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Posts tagged ‘diabetes’

That Big, Effing Frog. #DOCtober

Busy weekend, with a pile of unrelated-to-diabetes moments and a few that were decidedly diabetes.  But to start, I’ll catch up on my #DOCtober photo posts.

How is your #DOCtober going?

Care What the Community Thinks, Not What the Community Buys.

[I have a working relationship with Animas. My disclosures are here; please read them.]

During the middle of one of our discussion sessions, Daniela D’Onofrio let fly a statement that defined the whole blogger summit for me:

“Care what the community thinks, not what the community buys.”

Last week, the European Animas team brought a group of diabetes advocates together for a face-to-face discussion. This meeting is very special to me because it serves as a portal into the global diabetes online community, bringing advocates from different countries, speaking different languages, together at the same actual table.

And at that same table is the company responsible for believing in our voices: Animas. Several years ago, there was an air of awkwardness when it came to plunking different diabetes demographics into the room – did you really want to talk about the company RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE COMPANY? It felt weird. Strange, kind of like when someone asks if they have something in their teeth and you know you owe it to them to fess up about the giant chunk of broccoli sitting between their two front fangs but instead you say, “Nah! You’re fine,” and then nothing changes.

This was a meeting that included talking about that broccoli. We weren’t in an ivory tower talking about ivory tower-type things. We hit upon topics that felt uncomfortable at times, including the absence of type 2 voices at the table, and the perception of our meeting from the outside. It got sticky, the discussions, because we didn’t dance around any awkwardness. Instead, we tried to embrace it to move forward. When respect is coupled with honesty, more good comes of it. Now, years after those first meetings between the diabetes community and diabetes companies, people are being straight up about their needs and wants. There’s a power to that.

And, as a group, we recognized our privilege. We knew we were flipping lucky to be in that room, many with the support of Animas, and that the meeting is not a yearly guarantee. So we took advantage of our time together. We were honest, regardless of who was listening or taking notes. Our agenda included topics around incorporating and encouraging type 2 diabetes voices, diabetes and well-being, working through advocacy burnout, and building trust between diabetes companies and diabetes communities.

Annie has written about her experiences at the summit here, with some detail from her perspective on the sessions. More posts from other attendees are in the works, and the event was sort of documented on Twitter using the #IntlDOCExchange15 hashtag.

For me, the discussion about type 2 voices was the most eye-opening. It was understood that we were there with the Animas team, so therefore the folks in attendance were either Animas users or caregivers to Animas users. With insulin pumps not indicated for use by people with type 2 across the board, it made sense that the attendees were people touched by type 1 diabetes. Made sense, but still seemed wrong. We talked for a long time about how uncomfortable it can be, at times, to bring different groups together at times, but how necessary it is on the whole. I’ve been a longtime proponent of bridging the gaps between types (ashamed to admit my own preconceived notions in the past) and it felt good to see the people in our sessions talking openly about the common ground between the diabetes types, even if not everyone saw that common ground at first glance. People are people, regardless of their diabetes “type,” and to pretend we don’t have common ground is truly unreasonable.

Together, we’re stronger; no caveat added.

It was in that last session that Daniela summed up every company interaction (or simply every interaction, ever) that’s been productive, at least for me. Understanding and caring about the needs of the people touched by diabetes is what really matters; community and business objectives alike benefit from that level of interaction and involvement. This applies to people with type 1 diabetes, type 2 diabetes, type whatever diabetes.

So how can diabetes companies best serve the overall community? By caring more about what people think than what they buy. (Or, in terms that are more my speed: Give a shit about PEOPLE, not purchases.)

And I think that’s happening. Less slowly than before, and certainly surely, patient advocates across the health condition spectrum are raising their voices and being HEARD.

EU Blogger Summit

A photo posted by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

Our group’s viewpoints were not representative of the entire diabetes community (just as my post here is not representative of the entire summit), or even of our respective regions, but it was powerful to have different individual opinions shared comfortably and openly. Many people in the group were returning to the meeting for the third or fourth time, but there were a few new faces, and it was encouraging (inspiring, even) to see those new voices welcomed into the fold.

I’m very appreciative that Animas trusted me to facilitate these discussions, and allowed me the opportunity to meet with my global DOC partners to move the mission forward. Especially when they, as a company, are not dictating the mission, but are instead along for the ride with our community as a partner. Props, and thanks, for that, and for pointing out the broccoli while simultaneously picking it out of their own teeth.

(And with that, I’ll end that particular gross and specific metaphor.)

One More Sneaker.

This week, in my quest to become a Lady of Suburbia, I went to Marshall’s to pick up a lamp.  (I also bought pumpkin coffee beans.  Whilst wearing yoga pants yet not doing yoga.  In the middle of the day.  Forgive me.)

This visit was on the same day that I was sharing a #dayofdiabetes (peek in on the hashtag here), so diabetes was a documented focus.

The cashier was a nice lady who wanted to chat.  As she was ringing my purchases up, we both overheard the cashier next to her ask a patron if they’d like to donate to the JDRF.  “No, not today.”

“I hope some people say yes about donating to JDRF,” I said quietly to my cashier.

She nodded as she put my things into a bag.  “Yeah, most people say no.  I haven’t had a single donation yet today, but I had a few yesterday.   I always ask, though.  It means a lot to me.”

“Oh yeah?  Do you have a personal connection to diabetes?”

“I do.  My dad has diabetes.  Type 1, since he was about eight years old.”

“Really?  Me, too.  I was diagnosed when I was seven.”

She looked at my face, then her eyes drifted to my hip, where my insulin pump was visibly clipped.  “No kidding?  Is that your pump?”

“It is.  I’ve been pumping for about ten years.  I use a continuous glucose monitor, too.”

“My dad is old school.  He does the injections with syringes.  He’s had it my whole life.  He’s had some low blood sugars that I remember.”

“My daughter is five.  I bet she’ll have stories about my diabetes when she’s our age, too.”  I smiled at this woman who was the fast-forward of my own little Bird, a child without diabetes raised by a person with diabetes.  This woman’s understanding of my own day-to-day was intimate, and we had yet to exchange names.

As I paid for my purchases, she raised an eyebrow.  “Do I even have to ask if you’re donating?”

I shook my head.  “Nope.  Count me in for a sneaker or two.  One for me, one for your dad.”


29 Years with Type 1 Diabetes.

Even though my diabetes diagnosis was twenty-nine years ago today, I feel kind of done with letting it serve as a milestone marker for me.  In years past, I liked marking the day because it felt like a moment of flipping the bird (not this Bird) to diabetes.  Over the last few years, I’ve kind of liked not paying much attention to the anniversary; it was an opportunity to remove the bold underline from diabetes.  Diabetes is something that’s part of my life, but letting it blur my focus isn’t a good head space for me to be in.


Instead, I’m focusing on the shit I like.

Like how my daughter is five and a half years old and she’s a really happy kid.  The smile that spreads across her face when she sees the school bus approach in the morning is my new favorite thing.  That, and watching her walk with a book bag that’s half the size of her body.

[Total aside:  I also really like that, in our neighborhood, the school bus drives in and picked up the kids, goes up the road and through the cul-de-sac, and then drives by us again as it leaves our street.  Which means that the parents stand there and wait for the bus to come back, then we all wave like lunatics.  It's a very strange custom and one I already find comforting.  (I wonder if the sidewalk group of showered-and-dressed parents eventually devolves into a ragtag pile of bed-headed, bathrobe-wearing, coffee-cup-clutching adults.)]

I like my husband.  So much that I taught our daughter how to write names in the peanut butter.  She thinks it’s a weird custom, but got all excited when given the opportunity to write “LOOPY” in the untouched surface of a new jar.

I like my job.  Living with diabetes can be an intrusion and as I mentioned last year, the intrusion seems to have dulled over time for the most part, but the career and the voice that I’ve had the good fortune to build as a result of this frigging disease is more fulfilling than any other job I could imagine.  I’m looking forward to the chance to meet with my European counterparts in Stockholm next week, and very excited for what’s on tap for 2016.

I like my health.  There are bits and pieces I’d change, if given the chance (see also:  bringing diabetes back after 30 years, mostly because I’ve kept the receipt this whole time), but on the whole, I am extremely lucky to have a disease where I can strongly influence my personal health outcomes.  I am in the driver’s seat, even if I have an unruly passenger.  Despite diabetes, I can still run.  I can still dance (badly).  I can make mistakes.  I can make a difference.  I can still stay out late and laugh hard (resulting sometimes in a snort, which is not cool, body).  I can raise a family.  I can be a crumb.  I can also be a good person.

I canAnd you can.  (Toucan.)

And I like you guys.  A lot.  Your support and camaraderie has been instrumental over the last decade, and I think I’m in a better mental health place as a result of this community.  Twenty-nine years ago, community was limited to my zip code.  Now, some of my best friends are based in this community, and I’m grateful as eff.  Access to this digital database of truly amazing human beings has been the best thing diabetes has brought to my life, islets down.

So onward, you guys.  ONWARD.  To another year of BYOI(nsulin).


Looking Back: Taking the Plunge.

Summer is coming to a close over here and as we prepare to send Birdzone to kindergarten, I am spending the last few days of summer with my child velcro’d to me.  In an appreciation for family and for how mine handled diabetes as I was growing up, I wanted to look back at a post from five years ago where my aunt takes a stab (ha?) at giving me my insulin injection.   My immediate and extended family both took excellent care of me as a kid, and I’m glad that diabetes didn’t prevent sleepovers.

*   *   *

I’m from a very big family – my mother is one of seven and my dad is one of five, for starters – so I had plenty of relatives who used to babysit for me when I was small.  Overnight visits at my aunts’ houses were part of the fun, and I always looked forward to them.  (Because – let’s be honest – I liked that they let me put makeup on them and do their hair.  My pretty aunts were like living Barbie Doll heads to me.)

Things changed a bit when diabetes came into the picture.  Sleepovers weren’t as easy to manage, because now we had to juggle insulin injections, blood sugar tests, and being on the lookout for high and low blood sugars – especially back in that first year when everything diabetes-related was so new to all of us. I was still a little kid, and now all this medical stuff, too?

When I was first diagnosed, I didn’t do my own insulin injections.  At the outset, my parents did my injections for me, but after a few months, my extended family started to learn.  I think about it now, having baby-sat for my nieces and nephews and little cousins, and I can’t even picture that learning curve.  I’m so grateful that my family came together to learn to deal with diabetes, instead of leaving my mom and dad as the only ones who were “in the know.”

One of my earliest memories with diabetes is of me waiting on my aunt’s couch while my mother tried to explain to my aunt how to administer my insulin injection.  And every time I recall it, it makes me laugh.

“You need to uncap the syringe, check for any air bubbles one last time, and then pinch up where you’re going to stick the needle.  Once the needle is in, you press down the plunger and pull the needle out.  No problem!”

My aunt was nervous.  “I pinch the skin and then put the needle in?  How fast do I put the needle in?”

“Pretty quickly,” my mom responded.  “Don’t think about it.  Just jab it in there, as gently as you can.”

“Okay, so pinch, jab, plunge, remove.  Got it.”

“Great, so are you ready to give it a try?”

(Mind you, the entire time they’re debating this, I’m face-down on the couch with my pants pulled down, waiting for the insulin injection to be given into my seven year old butt cheek.  Another truly classy moment for me.)

My aunt came towards me, brandishing the syringe like a hot poker.  She uncapped it nervously, pinched up the top of my hip, and said (and I remember this clearly), “Ready, Kerri?”

“Yessh I amph.”  I said into the couch cushion.

“Okay, here we go!”

She expertly stuck the syringe needle into my skin, and I barely felt the pinch.  And then she pulled the needle quickly out, letting out an “Oooh!  I did it!”

My mother sighed.

“You didn’t push the plunger down.”


“The plunger.  To dispense the insulin?  You didn’t push it down.  You just stuck her with a needle and then pulled it out again.”  I could hear my mother trying not to laugh.

“Oh shit!” my aunt exclaimed.

I laughed, despite the fact that they were about to advance on me again with that syringe.

“You shed de esh word.”

Guest Post: Keep Calm Once They Cover Dexcom.

Today, Colleen is taking over my blog while I’m taking a few days off.  And I love her introduction bio so much that I’m pasting it in without edits.  Colleen is terrific, opinionated in a way I respect deeply, and today she’s talking about the importance of having access to a continuous glucose monitor (CGM) as she ages.  Take it away, Colleen!

*   *   *

I signed up for Medicare this year. Deep breath. (I’m having a really difficult time believing that I’m 65.)

I’m not using Medicare (yet) because I’m still working. I like my job. I like my insurance. I like my five minute commute. But mostly, I like my Dexcom CGM (Continuous Glucose Monitor).

I always thought I’d be retired, lazing around, maybe playing some tennis.

Not really, I’m not lazy and I haven’t played tennis in a gazillion years. But, I really was looking forward to doing some volunteer stuff, especially working with kids who have learning difficulties. I’m a former Special Education teacher and I love seeing/helping kids to “get it.” Literally watching that invisible light bulb start shining when they would “get it.”

Instead, I’m working so that I can keep my Dexcom CGM.

Not to worry. I’m not suffering – I work as a church secretary, an absolutely delightful job!

Several years ago, when I started seeing a dermatologist, he explained that removing those things growing on me would be covered by my insurance because, “It’s covered by Medicare.” I was insulted and stated, “For heaven’s sake, I’m NOT on Medicare.” He then explained that if it was covered by Medicare, then insurance would pay for the procedure. “Oh…”

And now, turning 65 – my own light bulb has turned on. But it’s not going anywhere.

I remember talking with my primary care physician at an appointment once and saying how I work so hard to maximize my use of health insurance. I am careful to coordinate lab work with her and my endocrinologist. I keep up with scheduled appointments. I try very hard to be a wise consumer of health insurance. And she calmly replied, “You’re cheaper to Medicare if you’re dead.”

Well, that sucks.

Maybe – but – the cost of keeping me alive might be a sh**load more (Kerri said I could use bad words) [Editor's interjection:  You can use all the words you'd like, Colleen.]  without my CGM.

And I truly believe that soon – Medicare will figure out that the expense of a CGM is whole lot less than the expenses of ambulances and ER visits and hospitalizations.

There is no public transportation up here in the woods so, I have to drive.

I almost always (I’m being honest) (95% of the time!) check Dexcom before I drive anywhere. I frequently have to make short trips during the day for work and Dexcom has certainly kept me in my office/the parking lot sipping on juice before leaving.

I hate shopping. Yes, really. Shopping irritates me. Shopping and going low is really annoying. The nearest real mall is over an hour away and there have been times that I’m pulled over at an exit or a rest area because Dexcom beeped at me. More juice … (Not easy in the winter when it’s frozen. Yes, I have glucose tablets, also.)

We get a whole lot of snow up here on our hill. And it’s not plowed every hour on the hour. There are times we literally cannot get out (or in). I’ve checked with our local police to ask – what would happen if I needed an ambulance in the middle of a snowy night? The answer – They’d hike up our hill with a sled to get me out if needed. Scares the sh** out of me.

Way back when I was diagnosed, I knew I would want a pump. At that time, you had to have been on MDI (Multiple Daily Injections) for a couple of years before they (insurance) would even think about approving a pump. By the time I was ready to start pumping, it wasn’t that difficult.

Thank you to everyone who advocated for pumps for all of us who want one.

Way back when, Kerri was one of those people writing about her fight to get a Dexcom CGM – with letters and refusals and more letters and more proof and finally – Dexcom. By the time I was ready to start using a CGM (I always swore there was NO WAY – have you seen the needle in those things?), getting a CGM wasn’t as difficult. (That needle? Not an issue.)

Thank you to everyone who advocated for CGMs for all of us who want one.

And now – those of us who are and will be the d-elders need to be able to continue using or begin using CGMs for better health and safer living. And your help is needed. You’re not just helping the older d-people. You’re helping yourself. Because you know what? We’re all leading healthier lives even with Diabetes because we work hard to stay healthy. If a CGM helps, we should all have access to that.

How can you help?

JDRF makes it easy. Go here:

Help others, and help your future selves -  and the children who will grow up – just by contacting a few of your state’s senators and representative.

It’s a win-win for all of us.

*   *   *

From Colleen:  “I’m Colleen and I have type 1 LADA – Latent Autoimmune Diabetes in Adults. Diagnosed at the age of 55 (yes, really!), I was just a tad surprised. My husband and I live and work in New Hampshire and even enjoy the snowy winters. We could be retired but, the need for health insurance has us both working at a local church. Yes, together. Yes, we’re surprised. No, we haven’t killed each other, yet.  Hope you’ll introduce yourself and it’s nice to meet you!”

Please say hello to Colleen, either on this post or at her blog, D-Meanderings.  For more on the goal of covering CGMs for Medicare, check out these links:

Change Your Lancet.

This morning I woke up
And reached right over to the table.
Grabbing my receiver,
I saw my blood sugars stable.
Meter confirmation
Showed a 107 number
And that things had been quite steady
Overnight, while I did slumber.

(“While I did slumber?”
Yes, I used that phrase despite it sounding formal.
It’s fun to turn a stodgy phrase
To make sleep sound less normal.

“Okay, go on and tell you story,”
Thanks.  I almost blew it.)

I noticed, when I pricked my finger
That the lancet got stuck into it.

It was gross.  There was a shunk
As the lancet then deployed.
And the OUCH when it went in
Had me less shocked than quite annoyed.
Because I CHANGED that stupid lancet
Just the day before the last!
It wasn’t stale or all that old.
How dare it give my thumb such blast?

And not only did it sting
But the em effer didn’t bleed.
In order to check sugars,
“Change the lancet” was the need.

I gave it glance with both my eyes
After I took the lancet out
The tip looked worse for wear.
So what the hell – I swapped it out.

I tried again, this time determined
Not to let the prick be useless.
I resolved to change my lancet more
Lest diabetes think I’m truceless.
When the needle went in my finger
I squeezed it for a spell.
And blood came from the wound.
… and from a random spot as well.

What’s the moral of the story?
How can I work my D smarter?
Here’s advice for all the ages:
Change your lancet, or squeeze harder.



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