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Pink Sweatpants are Horrible.

Today’s Bullet Point List:

* I sit at a desk all day long and find little to no entertainment during the course of my daily duties. The phone rings, emails crop up, and mail floods my inbox, yet my mind remains stagnant. However, my cat finds a penny on the hardwood floor and loses her mind due to the exhilaration.

* Team Six Until Me is gathering momentum towards the Walk to Cure Diabetes on September 25th. Money is being donated, walkers are volunteering their time, and I have just received word that there will be a Team T-Shirt (happy now, Chris?) contest. Here’s the link for donations and sign up, if you’re interested.

* I am participating in a Spelling Bee for Dorcas Place, which is a literacy center in Rhode Island. My company is sponsoring a team to compete in September. I wonder if my constant use of a computer at both work and home has affected my ability to spell. Spell Check can really rob someone of their ability to string together the correct letters. As can the brain-numbing work at my job. Will my team be eliminated in the first round? We must wait and S-E-E.

* New diabetes blog: DIABolic Check him out.

* I have rejoined the gym (now that the car accident is far enough behind me that my finances have caught up) and the plan is simple – Be Consistent. I need to be consistent in going and working out. I need to be consistent in making sure I crank down my basal rates at least two hours before workout. I also need to make sure my blood sugars remain consistent, none of this bouncing from 50 mg/dl to 250 mg/dl within a twenty minute timeframe. And I can’t be downing a bottle of juice every time I go to the gym. Kind of defeats the purpose. I also will not be wearing pink sweatpants to the gym, as I think that is tacky. I started back on Tuesday. The goal is three to five times a week. I can definitely do that. I’ll keep you posted as to progress. Or foolish moments I have, which will probably happen before any notable progress.

… No way will I ever even own pink sweatpants.

Five Senses.

I want a cure tonight.

I want it so badly I can taste it tonight. It tastes like black raspberry ice cream from St. Claire’s Annex in Watch Hill, all creamy and cold. It tastes slightly salty, like my skin after a day at the beach. It doesn’t taste at all like airplane glue or sweaters on my teeth after a few hours of a high bloodsugar. It doesn’t taste bitter, like the chocolate flavor on the back of my tongue after sneaking Halloween candy as a child.

I want it so badly I can feel it tonight. It feels like his strong hands on my shoulders, easing out the stress of the day. It feels free and almost scary, like standing on the top deck of the Block Island Ferry and leaning over just that little bit as the boat cruises towards shore. It doesn’t ache, like my stomach as I drive to Joslin or the eye doctor. It doesn’t burn, like my conscience often does when I think of the unfocused, foolish choices I’ve made regarding my health.

I want it so badly I can hear it tonight. It sounds like Siah sleeping on my pillow at night, gently purring in my ear. It sounds like that first cry my nephew wailed, piercing the night with his brand new voice. It doesn’t sound like the beep beep beep of Charlene as she counts up the correction tally. It sounds nothing like my voice shaking as I admit to the precursors of complications to my doctor.

I want it so badly I can smell it tonight. It smells like Ivory soap. It smells like a dozen unexpected roses brightening a dreary office. The scent isn’t even reminiscent of that dentist smell emitting from a broken bottle of insulin. It smells nothing like fear.

I want a cure so badly I can almost see it tonight.
It looks like my healthy body.
It looks like my healed fingertips.
It looks like my smile.
It looks like my pump, tucked inside an old jewelry box for the rest of my life.
It looks like my wedding.
It looks like my child.

It looks like my future.

In Which I Fake a Low to Get out of the Obstacle Course.

There has only been one time – ONE TIME – that I used diabetes as an excuse. One time. And I was always so adamant about not letting diabetes ever keep me from doing anything… the irony is thick. It was in seventh grade. The experience haunts me still.

Here’s how it went down: The way the gym at my middle school was set up was such that the gymnasium floor was at the base of a high walled, enormous room. Bleachers lined the incline on all sides. It was set up like a basketball arena. Very easy to see the victims … ah, participants on the floor.

My classmates and I had changed into shorts and t shirts and were filing in to the gym. And there, spread out before us like a gladiator coliseum, was The Obstacle Course.

The gymnastics horse was there. Rearing its ugly head, sneering at us all. The parallel bars mocked us. As did their uneven friends. And the nefarious rope climb was set up at the dead center.

“Line up. Girl, boy, girl, boy. Come on.” Gym Teacher put one hand on his hip, the other gesturing towards where we were to form a line.

I felt my pulse quicken. A bead of sweat emerged from my hairline and made way for my brow. Clammy skin. That pit in my stomach that signified panic. I felt disoriented and confused. What was happening?

Is she low? Faithful Reader asks.

No way. I was panicked at the idea of performing these physical feats in front of my classmates. I was well liked in school. I never had a shortage of friends. And my confidence stretched from academia to social settings. But I had no faith in my athletic abilities. I fell over my feet on a regular basis. I was notorious for slipping while standing still. My legs were those of a newborn colt on a banana peel laden floor. And, at 13 years old, I couldn’t find a way out of that gym fast enough.

“Gym Teacher, Gym Teacher.” (Of course I didn’t call him that, but there is no way I’m blowing my cover now, after all these years.) “I don’t feel very well. I need to go to the nurse.”

Being the only diabetic in the school and a well-known one at that, Gym Teacher dismissed me with the flick of an over-tanned wrist. And I trotted, riddled with a mix of guilt and relief, to the nurse’s office.

To the credit of my integrity and ever-plaguing conscience, I didn’t actually lie. It was more lying by omission. Just by saying “I don’t feel well” and being the diabetic, my need for medical attention was never questioned. But it is the only time I’ve ever let diabetes play the role of crutch. And I can’t let myself forget it. Sure, I’ve forgiven myself. And even now, as I write this, I laugh a little bit. But I can’t forget it.

I forgive you. Faithful Reader puts a hand on my shoulder.

I hope so.

You should have done the rope climb, though. Faithful Reader sighs, lost in the nostalgia. That feeling you get once you’re halfway up the rope is killer. 

That it is, Faithful Reader. That it is.

 

Team Six Until Me.

The JDRF Walk for a Cure is September 25th.

And Team Six Until Me is making their first showing.

This is the page you want to check out to either join our team or make a donation. I have sent out a wildly generic email to people I had addresses for, so if you received an email, forward it out to anyone who you think might be interested in the event. The goal set by the JDRF is $250, but I’m pretty sure we can blow that out of the proverbial water.

Aside from The Walk, I’m writing this post in the middle of an excellent thunderstorm. That’s a plus. I love a good thunderstorm. As long as I’m not driving in it.

 

Random Musings Before the Seafood Festival

This weekend is the famed Charlestown Seafood Festival. I’m going, for the second time this weekend. Oh, and I hate seafood. Go figure.

I have a few questions for The Masses:

Item 1. According to Violet’s research, birth control pills may increase insulin resistance. Okay. Eight days ago, I started on Altace (2.5 mg) in efforts to lower my blood pressure. Yes, it seems that my Type A personality, coupled with two decades of Type 1 diabetes, has rang in on my blood pressure readings. According to the frightening insert in the Altace box, listing a wild range of possible side effects, Altace may cause hypoglycemic episodes.

Hmmmmm. Does this mean these medications may “cancel” each other out? Or am I in for a A1c ping-pong game? If anyone has any information on Altace and it’s effects, I would appreciate the insight.

Item 2. Has this happened to anyone? It’s Day 3 of the infusion site (it’s in my right thigh this round), site to be changed in the morning. I go to sleep at 98 mg/dl. I wake up at four in the morning, thirsty as the day of diagnosis, and test at 338 mg/dl. Okay. Bolus 4.3 units. When I wake up at 9 o’clock For Real, I ring in at 268 mg/dl. I am frustrated and confused as to what the hell is going on, so I Rage Bolus another 3 units. Hour and 15 minutes later, 261 mg/dl. I yank the site, which was due to come out anyway, and see this minute mass of cells (I guess) tucked neatly into the end of the cannula. Bastard. Thwarted by my own cells. So apparently they gathered around the site over the course of the last day. Is this from leaving the site in an extra 10 hours? Could this be my body fighting what it thinks is an infection? Or does this get chalked up as a Freak Thing? One way or the other, it’s the first time something odd has built up on the cannula in a year and a half.

Item 3. What am I thinking, going to a seafood festival when I hate seafood? And not only that, but attending this festival twice in one weekend? 

Item 4. This is Abby, my other cat. That completes the family portrait, I think.

Tomorrow marks my first day back to work after a week of much-needed vacation. I’ll let you know if I get laid off.

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