabin, overlooking Salt Pond Bay and out to the southern-most tip of the island.  We talked about our hike to Ram Head that afternoon and tried to decide what beach we wanted to visit the next morning.

We cleaned up our plates and enjoyed our wine on the patio, listening to the waves crashing against the rocky shore.  This Tuesday night was brilliant and clear, with thousands of stars in the inky blue sky.  We had seen so many gorgeous beaches and had so much fun, and we were barely half-way through our vacation.  Chris's birthday was the next day.  We were sun-warmed and relaxed. 

This was the easily the best, most relaxing vacation ever.

I ducked back into the cabin for a minute and when I came back out onto the patio, Chris got up from the table and dropped to one knee, a little red box in his shaking hands.

"Kerri, I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.  Will you marry me?"

"Oh my God.  Oh my God, are you serious?  Are you really serious?"  My hands flew to my mouth and my eyes welled up.  "Are you serious?"

He smiled at me.  He was serious.

"This is the part where you say yes."

"Oh my God, yes!!" 

He slid the ring on my finger, where it remains (and the sparkle keeps distracting me as I type). 

I am very, very proud to announce that I am engaged to Chris - the man who inspires me, makes me proud, makes me smile every day, and writes my name in the peanut butter.  I love him dearly and am so proud to be his girl.

There are plenty of stories to post about our trip, but this one ... well, I just couldn't wait. 

Posted by Kerri. at 09:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (107) | TrackBacks (0)

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I've been putting off this appointment for a few months. 

I hate needles.  Any needle I'm not controlling makes me feel faint.  (I've talked about this irony before.)  So the idea of offering up that sensitive little fleshy crease of my arm to the phlembotomist makes me pale with panic.  Also, blood sugars have been a little nutty lately, fluctuating wildly after Grammie passed away and taking several months to sort of reclaim their sanity, so I haven't been feeling like a well-controlled diabetic. 

In fact, I've been feeling a little crummy about the whole thing entirely.

It's hard to avoid paying attention to diabetes, considering where I work and what I do for a living.  It's a large part of my life and one that, even if I didn't want to pay attention to it, I don't have much of a choice.  Ignoring it for a morning is one thing, but ignoring it for more than a few hours is non-negotiable. Eventually, it forces you to listen, one way or the other. 

So I had the paperwork for my A1c blood work sitting in my desk drawer for a few weeks.  I called and made an appointment, but then rescheduled it due to the weather, my weekend plans, my mood, the cat's mood ... anything that seemed like it could stand for a second as a reason to reschedule, I rescheduled.  I ignored.

An A1c, to me, is my diabetes report card.  Even though I know I should have this test every three months or so, I haven't had one since last June.  I haven't wanted to find this number out because I'm afraid it will be higher than I'd like.  But it's always higher than I'd like.  I'm diabetic.  I just needed to suck it up and find out what that blasted number is and move on.

I made an appointment for this morning, 7:30 am.  No excuses.  The alarm went off this morning and I thought about snoozing through, but I woke up.  I got dressed.  And I drove there. 

"I'm here for an A1c and microalbumin test.  I'm Kerri."  I stuck out my hand, insurance card at the ready.  Paperwork filled out.  Consent form signed.

In the chair, I pulled up the sleeve of my sweater and closed my eyes.

"I can't watch.  It makes me feel weak.  So I'm going to look over here, okay?"

The lab technician started laughing.  "Lady, you said you had diabetes?"

"Yes, since I was a kid, but I'm scared of needles.  I know, I know."

The elastic band snapped tight arouind my arm.  "Okay, quick pinch ..."  I felt the hot spike of a needle against my inner arm and my stomach leapt in response.

"So tell me about yourself," I said to the corner of the wall, hoping my words would bounce back to the man who was holding my arm.

"My mom has diabetes.  Type 2.  She's on insulin twice a day.  You take insulin?"

"I do.  I have an insulin pump, though."  I gestured flailing towards the pocket of my jeans, where my pump was clipped. 

"No kidding!  That's cool.  I thought it was a beeper.  I'm gonna have to tell my mom about that.  Damn, no more shots?  That's cool."  The pinch in my arm shifted a bit.  "We're almost done.  I used a butterfly needle instead of the big needle, so it would hurt less."  His smile bounced off the corner of the wall and into my ears. 

"Thanks.  'Butterfly' makes it sound so cute and nice, even though it's still a needle."

"Yeah, but it's important that you have your A1c checked, diabetes and all.  You need to take good care of yourself."  He removed the elastic from my arm and slipped the needle out of my skin.  A bandaid was applied to my "wound."

"All set.  You did a good job.  And you know what?  That didn't hurt a bit, right?"  He asked me, taking off his gloves and folding his arms.

"Not a bit.  Thanks."

Back in the car.  Driving to work early, watching the morning commuters traveling beneath me as I crossed the overpass of 95 southbound, into New York.  The sun warmed the seats of my VW and caused the windows of the houses I passed to wink at me. 

My A1c result may not be what I'm hoping for.  It won't be "perfect."  It won't be ideal.  But knowing it will give me the chance to change it. 

Posted by Kerri. at 09:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

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What makes a writer a writer?  I've mused about this a bit over at EXIST and discussed it with my boyfriend at length.  Is it recognition?  The ability to spell?  Owning an old, almost rusted typewriter that inspires you to spin out crime novels?   

Hmmm ... maybe I'm on to something with that typewriter.

Last weekend, NurseBestFriend and I ventured into NYC to explore the flea market circuit.  We checked out one on Columbus Street (The Flea and Green Market?  I can't remember what it was called.) and I saw it. 

Buried in a metal working kiosk, a tray of rings made out of actual typewriter keys waited for me to come and find my "K."

And now, in a fit of unbridled ridiculousness, I feel like a real writer.  I also feel like a goofy fool, but I'm trying to ignore that glitch.  I love this ring.  I think it's cool, despite the fact that it keeps getting stuck on my gloves.

Also, it's my complete pleasure to annouce that there are two new Viewpoints columnists over at dLife:  Christel of DiabeticFeed and Rachel from Tales of my Thirties.  Welcome to the fray, guys!  And congratulations on joining the dLife team. 

Posted by Kerri. at 08:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

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Strange, this "blogging." 

Posted by Kerri. at 11:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

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We had the bedroom door mostly shut, to keep the heat in and in (futile) attempt to keep the cats out.   It’s icy cold out there and the big picture window in the bedroom doesn’t do much for keeping things toasty warm, so we have a down comforter, a fleece, and a throw on the bed.

I fell asleep around midnight, tucked underneath the mountain of blankets and pressed against my boyfriend.  Warm and cozy, with a little gray Siah nestled between us. 

5:32 am.

Every blanket tossed off me.  Shirt tangled around my damp collarbone.  Forehead slick with sweat.  Abby is prowling around at the base of the bed, emitting frantic little meows.  The room is frighteningly silent and I can hear my heart beating in my ears.  It is so hot in here I can’t stand it.  I am so tired.  I ask Chris for help but the words are caught in my teeth and, instead, I reach over for my meter case, unzip it, and find out what number was keeping me from sleeping.

43 mg/dl.

The same version of autopilot for 20 years.  Out to the fridge.  Upcap the grape juice.  Eight sips.  Wipe my mouth with my sleeve, knowing I’ll be angry that my white shirt sleeve is stained violet with juice but I didn’t mind now and I just wanted to go back to bed.

Without thinking, grabbed a fistful of cereal from the box on the top of the fridge.  The little O’s look like prehistoric tires, all jagged and almost square-ish.  Chomp those down, imagining them turning shades of purple in my mouth from the grape juice stains.

Stumble back to bed.  Abby walks in front of me, guiding the way.

Back under the covers.  Press my cold nose against Chris’s shoulder.  He stirs and goes into the autopilot he's been on for the past two years. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m low.  Will you hold me?”

“Did you drink juice?”

“Yes.”

He puts his arm around me.  My brain is sloshing around in my head but the letters have been picked clean from my teeth and I’m regaining the ability to make words.

Reassured that the taste of juice in my mouth means my blood sugar will come up eventually, I close my eyes and sleep holds me as close as Chris.

This morning, the sweaters have replaced the letters.  Blood sugar is 306 mg/dl, thank you very much.  Annoyed that it was probably the arbitrary fistful of cereal that lurched me over the edge, I’m chasing insulin with coffee to keep from letting the night’s events affect my work day.

Damn this urge to over-treat.  You would think, after all these years, I would be able to control that by now.

Posted by Kerri. at 09:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (0)

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Before we moved in together, I lived alone in a very cute apartment in South County, RI.  He came over one night after work and we made a trip to the grocery store.  As we unpacked the bags, I told him I had a very strange habit once I developed a crush on someone.  It was silly and childish, yet I was still doing it.

It involved peanut butter.

“If I buy a new jar of peanut butter, I peel back the foil and use the tip of a knife to write in the name of the person I have a crush on.”

He looked at me with an amused grin. 

“You do?  Really?”

I blushed.  “Yes, I do.  I know it’s a weird habit.  But I keep doing it.” 

“Have you ever written my name?”  He poked me gently in the ribs.

“Yes.”  Face on fire now.  Why was I telling him this?  I sounded ridiculous.

We finished putting away the groceries. 

I still write your name in the peanut butter.

Posted by Kerri. at 12:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBacks (0)

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I bought a Prince cd.

Feeling slightly better today, thanks to going to bed at 9:30 and sleeping like a baby.  Granted, I was tortured by the cats all night long, as they felt the need to splay themselves all over our knees, making it difficult to get comfy, but I slept nonetheless.  Sausage makes it her mission to lie on that crook of your knees that makes sleep extremely unlikely.  But she also sleeps almost flat on her face, with her ears smooshed out so she looks like a little, gray Yoda.  Adorable pain in the arse, she is.  I couldn't resist snapping a picture.

The view from my camera phone.

In other news, there is an exclusive, in-depth interview about stem cell research conducted by the founder of dLife, Howard Steinberg, and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi.  Check it out here.  My office will be hand-delivering the feedback to Washington, DC, so if you have something to say about this important issue, make sure you follow the "Send Your Email Now" link on the page. 

Lastly, take a spin by Chronic Babe for this week's edition of Grand Rounds.  The D'Sphere is representing strongly on this edition.  Great job hosting, Jenni!  And Generation D is updated, just in time for Valentine's Day. 

I'm back to listening to my cd.  His name is Prince, and he is funky!

Posted by Kerri. at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

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The Feelings:  Weak, flushed, and slightly nauseated.  Like I’m trotting around with a high blood sugar but I’m really only 152 mg/dl.  Unbelievable headache, like I’ve never experienced before.  Dehydrated, miserable, and unfocused.  Obviously the flu shot does nothing to protect from the plague.

Did I mention whiney.  :)

The CVS Checklist:  Kleenex, Children’s Motrin chewable, power bars, and sugar-free cough drops.  Maybe something trashy to read, because celebrity magazines are known to reduce fevers in bloggers. 

The Mission:  Make it through today at work and then go home to collapse immediately into bed, possibly eating some soup beforehand but I don’t really care if that happens.  No gym today.  My body doesn’t appear to be capable of anything other than being pathetic.  I need to sleep.  I feel like Crumbs Morrone. 

Back tomorrow, once I find myself capable of stringing together more than a few words. 

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Granted, we were the youngest people in there by a factor of several decades, but it wasn’t a problem.We grabbed our sterling silver wire, cut the string on the beads we chose, and settled in for our beading class.

“Cut the beads loose on the string and we’ll begin working with the wire.”  The instructor said, a young and fashionable lady of about 35, sporting a few impressive pieces that I’m sure she brilliantly crafted up herself.

Of course, I snipped the string and watched as a few beads flung themselves off the side of the table and rocketed to the floor with a clatter.

“Sorry…”  I mumbled as the bevy of old biddies twittered at me. 

I have never taken a beading class before, but it was really cool.  We used those fancy little wire tools and forced the sterling silver wire to bend to our will.  (Note:  Batman was whining about the fact that her fingertips ached from pressing against the wire.  I, however, had two decades of diabetes on my side and the scar tissue pads on the tops of my fingers made the wire bending a breeze.  Kerri: 1, Diabetes: 0)  The best part was using the stone and the little hammer to beat the crap out of the metal to assist it in keeping shape. 

(See the fabulous little hammer in the corner?  Very fun, that.)

Here’s what Siah trotted off with:  a bracelet, one of the earrings, and a pump cap that happened to be hanging out near the aforementioned jewelry.

Pain in the arse cat.

Not sure what kind of class to take next - any suggestions?

EDIT:  I've rec'd several emails that comments aren't working on this post.  There's some kind of 404 error.  I think I fixed it.  Please let me know if the comments are dead!  There's something tricky afoot.  ;)

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The microphone drops down and Mills Lane plucks it out of the sky.

“In this corner, bringing a bevy of boluses and carbonated carbohydrate content, wearing Gold Shorts and a lime wedge, weighing in at about 12 oz is the mysterious new challenger, La Corona!” 

“And in this corner, The Titan of Tight Control, the A1c Ally, weighing in at about 9 oz and made up of cheap vodka, cranberry juice, and a splash of Tropicana orange juice – the reigning champion, The Mighty Madras!”

“Gentlemen, this is the title match.  Nothing below 50 mg/dl and nothing, nothing above 250 mg/dl – do you hear me?  I want a good, clean fight.  Now let’s get it on!”

Bell rings.

“And the Corona lurches forward right away, fists flailing! Look at those carbs, folks!  The Mighty Madras is backing off a bit – I can hear those ice cubes clanking against the side of him!  Corona reels back, swings out and oooooh! A solid hit to the jaw of the Madras!  He’s falling back!  He’s staggering!  Could he be out already?  Is this newcomer going to knock the ol’ Tried and True out of the ring? 

The Madras is leaning against the ropes … he looks exhausted!  Only a few minutes into this fight and the Cold Corona definitely has the upper hand!  This could be it!  …

… But wait, what’s this I see?  Yes, the Mighty Madras is on his feet!  He’s taken out a blood glucose meter from his pocket.  He’s looking to test Kerri – judges?  Are we allowing this?  Yes, the judges are allowing a blood test.  And Kerri, after having two of the icy cold Coronas, is up to 253 md/gl!  Her bolus was grossly under estimated!  They’re flashing the results across the marquee – indeed, Kerri is high and the Corona can’t stop staring at the number! 

And – ooooh! – the Mighty Madras has snuck in a jab while the Corona isn’t paying attention!  He’s now pummeling the Corona!  There’s lime juice everywhere, my friends … this is truly a gruesome beating!”

“And the Madras has brought out a bottle of insulin!!  And OH MY GOD he’s cracked it over the Corona’s head!  Corona is out!  It’s a knock-out, dear viewers!  This fight is over!  Over!”

Corona falls flat against the mat, out cold.  The ring smells of sweat and insulin.  Mills Lane grabs the championship belt and thrusts it into Madras’s hand, declaring him “Winnah!”  Madras, bleeding profusely from the eye and crying, raises the belt to the air and yells, “Kerri!  Kerri!”  Kerri comes running from the stands, meter in hand, and stands in front of him as she tests.  “153 mg/dl.  I’m coming down.  I’ll be more careful next time I drink high-carb beers, O Mighty Madras.  I promise!”

They embrace.  The “Rocky” theme swells in the background.  Kerri decides that the next time she wants to have a beer, she needs to measure more carefully and bolus with more precision.  She also discovers that she has run this storyline into the ground.

Mills Lane wipes the tears from his eyes.  “I love a good fight.”

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They told me I had to go into the hospital for a few weeks.  I wasn’t exactly sure what “diabetes” meant, but I knew it must involve vampires, because people were drawing my blood every few hours.

“You can pick any friend you’d like to bring with you to the hospital.  Any one you want.” 

My father held my hand as we walked into Ray Willis’ Toy Store and I looked at the rows and rows of cuddly and soft stuffed animals.  My seven year old shoes clicked against the tiled floor as I examined the fare.

The soft ears of a gray elephant looked so nice.  I could picture myself hiding behind them if I was scared.  I saw an amber-eyed puppy dog with a pokey little nose.  He looked like he could be my friend.

Then I saw it.

Kitty.

A huggable, marmalade-colored stuffed animal cat with bright eyes and a long, fluffy tail.  He was sandwiched between a giraffe with the tongue sticking out and a stuffed octopus (can’t figure out why anyone would make one of those). 

“This one?  Is this one okay?”

My father gave me the thumbs up.  “That one looks good to me.”

Mom and Dad paid for Kitty and we started our drive up to the hospital for my overnight stay.  Originally named “Tigger” but eventually falling victim to a less imaginative moniker of “Kitty,” I kept this stuffed animal at my side for every blood test and doctor visit.  He was a loyal friend and received the occasional shot, too, when I wasn’t feeling brave enough to be the only one being injected.

I used to wag his tail and make him wiggle about, trying to convince people in the hospital elevators that he was real.

A boy on the bus in second grade tried to pull Kitty’s arm off and gave him a good rip.  I cried to my mother, who was about to sew up the wound with orange thread, that she needed to use black thread so it would look like a stitch and I would know he was better.  Ever-obliging, my mother stitched Kitty up and I admired his war wound with fascination. 

Twenty years later and no longer the newly diagnosed little girl at the toy store, I've had this Kitty with me through it all.  He used to look vibrant and fluffy, but now his fur is matted and mangy.  He lived on my bed in college.  He moved to my first apartment with me after college.  Even when I felt “too grown up” to have a stuffed animal on display in my house, Kitty has managed to weasel his way into a bookcase or a closet shelf.  Currently, he lives on top of my winter sweaters in my closet, looking at me with his matted fur and sad eyes from the mountain of wool and cotton.

He made me feel comforted.  Admittedly, he still does.

He’s a testament to how long it’s been.  And how far I’ve come. 

(But Siah doesn’t like him too much.)  

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“All work and no play makes Kerri … need a vacation.”

There’s been a lot of work going on lately.  The constant flurry of activity in my office, the fun of the ol’ blogosphere, and assorted other writing adventures.  While I enjoy everything that I’m involved in, I do find myself altogether way too close to a computer all the time.  I understand HTML coding now. 

I fear I may be becoming a geek.  ;)

It’s time for a vacation.

So Chris and I have booked a 10 day trip to St. John in the Virgin Islands.  White sand beaches, sunshine, and relaxation.  We’ve booked a few nights at the Concordia Eco-Tents (they sound tremendously cool and sort of sexy), rented a Jeep, and have plans to drink some of the finest Virgin Islands Pale Ale ever draught.  (Note:  The beer is fantastic.  You crack open the bottle and it smells like mangos.  And it is created and brewed by one of Chris’s friends from home – he moved to St. John a few years ago.  Nice gig, that.) 

I am so excited for this vacation that I’m almost considering not using my pal Xanax to fly.  (But of course I will, because I’m a wimpy-wimp.)  We’ll be away for Chris’s birthday at the end of March.  Nice way to escape the winter that has finally arrived.

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Things were starting to look a little fuzzy.  I was having some trouble, seeing blurry bits, and a pounding in my brain that was matched only by the sounds of people’s heels on the industrial flooring here at dLife. 

In particular, it was my right eye that was bothering me.

The panic was on a slow boil, starting with those little questions that would creep in between meetings and editing.

“Kerri, did you test?  Maybe you should test and make sure you’re not popping out of range.”

I comply with the voices in my head.  Quick finger prick reveals a spot on sugar of 104 mg/dl.  (Which was always the sugar they splashed out on meter commercials.  B.B. King was always 104 mg/dl.  Recently, I’ve seen commercial results of 99 mg/dl.  Damnit!  They do so love to challenge us.)

“Kerri, maybe you’re stressed out.  Are you stressed out?”

I assess the situation:  Nothing too stressful kicking around.  Feeling calm, for once.

Except for the nagging suspicion that something else is going on with my eye. 

After talking with Chris about it, (Kerri:  There’s something in my eye.  Chris:  Go have it checked.  Kerri:  Seriously, there’s something going on.  I’m concerned.  Chris:  Go have it checked?  Kerri:  I should have it checked.) I made an appointment with my retinologist.

Dr. Retina popped in the drops and I sat in the waiting room with Chris while my eyes dilated.

“I can’t see a thing,” I said, almost comforted by the fact that it was absolutely normal under these circumstances to be half-blind.

He took my hand.

Dr. Retina came out and summoned me.  “Kerri?  Right this way.”  I settled into the big beige chair in the last room on the right. 

“So, let’s see … you’re three months early for your follow up.  Something going on?”

“Actually, yeah.  I’m seeing some spots and blurry bits sometimes.  It doesn’t appear to be only when I’m high or something like that.  And my blood pressure is fine – I just had it checked.  But I’m concerned that the hemorrhage you found in September has progressed.”

“You, nervous?”  He chucked me a grin as he slipped on his Hannibal Lector-style miner’s cap to examine my eyes.  “You seem cool as a cucumber.”

“You have to be kidding me,” I leaned back in the reclined chair.  “I’m a nervous wreck about everything.”

He gave me a stern look.  “I know.  I was being sarcastic.  You need to relax a bit.”

He blinded me with those intense white light bars, then the miner’s cap.  He blinded me with the machine you lean into and settle your chin and forehead against the bar.  Every few minutes, we had to take a break because my eyes were tearing up due to the intensity of the light.  The technology of an eye exam, up close and personal.  All things considered, he blinded me with science.  (You had to see that one coming, right?)

He flipped up his mask. 

“I can’t even mark that box.”

“What?”  I couldn’t see a damn thing.  I rubbed my eyes with the back of my wrist in efforts to acclimate to the normal lighting.

“The box that indicates retina damage.  What you have going on in there is so small, I can barely see it.  That’s why this exam was so long, because it took me a while to actually find the hemorrhage this time.  There’s no bleeding into your eye.  I can barely tell you have diabetes, never mind two decades of it.”

I grinned. 

“We’ll slate you for follow up in May.  We’ll keep close watch on that little … what did you call it?”

“The squirrel.  An eye squirrel.”

He washed his hands at the white sink in the corner of the room. 

“The squirrel.  I’m thinking he’s not the cause of your eye strain at work.  Do you spend a lot of time on the computer?”

My inner-blogger cringed.

“Yes.”

“And do you take a lot of breaks?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.  I’m recommending that you get a diffuser for your computer screen.  And maybe you want to go over to my buddy at LensCrafters and look into diffuser glasses to wear while you’re doing computer work to reduce eye strain.  And relax, would you?”  He patted me on the arm. 

I stumbled as gracefully as I could back out to the waiting room.

“How did it go?”  Chris stood up as I walked over.

“Good.  Everything is good.  No change.  He couldn’t even check the box.”

Take that, Squirrel.

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NurseBestFriend and her Dearly Beloved came to CT for the weekend. They came. We saw. We all drank a considerable amount and suddenly became that Loud Table that poses for pictures.  (DB, NBF, me, and Chris, in that order.  The lady grinning above us, we do not know.  But she looks mighty happy.)

Sunday provided a trip to the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium, a jaunt to the fantastic Chocopologie, and the four of us peering through the windows to watch the chocolates being made.  Man, that place is fantastic.

It was so nice to have company for the weekend, even though NBF did call my cat "enormous," despite the fact that her cat is so massive that it meows and the floorboards shake.  It needs a carseat to travel in the car.  I'm convinced it's big enough to reach the pedals and the steering wheel at the same time.  She should hide her keys.

Sunday night finally produced the January edition of EXIST, with several new writers and the addition of regular columns.  Check it out! 

And Monday morning proved to be a kick in the head - latent response to going to bed in the wee hours of the weekend mornings. 

Damn, I need a nap.

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Everything changes. 

Like standing on a highway overpass and watching the red brake lights and the starry white headlights ebb and flow, streaming so fast and so furiously that you barely see each individual car. 

As time passes, I notice how quickly each year fuses into the next.  Today, the last day of December, always proves to be one of reflections on the past and expectations for the future. 

This past year has been one of great change for me, personally.  I’ve faced my fear of flying, thanks to my supportive boyfriend (and the help of a few little xanax pills).  I have moved from my home town, away from my friends and family, to embrace a bold career move in CT with dLife.  I have lost my dear grandmother.  I have found such joy in my new little niece.  There have been tears.  Fears.  Tears for fears.  (Couldn’t resist that one.)  Laughs.  Insane workouts.  Ridiculously ping-ponging blood sugars.  An annoying car.  Paper cranes.  Countless car rides to CT during which plans for EXIST were hatched.  A little Siah Sausage continued to churn up chaos in my life.  Chris continues to inspire me and make me rediscover just how fun love – and life - can be. 

Life moves on, quickly and surely and without care as to who is hanging on.  Two thousand and six has been a year that has sent my life spinning. 

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As we ready ourselves for a trip home to RI for the holidays, I wanted to wish all of you in the Blogosphere (and in Real Life) a very Happy Holidays! 

See you next week!

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Dasher and Dancer have been doing cartwheels in my head and I can't even tell you how annoying Blitzen has been these past few weeks.  The holiday stresses are making me nuts.

Time to bust out another round of Top Five.

You may remember such Top Fives as The Original One from May 2005, or the October 2005 Edition, or even the one back in April.  Well here we are again, with the 2006 Year End Top Five. 

2006 Year End Top Five

1.  Top Five Resolutions for 2007

2.  Top Five Albums/Songs You're Embarrassed to Admit Loving

3.  Top Five Fictional People You'd Like to Ride in a Hot Air Balloon With

And the bonus question:  Who's your favorite reindeer of the bunch?   

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Growing up on NPH and Regular, there was a lot of talk about snacks.  And there was a lot of talk about “free foods.” 

Free foods, according to my doctor at Joslin and my mother, were snacks like pickles, cucumbers, Jell-O, and sugar-free popsicles.

“Eat all you want!  Go on,” my mother would urge.  In those pre-pump, peaking insulin days, it was all about chasing that meal plan and adhering to the guidelines.  Two starches, one protein, a fat, a milk, and a fruit.  Rinse and repeat.

Except for the “free foods.”  I was encouraged to go hog-wild on those suckers.   But my palette soon became tired of pickles and popsicles.

“Why can’t a Snickers bar be a free food?”  Grumble, grumble.

The one free food that always brought me glee was Jell-O.  My mom used to make “jigglers,” which included a package of Jell-O and two packages of Knox unflavored gelatin.  They were prepared in the big lasagna pan and she would leave them in the fridge for me to snack on.  Sometimes she would add a small bit of whipping cream to the mixture and it would settle on the top, creating a very thin layer of fantastic Jell-O flavored custard on top of the aforementioned Jiggler. 

This was a free food I dug.

And I still dig.

A few nights ago, I made some Jell-O.  The tea kettle whistled and I poured the powdery mixture into my mixing bowl, adding the boiling water while I stirred.  (For the record, nothing stains a countertop quite like red-flavored Jell-O mix.  And yes, the flavor is always “red.”  There are plenty of claims on those boxes but strawberry, raspberry, mixed fruit - they all taste … red.)

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Slim fitting pants with no pockets.  A shirt with no practical place to stash anything. 

Ah, but I'm still wearing it.

It's not tucked into the waistband of my pants.  It's not lurking in my bra.  It's not taking up residence in a pocket or clipped to a belt. 

"Where's your pump, Kerri?"

"In my sock."

I don't know why I didn't think of this before.  With the infusion set in my outer thigh and the 23 inch tubing more than enough to traverse my short stature, the pump can be easily tucked into the top of my trouser sock.  And with a slight flare at the bottom of my pants, the bulge can't even be detected. 

Tricky little spot for my high-tech little buddy. 

This may not be as fashionable in the summer, but it's working out just fine for winter wares.  And granted, I may look a little bit strange when I reach down into my sock to bolus, but I'm willing to take that risk.  Maybe investing in a remote for the pump?  (Does anyone use a remote for their pump?) 

I may need to have a little chat with Santa.

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*Dun dun (the Law & Order noise)*

Prosecution Attorney:  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you the evidence.

Exhibit A:  One young woman, Kerri Morrone, and her recently changed out Minimed infusion set.  As you can see here, the set is placed in her right thigh and was changed at approximately 4:41 pm.  Her blood sugar was steady at 146 mg/dl.

Exhibit B:  Miss Morrone and her boyfriend, out to dinner.  They order their meals and Miss Morrone boluses 4.6 units of Humalog to cover her delicious hamburger.

Defense Attorney:  Objection!  Relevance of the hamburger being delicious?

Judge:  Sustained.  Counsel, may I remind you that the deliciousness of the meal is not what is in question here.  Please don’t make the jury any hungrier for lunch than they already are.

Prosecution Attorney:  Understood, Your  Honor.  Moving back to the evidence, I present Exhibit C, which is the logbook for the night in question.  As clearly seen here, her blood sugars were steadily on the climb, despite Rage Bolusing that took place over the course of the dinner, totaling more than 10 units:

7:48 pm:    265 mg.dl
8:08 pm:    312 mg/dl
8:45 pm:    394 mg/dl
10:12 pm:  445 md/gl

It was at this time that Miss Morrone and her boyfriend decided that the infusion set was crap and ...

Defense Attorney:  Objection!  Crap, Your Honor?

Judge:  Overruled.  If the prosecution states that the set was crap, it was crap.  Let's move on.

Prosecution:  Upon arriving home, Miss Morrone took an injection of Humlag, using a syringe, and stated to her boyfriend, “I’ll do a 2 am testing.  If my blood sugar has come down only as a result of the injection, I’ll rip the site and replace it because obviously it’s crap.”  (Casts a glance towards the Defense Attorney, who rolls his eyes.)  Her bedtime blood sugars were 375 mg/dl at 11:19 pm and 257 md/gl at 11:48, before she went to bed. 

The alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but she woke with a start and just started talking out loud.

“Chris, I need to test.  I need help."  Her voice was deadpan, as though she was merely conveying directions to the market or ways to scramble an egg.

In one swift movement that didn’t even require turning the light on, her boyfriend took her testing kit from the bedside table and unzipped it, handing her the lancing device.  The moments that followed were blurry to my client, but her logbook and her juice-stained mouth reflect what happened:

2:02 am:  47
2:13 am:  37
2:30 am:  66

It was at 2:30 that the alarm finally went off.  My client, feeling much better after some juice, ventured off to the bathroom to rip her site and replace it with a new one.  Upon removing her site, blood came pouring from the site and my client needed to use a bandaid to stop the bleeding.  She replaced the old site, washed her hands, and went back to bed.  Your Honor, her boyfriend spent the rest of the night waking up to check her blood sugar to make sure things were okay.  The results are as follows:

3:53 am:  153
6:46 am:  164
9:37 am:  83

Your Honor, it is our position that the infusion site was indeed not performing its assigned duties and caused unnecessary pain and suffering for my client, also not allowing her to enjoy her cappuccino at the end of the evening because she was so high she felt like she had sweaters on her teeth.  We are requesting that the infusion set be sternly reprimanded and given to the cats to bat around until it is unrecognizable.

Judge:  I see.  We’ll have a short recess, after which time the defense will state their case as to why their client, The Infusion Set, refused to deliver insulin and allow Miss Morrone to enjoy her evening out.  We will reconvene after the recess.  Adjourned. 

Defense Attorney and Prosecution Attorney gather up their things, all the while sticking their tongues out at each other.  I smile gently at them from my seat, feeling much better and thankful that the ridiculous ping-ponging from the night before was over.

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5:45 pm:  Traffic was a little grumpy.  I chatted up a friend on the way home from work.

6:00 pm:  Changing my clothes to make the 6:42 train to Grand Central to meet up with Chris.

6:15 pm:  Noticed that I had been trying to read the same email for about ten minutes.  Man, I had a headache.

6:16 pm:  Unzip meter.  *Click*  Oh good.  30 mg/dl.

6:16 and a half:  Eight guzzled sips straight from the juice bottle.  Cats are milling around at my ankles, keeping tabs on their home-alone owner.

6:25 pm:  Fumble to finish dressing.  Still feeling like garbage.  Must make train.  Must talk like robot.

6:38 pm:  In the car, mostly dressed, feeling better but still a bit crummy.  Eating a piece of frozen wheat bread that I grabbed from the freezer (obviously) because when it's frozen, I can gobble it down easier than chowing on a dry piece of bread.  Text Chris:  May not make train. 

6:41 pm:  Park car.  Run like hell from the car to the platform.  The lights of the train are approaching as I coax a ticket from the automated machine.  "Come on!" I mutter.  Half a piece of frozen bread still clutched in my hand.  Ticket prints.  Doors open.  I scramble on.  Finish my froast (frozen toast).

7:45 pm:  Meet Chris in Grand Central.  "What happened?"  he asked.  "I was low.  And I had to run.  But everything is cool now."  He nods and takes my hand.  And we commence our travels to Rockefeller Center to see The Christmas Fun.

I'm such a tourist, but it is just so amazing to see all these sights.  The snowflakes in the background here actually were part of a music and lights show.  I took a video.  It's linked here.

These ornaments impressed the hell out of me.  They were across the street from Radio City and I just couldn't rip myself away.  The sound of the water rushing, the steady hum of the city ... it was awe-inspiring.

Chris took this shot and I thought it was absolutely beautiful.

And, of course, the tree itself.  The camera fritzed out a bit, but we scored a few shots of the massive Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, all twinkling and gorgeous in the night air.

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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?

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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.

 

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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.

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*

Posted by Kerri. at 08:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

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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.

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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.

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They had a flu shot clinic at dLife yesterday.  This happens in most offices around this time of year.  The nurse comes in, you submit your form, and she sticks a needle in your arm.  Easy-peasy. 

Not for me-sie.

I can’t stand needles.  Irony, anyone?  The diabetic who hates needles?  That’s me.  Better said:  I fear any needle I’m not in control of.  After administering my own injections for over seventeen years and using an insulin pump for the last two and a half, I am very accustomed to doing my own shots.  When I was a little girl at the pediatrician’s office, my doctor would let me put my hand on his wrist as he administered the shot because he knew I needed some semblance of control over the needle.  If I’m just sitting and waiting for that needle to slide into my skin … oooh, I can’t stand the thought of it.  Having my blood drawn at Joslin is a nightmare and the lab technicians remember me as, “Hey, you’re that girl we had to sit on to draw blood when you were a kid!”  Now I just turn a ghastly shade of pale.

So yesterday, the nurse came to give flu shots.  And, knowing my mother panics if I don’t have this shot every year, I stood in line and waited amongst my co-workers. 

My heart started to race a small bit from the anxiety of the needle-to-come. 

“You okay?”  Marketing Guy asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  I just hate needles.”

“Okay.”

IT Guy who busts on me daily leaned in.  “You hate needles?”

“I fully recognize the irony.  But I hate any needle I’m not controlling.” 

The shots were being given in the conference room, which is behind plate glass walls. I could see every syringe that the nurse drew up.  I started to get a little jittery.

“You really don’t like this, do you?”  Marketing Guy asked.

“Not really, but it will be okay.”  The Senior Editor walked to have her shot.  I couldn’t control myself.  “Good luck!”  I called after her.

My turn.  Nerves shot.  (No pun intended.)  I walked towards the glass doors with as much confidence as my shaky knees could muster.

“Good luck!”  Giggles from the line behind me.

The nurse examined my form.  I fidgeted beside her. 

“Little nervous?” she asked with a smile. “It won’t hurt a bit.”

“I know.  But I’m still anxious.  I’m diabetic, too, so it’s bizarre to be afraid of needles.”

“Makes sense to me.  Good thing you’re getting a shot.  You’re in the high-risk group.”  She opened a plastic sleeve and removed a sterilized syringe.  I looked back over my shoulder.  The group waved at me.

“They’re busting on me for being nervous.”  I grinned at her. 

“Looks like you should pretend to pass out afterwards.”  She grinned back and uncapped the needle.

“Here we go, quick pinch … you’re fine.  But they don’t need to know that.  Go ahead and slump over to the side.”  She pulled the needle away from my arm.  I let my head roll to the side and collapse onto my arm on the long conference table.

“Are the looking?”  I whispered.

“Yeah.  They look sort of concerned.”

I popped back up, put my cardigan back on, and shook the nurse’s hand.

“Thanks for playing.” 

She laughed.  “Anytime.”

I walked back towards the line and tossed out a grin.  A co-worker grabbed one of the many Telly awards that dLife has won.  “Here’s your Emmy, Kerri.” 

I’d like to thank the academy ... and the patience of the wonderful nurse ...

Posted by Kerri. at 10:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (0)

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Funny thing, stress.  It’s a sneaky little bugger.

Despite the fact that I’m doing my best to continue on with business as usual, good ol’ diabetes has reared its ugly head.  Instead of lying quietly and letting me mourn, stress has chosen this time to join the fray and make me grumpy.

Feeling a little too crummy to eat?  Don’t worry.  Stress levels will keep my bloodsugars cruising neatly around 250 mg/dl, making my stomach ache with loss and hunger and hyperglycemia, all at the same time.  How much insulin does it take to cover a bowl of oatmeal?  On any other day, three units, but these past few days, it takes about five units coursing through me to keep me under 200 mg/dl.  Mind too busy to sleep?  Good.  Stay up all night, end up tangled in the blankets, and only acheive REM once, or so it seems.  My eyes close and then all of a sudden the alarm is nagging me, causing me to unsnuggle from the bed and wander towards the shower.  Morning sugars are fine but they immediately become chaotic once I am awake for an hour or so.

I changed my pump set this morning and have been enjoying a sticky 307 mg/dl for the last 45 minutes, climbing from the 202 mg/dl I was at 10 o'clock this morning.  I am waiting to see if this bolus starts to bring me down (thus making the site valid) or if it will require a rip and reset.  My eyes feel like they're tethered by extra tendons, aching every time I move them.  And my skin feels tight and dry, despite the water I'm trying to chug.  I'm like a miserable lizard.  I'm liz-rible.  Which makes me laugh to think about but at the same time, it's contributing to an already-elevated stress level.

Then I read posts like Martha's and Scott's and I feel like this is just One of Those Diabetes Days.

Maybe hitting the gym will help.  Or reading the new Jennifer Weiner book I picked up this weekend.  (Hey Julia, have you read this one?  It's shaping up to be pretty good so far.)  I realize that this is what happens when you lose someone you love and the daily bits of stress seem magnified as a result.  And I know this stress will pass.  But while it's here, I'm not enjoying it.

Tomorrow:  The Flu Shot Emmy Award

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Yay!

My brother and sister-in-law welcomed their daughter to the world this morning.  Both Mommy and Baby A. are doing fantastically.  Chris and I are heading up to their house tomorrow to meet little A. and give her a hug.

Congratulations, Darrell and LeeAnn! 

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Backstory:  My brother and sister and I grew up on a very quiet street next to the ocean with essentially no neighbors.  Every Halloween, we would buy candy and wait for the trick-or-treaters and every year we would have to eat all the candy ourselves because no one ever came to the house. 

After a while, my parents just turned the lights off and took us to my aunt’s neighborhood to trick-or-treat.  Our family house was useless, as far as Halloween festivities were concerned.  I think, in the course of my two decades living at home, I saw only three trick-or-treaters come to our house.  Pathetic.

Cruise about 20 years forward to my brother owning his very own house in a nice neighborhood populated with Real People.  Several decades of oppressed Halloween hauntings have bubbled up for Darrell, and he’s taking it all out on his lawn.  As exemplified here:

He bought two fog machines, for crying out loud. Gravestones and skeleton bones littered the lawn, playing host to my brother, nephew, and step-father trolling around the yard as though there were on stage.  Occasionally, they posed for pictures.

 

My brother stood on his front lawn dressed as a ghoul (much like my nephew's costume, pictured above), underneath a streetlight, and danced for the passing cars.  My mother laughed until she cried.  My stomach still hurts today from laughing.

After a long weekend of sadness, with the wake and the funeral and all the tears that come with those moments, it’s been very tough.   And while I have so many stories to tell about my Grammie, I’m too exhausted to try and find the words now.  I needed to laugh last night.  Hard.

Mission accomplished.

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Thank you to everyone for your kind comments and the emails I have received offering condolences.  It means so much to me, and to my family.

We're heading home to RI for a few days to say our final goodbye to Grammie.  It will be quiet here while we're gone.  I don't think the cats will be signing on to post anything.  Please call me directly if they do.  I'll fix any typos they make upon my return.

Ah, laughter through tears.  It's the only way I know how to manage things like this.

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My beautiful grandmother died this morning.  She was 79 years old.  Mother to seven children.  Grandmother to 19 grandchildren.  Great-grandmother to five great-grandchildren.  She made us laugh.  She did headstands in the mud.  She made the best sugar-free apple pies. 

She was the very soul of our family. 

Thank you for all of your prayers.  I know she appreciated them.  And I do, too. 

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Someone told you that angels slip in the window and hold your hands as you die.  Your last breath escapes with a whisper and they rescue your soul from a frail, broken body.  Slipping through the open window, they bring you from this world to the next, helping you find your way Home.

I went to you and whispered my goodbyes.  I told you I loved you and that you are the kind of woman that makes me proud of my family.  I told you I would be okay and that I would make sure my mother was okay, too.  You couldn’t talk – only with your eyes and the nod of your head – so I asked through my tears if you loved me, too.  You nodded and closed your eyes as a tear fell out and landed against the folds of your nursing home sheets. 

It’s so hard to say goodbye to someone who shaped your whole life.

I love my grandmother so much.  As much as I will miss her, I wish for her peace to come quietly and with haste.  This cancer has taken too much from her.  To suffer like that is unbearable.

I opened the window of her room before I left.

Please keep her in your prayers as she prepares for this journey.

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We heard there was a wine trail in Connecticut but didn't entirely believe it.  So Saturday morning, after breakfast and our daily gym excursion, we loaded up into Chris’ car armed with a bottle of water, a full insulin pump, and no map.

“We shouldn’t bring a map.  It will just make us more lost.”

“Agreed.”

Directionally challenged and agreeing that “north” meant “in front of the car” (vs. “west,” which meant “to the left”), we heading up Route 7 towards the White Silo Winery.

It was like a scene out of Sideways.  Tiny little farm off the side of a country road, far from the chaos of New York City, a woman behind a small wooden counter served fruit wines and told us the stories of how the wines were crafted from succulent raspberries and blackberries.   

After the tasting and buying a bottle of rhubarb wine, we poked around the farm a bit.  Found a wheelbarrow hiding behind a fence, casting shadows on the thickets of berries.

Our next stop was the Hopkins Winery up the "trail" a small bit.

Perfect driving weather:  cool, crisp, and hosted by a sunbathed landscape.  We stopped the car every so often to explore the scenery.  We found these train tracks lining the edge of a small river.

Towards our second stop, we spied a waterfall near a quaint street of shops.  Chris climbed down into the ravine (and slipped on the slope, dipping his elbow in the dirt) to take a few pictures.

Arriving at Hopkins Winery, we tasted the award-winning wines and toured the fermenting room.  (Which, by name, reminded me of the Inventing Room from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - the Gene Wilder version, not the creepy Johnny Depp disaster.)

Chris took stock of Hopkins' finest ...

And I snapped pictures of the blooming labels.

Charmed by the country charm of western Connecticut, we retired to the vineyard gardens and (after I promptly fell in a ditch and Chris tried to eat the contraband grapes that were twining around the silo) enjoyed the sunset.

 

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I wear an insulin pump.  (Gasp from the Faithful Readers.  “She’s a diabetic?!”  I know.) 

The pump itself is not very big – Minimed says it’s a tiny 2.0 x 3.0. x 0.8 inches.  That’s smaller than your average cell phone, true. 

As I was going through my morning “get ready” routine today, I stood in front of my closet and did a quick assessment of my clothes.  I like classic, tailored sorts of outfits and I like for my clothes to look streamlined.  Incorporating this device sometimes proves to be very … challenging.  (Diplomacy won out on that phrase, over my other option of “makes my head spin and I almost launch the pump across the room.")

I don’t like when the pump is exposed.  Not that it’s something I consider to be shameful, and especially since I work at a diabetes-focused media company, but I don’t want tubing and pump bulges as part of my daily look.  I always tuck the tubing away and I keep the pump as tucked away as possible.  Every skirt has either a pocket sewn in or I use that thigh thingy from Minimed.  Every pair of pants has either a pocket to slide the pump into or a waistband wide enough to hide the pump inside.  (And for some fabulous reason, my favorite stores - like Ann Taylor - have been adding these convenient little pockets to their pants, perfect for pump-tucking.  That’s a way to earn my consumer loyalty.)  And for those that don’t, I add a little internal pocket just as swiftly as I hem the pants before I wear them.  (I’m sort of short, so the hemming was just as necessary a skill to learn as pocket creating.) 

I often go to great lengths to conceal my pump.  Sometimes it’s a complete pain in the arse and I can’t find a way to incorporate it into my outfit.  Today’s ensemble includes a pair of tailored corduroy pants (no pockets) and a long sleeved, fitted shirt (not billowy enough to hide the pump bulge).  Out of options, I reluctantly clipped the pump to my pants and it’s been a visible part of me all day long.  No one notices.  No one comments.  And to be honest, no one cares but me.

But sometimes it makes me frustrated to have to interrupt my attempts at dressing like a “normal twenty something girl” with these pump integrations.  Just as it makes me a little batty when I have to interrupt my gym workout for a blood sugar testing session.  Just as it makes me moody when I have to splice some glucose tabs into my afternoon article-writing session. 

Do you, my fellow pumpers, make efforts to hide your pump? 

It can be a pain.  Sometimes in superficial ways that I hate admitting.  But, when I’m looking at my bloodsugars and I’m 85% content with their progression, wearing this machine is worth it. 

It's fashionable to be healthy.

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1.  I had my Joslin appointment on Tuesday afternoon, and it only took me three and a half hours to get there from my apartment in Norwalk.  Joslin always makes me feel hopeful, like no matter what happens, these people will keep me safe.  I saw my endocrinologist, Dr. Florence Brown, and after reviewing my bloodsugars and noticing a few trends, we talked about a continuous blood glucose monitor.  I would love to have one of these for a few days a month, just to get a feel for how my sugars are trending.  I’m exploring the possibility of trying one out – leaning towards Dexcom.  Can anyone make a solid recommendation as to which one I should try? 

2.  The JDRF walk is this Sunday.  My family and loved ones will be walking, along with some potential special guests, which I’m hoping to divulge on Sunday night.  (Here’s hoping everything works out and my Special Guests are able to attend!)  If you are walking with me on Sunday and you still haven’t signed up, or if you’d like to make a donation towards Team Six Until Me., visit HERE.  A big thanks to my team members, who have raised hundreds of dollars on their own fundraising quests.  I am very proud to have you on my team!!

3.  “Generation D.” has been updated.  Note:  I had never been called over the intercom of a police cruiser before.  This was a first for me. 

4.  Halloween is a-comin’ and there are big plans here.  Not only is my brother’s house being transformed into a pirate ship (much to the delight of my 6 year old nephew) but the Morrone Family is expecting A New Baby.  My brother’s daughter is due at the end of October and I absolutely cannot wait to meet her.  My sister-in-law confirms that, if the baby is born before Halloween, New Baby will attend as a hotdog.  A hotdog on the pirate ship.  I endorse this idea.

5.  I love doing the laundry.  The smell of a dryer sheet permeating my household makes me so happy.  However, finding a small Sausage sleeping on a pile of toasty warm clothes straight from the dryer made me laugh.  So I snapped a picture.

6.  I laughed.  And laughed and laughed and laughed when I read this post:  The Lifecycle of a Blog.

Mental state at the beginning of reading this post:  “Hmmm… that sounds a lot like me.” 

Mental state at the end of reading this post:  “Whoa.  I could really go for a cheese sandwich right now.”

Blogging.  It’s what’s for dinner.

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6:30 p.m.:  A fantastic, intimate dinner in a little café in Chelsea.  (No Jude Law, Shannon, though I did look.)  We dined in the garden outside and drank wine and ate lightly, talking and laughing.  We sat and enjoyed our after-dinner cappuccinos, recounting the first few weeks we knew one another and reveling in how far we’ve come since moving from RI.

9:30 p.m.:  Showtime loomed near so he paid the bill and we strolled out to hail a cab.  (He hailed the cab.  With my luck, we would have ended up on that train from Silver Spoons.) 

10:00 p.m.:  Taking in the opening band at the Bowery Ballroom, drinking Coronas from plastic cups, and watching a drunk punk pick a fight with an older man for rights to lean on the balcony.  A tall British guy drained his beer like he was searching for a prize at the bottom.

10:35 p.m.:  Opening band cashes in, the crowd begins to prepare for Gomez.  Girl next to me to her friend, “I could just about, like, die.  This is going to be the most crucial moment of my life.”  Her friend responds, nodding, “Seriously.”

10:45 p.m.:  (my whisper to Chris)  “I am so excited...”

11:03 p.m.:  The lights go down.  Gomez files on, opens with an old school “Get Miles” and we’re off and running.  Letting loose with songs from almost a decade ago – like “Bring it on” – and performing a gorgeous rendition of “Sweet Virginia” with Tom rolling solo on an acoustic guitar (see video), this show was as solid as they come.  The crowd churned with recognition and belted out every big chorus.  The boys of Gomez are just as fantastic live as they are in the studio – maybe even better.

1:49 a.m.:  Race for the last train leaving Grand Central. 

The cars weren’t crowded, but loud with people already reliving the events of their night:  Two guys pretended to get stuck in the sliding door of the train car.  Ten minutes later, one says to the other, “Remember when we were stuck in the door of the train?”  A drunken high-five between the two. 

This city doesn’t sleep.

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“Because the internet should be a tool for bridging gaps as well as building communities.”

This line struck me most about Andrea’s call for entries for Blogging Across Boundaries.  Bridging gaps as well as building communities. 

There are plenty of gaps in the internet communities I find myself a part of.  It’s not so much between the topics we cover when we write, but more about bridging the gaps between the words and the people. 

There’s something about meeting these people in person.  These people whose intimate details you know but whose faces you can barely begin to picture.  I have had the utmost pleasure of meeting several bloggers in the past and it’s always this startling combination of comfort, ease, and laughter.

This past week was no exception.

Early last week, I met a fellow d-blogger who announces herself online as Violet.  (Real name remains under wraps, until she uncloaks at her own discretion.)  It's a strange thing, meeting a fellow blogger for the first time.  I wonder if it will be awkward.  Will we get along as well in person as we do online?  What happens when I finally have a face and a voice for this writer I enjoy so much? I stood in the middle of Grand Central Station, looking every inch the Country Mouse.  I have posted pictures of myself online (why why why do I do that?) so I was recognizable, but what she looked like was a mystery to me.  She said she would meet up with me, so I stood like a kid lost in NY until I heard a voice say, "Kerri?"

"Violet??"  Knowing full well that wasn't her given name, but instead the one she goes by online to protect her anonymity, I leaned in to give this stranger that I knew so well a hug. 

When two people meet for the first time, there is often that awkwardness that needs some time to dissipate.   Strange thing, though, meeting a fellow blogger whose heart and soul you have peered into for the last year and a half.  Who was one of the very first bloggers you ever knew existed, well before the explosion of diabetes blogs.  Stranger still, having a discussion about very deep-seeded fears and knowing exactly what she means when she sits in silence.  And possibly the strangest of all, feeling comfortable – instantly comfortable – with someone you’ve never met before.

Weblog.  We blog.  Some of us blog daily.  Others blog when the inspiration strikes us.  We blog about such a wide array of things, ranging from politics to medicines to emotions to experiences.  We don’t share the same experiences.  We don’t have the same backgrounds or interests or opinions.  Yet we are all able to meet together on the web and offer up glimpses into our lives, embracing as a community despite the fact that we wouldn’t know one another if we passed on the street.  Meeting my fellow bloggers has helped to make them Real, in ways that the internet, despite its constant advances, can’t rival.

There don’t appear to be many boundaries, just a lack of bridges. 

Here’s to bridging the gaps. 

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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.

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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. 

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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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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.

Posted by Kerri. at 11:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

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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.

Posted by Kerri. at 10:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (0)

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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 meter 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!

Posted by Kerri. at 02:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

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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.  :)

Posted by Kerri. at 08:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

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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.