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:


And on his belly, it said, “Fudgy Loves Kerri.”Fudgy the Whale!!!

“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.