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Posts from the ‘Diabetic Mommy’ Category

HypoPedicure.

“Mom, can I [something something] ?”

“Sure, kiddo,” I responded.  But I had no idea what she was asking me – her words were swirling around in the fog of my brain.  My blood sugar was 38 mg/dL and my Dexcom was wailing.  Chris was a few feet away, stirring something on the stove while he kept an eye on his wife.  “My blood sugar is really low, so I’m going to sit here for a few minutes.”

“Okay, that’s fine.  Do you need some glucose tabs?” she asked, sitting on the floor near my feet.

“I already had some.  I’ll be okay in a minute.  Don’t worry.”

What was directly in front of me hard sharp edges of focus, but everything on the peripheral was hard to see.  My body was concentrating on chewing and swallowing and trying to slow down the speed of my heartbeat in my ears.  I knew stable blood sugars were coming, but they needed a glucose jump-start.

“Okay, Mom.  I’ll just do this while I wait.”

And it wasn’t until later that night, after she had gone to bed and once I was readying myself for sleep, that I realized she spent the duration of my hypoglycemic episode painting my toenails bright pink with a glitter topcoat, globs of glitter and pink stretching all the way up to my ankle.

“Do you wish you didn’t have diabetes?”

“Hang on two more seconds, kiddo.  I need to check my blood sugar before we go.”

She watches me casually as she slides her arm through the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“Mom, do you wish you didn’t have diabetes?”

She asks me this question all the time now.  While diabetes is not a secret in our house, it’s not a hot topic of conversation.  Instead, she sees what my pump looks like and knows what my Dexcom does, and she likes to push the button on my lancing device to deploy the needle when I need to check.  She knows that glucose tabs are for low blood sugars and that I apologize for being unreasonably grouchy when my blood sugar is frustratingly high.  A few times she’s seen me cry because I was low, but I try to explain to her that it feels bad in the moment but then I feel okay.  Most of this becomes threads in the fabric, but lately, she’s been asking me that one, specific question on repeat.

“Mom, do you wish you didn’t have diabetes?”

My answer is generally the same every time, because I don’t want to lie to her.  I am not filled with diabetes-loathing, and even though this disease is the single biggest negative issue I deal with every day, I don’t feel entirely devoured by it.  But I don’t fucking like this disease.  It’s a complicated half-way.  There are moments that are compromised, but my life as a whole is not.

“I don’t like having diabetes, but I’m fine.  I like having you.  And having Daddy.  And having Looper and Siah Sausage,” and then I deflect to something else because I don’t want to have long, drawn out discussions with my introspective daughter who has already queried me about how many birthdays people have left.

I think about how diabetes is something normal to her, and always has been.  Moms wear insulin pumps, and it furrowed her brow for years that my friends here at home don’t have a pump clipped to their hip.  Moms carry purses filled with crayons and hand wipes for kids, and then a jar of glucose tabs for when the car is hard to find in the parking lot.  Mom’s bike basket has a bottle of water and a Dexcom receiver in it.  Moms sometimes say, “Let me check my blood sugar first,” before going outside to play.  This is her normal, too.

“Mom, are you glad I don’t have diabetes?”

“I am glad you are exactly who you are.  If you ever get diabetes, we’ll handle it.  When it comes to cookies, we’re the toughest,” and I breathe out as slowly, slowly, slowly as I can.

Bike Ride.

In one, frantic breath as we prepared to go for a bike ride, Birdy proclaims:

“We need to put a bottle of water in the bike basket and a snack in case I get hungry and a snack in case you get hungry or if you have a low blood sugar and your glucose meter and the glucose tabs in case you have a low blood sugar for real and in case I want to have one – that’s a joke, Mom, but really I can have a teeny, teeny bite if I want one, right? – and I will wear my helmet and you can walk while I ride on my bike and I’ll keep my eyes forward so I don’t fall off.”

Our version of “going for a bike ride” might sound complicated, but we do our thing and we do it well.

Unexpected Advocacy.

The last thing I wanted to do was take my cover-up off.

Chris and Birdy (and our friends and their daughter) were at a water park in New Hampshire where kids can run and play in safe-for-littles sprinklers, pools, and water slides, and as the adults, we were tasked with guarding the perimeter.  Pacing back and forth, the four of us kept watch on our kids, ready to jump in at any moment to help them climb a slide, pick themselves up if they fell, or slather on more sunscreen.

I didn’t care who saw my body.  Not really, anyway.  I’ve run miles and given birth (not simultaneously), so I know there are strengths and weaknesses to my frame, but it wasn’t the shape and curve of my body that made me want to stay covered up at the water park.

I didn’t want people staring at the diabetes devices stuck to my body.

“Oh, suck it up.  No one is looking at you.”

Of course they aren’t.  They don’t mean to.  But when someone walks by wearing a bathing suit with a few curious looking devices hanging off it, it’s hard not to notice.  My standard beachwear is a bathing suit with my pump clipped to the hip, the tubing snaked out to wherever the infusion set happens to be living, and my Dexcom sensor taking up more real estate elsewhere.  These items aren’t jarring, and people don’t snicker, but they do look twice because cyborgs aren’t the norm.

Most of the time I don’t think twice about who might look, but on this particular day, I felt self-conscious.  Why?  Who knows.  Who cares.  I just felt eh that day.

But motherhood dictated that my self-consciousness take a backseat to being part of Birdy’s waterpark experiences, so I sucked it up and removed my cover-up.  My insulin pump infusion set was stuck to the back of my right arm, the tubing snaking down and tucked into my bathing suit, where the pump was clipped to the back.  My Dexcom sensor was mounted on my right thigh.  Even though these devices are reasonably discreet, I felt like I had two giant toasters stuck to my body.


Birdy needed help climbing to a higher platform in the play area and I helped her do that, thankful that my pump was waterproof.  We ended up in the sprinkler pad for a while and I was thankful that the tape around my Dexcom sensor was strong enough to withstand the water.  After a few minutes, I got over the whole “blargh – I don’t want to wear giant toasters” feeling and got on with things.

“Excuse me.  Is that an insulin pump?”  All casual, the question came from behind me, where one of the park lifeguards was standing.  His arms were crossed over his chest as he confidently watched the pool, but his question was quiet.

“Yeah, it is.”  I wasn’t in the mood to have a full chat about diabetes, but I didn’t want to make him feel awkward for asking.

“You like it?”

“I like it better than taking injections.  I was diagnosed when I was a kid, so the pump is a nice change of pace from the syringes.”

“I bet.”  He paused.  “I was diagnosed last August and I’ve been thinking about a pump.  But I hadn’t ever seen one before.  Is that it?”  He pointed to the back of my arm.

“Kind of.  That’s where the insulin goes in, but the pump is this silver thing back here,” I pointed to the back of my bathing suit, where my pump was clipped.  “This is the actual pump.  It’s waterproof.”  A kid ran by, arms flailing and sending splashes of water all over the both of us.

“Good thing,” he said.

“For real.”  Birdy ran by to give me a high-five and then took off playing again.

“Your kid?”

“Yep.”

“How long have you had diabetes?”

“Twenty-seven years.”

He gave me a nod.  “Thanks for not making it seem like it sucks.  Enjoy your day,” and he moved towards a group of kids that were playing a little roughly.  I stayed and continued to watch my daughter play, very aware of my diabetes devices that, for the first time ever, didn’t seem quite noticeable enough.

 

(Also, today has been unofficially designated as a “day to check in” (hat tip to Chris Snider) with the DOC blogs that we’re reading.  I read a lot of diabetes blogs, but I don’t often comment because I usually want to say something meaningful, instead of “I like your post.”  (But I do like your post!)  But instead of finding that meaningful comment, I usually roll on and forget to return to comment.  NOT TODAY!  Today I’m commenting on every blog I read, because that’s the name of the game.  I love this community, and today I’ll show that through comments.  So please – if you’re here, say hello!  And thanks. xo)

CGM in the Cloud: Personal Preferences.

“Why would you want your continuous glucose monitor information in the cloud?”

Fair question, especially coming from folks in the CGM in the Cloud Facebook group, which is heavily dominated by parents of children with diabetes.

I didn’t want to answer, at first, because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.  When I meet with parents of kids with diabetes, the instinct to protect them is undeniable.  I want to tell them stories about people who are thriving with type 1 diabetes – “Hey, have you heard about the guy who is running across Canada?  Have you heard about the woman who gave birth to twin boys?  Have you heard about the couple who met and fell in love via the diabetes community?” – because that is the perception of diabetes that feels best to share.  It feels good to share successes, triumphs, proud moments.  You can thump your fist against your chest in pride; we are not held back by diabetes.

This is what I want to tell the parents of kids with diabetes.  Their kids will be okay.  Because that’s true – their kids will be okay.  But not without compromise, and that’s hard to articulate because it seems to fly in the face of “your kids will be okay.”  I don’t like reminding people that their kids with diabetes will become adults with diabetes because this disease is forever.  It’s uncomfortable to admit that diabetes is hard.  It’s hard to find words to illustrate the concept of, “I’m fine … sort of.”

“Why would you want your continuous glucose monitor information in the cloud?”

I’ve had some low blood sugars that have rocked me so hard I couldn’t recover, even after I had technically recovered.  Whether you want to admit it or not, diabetes requires extra planning.  Even the best and tightest and most well-controlled diabetes still comes with the threat of lows or highs.  This is why glove compartments end up crammed with jars of glucose tabs, and why back-up insulin pens litter the bottom of purses.  I was always taught to hope for the best – you can do anything with diabetes! – but to have a plan for the worst, should it happen.  Never ride a subway without snacks.  Never put diabetes supplies in checked luggage.  Always check blood sugar before driving.

“Call me when you wake up so I know you’re alive,” is a phrase casually uttered by my mother when my husband is traveling, but the honesty to it stops me cold.  Does my mom worry that something will happen to me at night?

Before Birdy was born, I had a healthy fear of lows, but after she arrived, that fear became something different entirely.  Now, a debilitating low blood sugar doesn’t just touch me, but it could hurt her, too.  When she was a few months old, my husband went away on a weekend trip and it struck me for the first time that if I didn’t wake up, no one would be there to take care of my daughter.  I pictured her in her crib, crying, alone, and without care.  The idea of her going without breakfast hurt me more than picturing my own unresponsive body.

Sounds dramatic?  It’s dramatic as fuck, because diabetes is quiet, until it’s not.

“Why would you want your continuous glucose monitor information in the cloud?”

Why?  Because having someone else able to monitor my blood sugars makes me feel safer.  I can’t make insulin anymore, but I can create peace of mind for myself, and for my family.

So I’m not waiting.  I’m not waiting for bad things to happen.  I’m taking a preemptive bite out of fear by putting another safety net into place.  When I’m traveling for work, I will have my CGM data streaming to the cloud, and my husband and my mother (as needed) will have access to it.  When I am alone in a hotel room, my family will have the peace of mind knowing that they can see my blood sugars while I sleep.  Same for when my husband is traveling and I am alone with our daughter.  As much as I know the CGM companies are working hard to bring this technology to patients, waiting removes the safety net that would help me sleep better at night.

I am not waiting.

 

 

Put On Your Listening Ears.

Our backyard is big and lovely and fenced in on all sides so that when Birdy and I are playing outside, we’re both safe from cars and giant woodland creatures (except the ones that can shimmy underneath the fence … I’m looking at you, groundhog).  I don’t keep my eyes glued to her while she plays, and we can enjoy the sunshine and the garden without feeling paranoid about passing cars, wandering off, etc.

Which is exactly what sucks about the front yard, because that’s the part of the house that the road is closest to.  So while I still need to do things in the front yard (getting the mail, tending the front garden, drawing hopscotch in the driveway), I don’t do anything of those things without having Birdzone front and center in both my mind and my actual line of sight.

Yesterday evening, Birdy and I were working in the front yard garden (I was clearing out some weeds and she was making “houses” for worms we discovered underneath a rock), when my Dexcom started wailing from my pocket.  In retrospect, I felt a little “off,” but it wasn’t until I heard the low alarm blaring from the Dexcom receiver that the symptoms kicked in fully.

“Hey, your blood sugar is whoa, Mom,” Birdy said absently, placing another worm onto a pile of dirt.

“Yeah, we need to go inside and get some snacks, okay?  It’s important,” I replied, looking at the “UNDER 65 MG/DL” warning on the Dexcom screen.

Normally, she listens.  Especially when it’s about blood sugars, because Chris and I have talked with her a few times about how listening is important, particularly when I tell her my blood sugar is low.  But she wanted to stay outside.  She liked playing with the worms.  She liked being in the dirt and gardening.  She didn’t want to have to cut playtime short because Mommy needed a few glucose tabs that she should have brought outside with her in the first place.  [Insert Mom Guilt here.]

“Nooooo waaaaaaay!!!” she said, flouncing away from me and refusing to turn around.

Under normal circumstances, I would have laughed (because “No way!” is a great response), but I was starting to feel shaky and my brain cells connections felt loose, like thoughts weren’t coupling up the right way.  We were in the front yard and I knew I needed to gain control of all potentially dangerous situations in a hurry.

“We need.  To go.  INSIDE right now.  My blood sugar is low.  This is not a joke.” I said.

“No!  I don’t waaaaaaant to!!”

My blood sugar falls fast.  It always has.  I don’t get the long, lingering slides towards hypoglycemia but instead the quick, breathless plummets.  Knowing that I was dropping and watching yet another car drive by our house meant I needed to get control fast and without issue.

Before my body completely caved to the low blood sugar, I scooped up my flailing daughter and walked into the house.  She was freaking out and still forcefully asserting her right to “NOOOO!” but I needed sugar more than I needed her to like me.  A few seconds later, we were both safely contained in the kitchen.  I had a few glucose tabs and waited for my brain to acknowledge them.  Birdy pouted in the corner, staring at her hands and still mumbling, “No way.”

A few minutes later, I felt more human.  “Birdy, I’m sorry we had to come inside.  But my blood sugar was low and it could have become an emergency.  So that’s why you needed to put your listening ears on and come inside.  I wasn’t doing it to be mean; I was doing it to be safe.  Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t stay outside.  But we can go back out now, okay?”

“Okay.  I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

“It’s okay.”

She turned around and pressed her hand into mine.  Something wriggled.  She smiled.

“I brought a worm inside.”

No way.

 

Mommy’s Little Pack Mule.

Running alone brings out the Spibelt, and I cram it full of my on-the-move necessities:  glucose tabs, Dexcom receiver, keys, and phone.  Even though it’s reasonably streamlined and doesn’t bother me too much to tote around all that stuff, it’s a bulkier system than, oh, I don’t know … making my own insulin.

But lo!  The child rides a bike!  And insisted on having a bicycle basket!  To which I said, “Yes!  Excellent idea and can you please carry all my shit, too?” only I did not cuss at the child!

The miles might be logged a little slower than when I’m by myself, but there’s nothing more convenient than making use of her bike basket to carry all my diabetes stuff, and I love sharing some outside play moments with my daughter.

And she likes being in charge of such important things, since she is a “big girl” and can “carry the glucose tabs because then if I want a very, very, very small bite of a glucose tabs, I can just reach in and have one, right, Mawm?”

“Sure.  But only if you make sure you slow down if I need a glucose tab, okay?”

Bartering with my happy little helper of a diabetes pack mule.

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