Monday, June 27, 2011

When she's away

M has been visiting her grandparents in Indiana this week.

I admire their can-do attitude. After all, living so far away from our New England home, they really aren't exposed to the daily inconvenience of living with Type 1. But they are unafraid. They enjoy M and her love for life. They know that she is capable, and they invited her to come visit them for the week. Just her and them.

I talked to her on the phone and it sounds like she is having a ball. And she claims that her bg levels are good.

I find this last piece of information believable, actually. I have to say that her bg levels have been pretty good lately, with very few highs over 200, and an average bg of about 140. We will Carelink her when she gets home, though, just to be sure.

She will be flying home solo. I can't wait to hear about her going through airport security on her own with her insulin pump.

In the meantime, it's been pretty quiet around here. (Not at work! That's been crazy!) At home, where there was some raucousness, there isn't any.

Here are some odd things that reminded me that, although my D-daughter was not here all week, I am clearly a D-parent.

  • While sweeping the floor, I picked up purple needle covers from an insulin pen that M hasn't used in two months.
  • I set aside the french fry bag at dinner the other night, so that M could calculate how many carbs she was going to consume. After about 20 minutes of it sitting there, I realized that no one was going to use that bag for anything.
  • I made sugar free pudding, when there was perfectly good sugar filled pudding on the shelf.
  • I kept picking up the insulin bottle on the kitchen counter to check how much was in it.
  • I made too much bacon for Saturday breakfast. Bacon is M's favorite 0 carb food. Leftovers are usually non-existent.
  • I picked up the sharps container to check how full it was. Twice.
They're these little things we never think about. I just do them because they are a constant part of life; like feeding the dog or shaving my legs.

The good news is that I won't feel so crazy doing any of these things once M gets home.

Now if only I would stop talking to the dog when I am alone....

I don't know what you're saying, but it had better involve bacon.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Lions and Angels

After M was diagnosed, several people told me that I simply must send her to diabetes camp, that it did wonders for their child, niece, grandson, the neighbor's kid.

The fact of the matter was that M was diagnosed at a very inconvenient time. Inconvenient because a) I was broke, and b) camp sign-ups were already done for the year.

A buddy of mine from church also asked if I was planning to send M to diabetes camp. I told her that I would like to the following year, but I wasn't sure if I would or not. She was wise enough to read between the lines, and told me that she was part of the Lion's Club. These are the same people that collect old pairs of glasses to help people who can't otherwise afford them. She said that they usually have scholarships for kids going to diabetes camp. I told her I would keep it in mind for the following year.

The following year, my buddy reminded me to apply for a scholarship for M. I didn't think we'd qualify, and I was afraid that even if we did, we would not be able to pay the balance. We were getting by, but things were really tight. I thought we might have to pass up camp again this year.

Then Auntie Jeanne stepped in.

Auntie Jeanne is M's godmother, guardian angel, and fantastic human being. In fact, when I discuss her with people outside our shared social circle, I refer to her as "Auntie Jeanne" so that she will not be mixed up with any of the other, less important, Jeannes in my life.

Auntie Jeanne offered to pay for a large chunk of M's diabetes camp.

I cried.

Then I applied for the scholarship.

The Lion's club paid $900 of M's camper fees, leaving only $300. Jeanne paid the balance.

I am so grateful for groups like the Lion's club, who make it possible for kids like mine to attend a camp that would otherwise be out of their reach.

I wept again after dropping M off at camp, so grateful that my daughter would have this opportunity to be with other kids who had to watch what they eat and inject themselves with insulin. I am not glad that there were so many of them, but I was glad that they weren't alone: that they had to explain nothing to anyone. Although the focus of camp is diabetes, in some ways it is like a diabetic vacation.

M was a big hit at diabetes camp. She went bass fishing, wrote at the camp newspaper, made videos, went swimming, and generally had a ball. People hugged her like mad when she left.

And she can't wait to go back.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Have a nice day

I always hearken back to "Things not to say to the parent of a type 1 diabetic", but am still astonished at what people will say to me and M when we are out in public.

I suppose that some of it is my fault. After all, I am not a big privacy person. When people ask questions, I give them answers. Then they feel free to tell me things I don't want to hear.

Case in point: we are in the Payless, a shoe store, for those of you who do not know. We are seeking somewhat fancy shoes for the somewhat fancy occasions of M's 8th grade graduation and her cousin's christening.

Nearly all of the shoes are thongs. In other words, they have a strap or something that is designed to station itself between the big toe and the second toe. All diabetic literature forbids this style of shoe. Diabetic feet are very sensitive and prone to infection. Putting something between your diabetic toes that will rub, get moist, or possibly break the skin is super bad news.

I can't tell you how many times I have heard about diabetic feet getting amputated.

Fortunately, M seems to find potential amputation to be motivation enough to stay away from some pretty cute shoes.

At this particular Payless, there is an extremely helpful sales clerk, who is always there to help us find things. She has a lovely accent that I cannot quite identify, but I suspect she is a native speaker of Portuguese or Latin American Spanish.

As usual, she was eager to help M find the perfect pair of shoes. She pulled out pair after pair of thonged sandals. M politely declined each pair in turn while seeking sandals without the forbidden thong. The sales clerk was persistent, which is typical of her, pointing out "how cute" each one was.

M said, "They are cute, but I can't buy that kind of shoe."

The clerk looked confused, "Can't....?"

I chimed in, "She has diabetes. Her doctor doesn't like her to wear that kind of shoe."

She nodded curtly and searched diligently for appropriate shoes. We found a pair that worked, and brought it up to the register.

This is when the fun happened.

"You have diabetes? You are so young to have diabetes. So you can't have candy, right?"

M replied, "I do watch what I eat, but I can have candy once in a while."

"Oh no, you can't. My dear cousin, Esmerelda had diabetes. She was such a sweet girl. She ate candy. And do you know what?" she asked in a hushed voice, "She went blind."

Ah, the old "she went blind" story. Always a favorite for me. There are enough youtube videos about this to fill a 10 disk DVD set.

Awkward, but not finished. Apparently reminding me that my daughter might go blind in her lifetime wasn't quite enough. She was going to have to scare M as well.

Our sales clerk continued, "She is no longer with us. She was a sweet girl, but she didn't take care of herself. She left behind a young daughter, too. It was such a shame."

I thought the clerk was going to tear up, a prospect for which I was unprepared. M and I had settled into a patient silence while we waited for her to wind herself back down.

She smiled sadly at us, but finally rang up the shoes with this final missive: "Watch that candy!"

Ummmm. Thanks? Have a nice day!
Ooof! I wasn't expecting that!

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Run away

We had a visitor recently. Two actually. My sister and a close friend from college came over to socialize.

I hate to say that this is a rare occurrence, but it is. We are all of a certain age when running children to various events and activities, coupled with our desire to earn enough money to pay our copious bills kind of eats into our social time. Nonetheless, an effort was made, and we managed to pull it off.

My kids are social animals, and so were excited to see our guests. We cooked some burgers on the grill and sat on the porch talking until the mosquitoes came out. The adults then sat down to a game of cards in the dining room. M sat at the computer, facebooking or something, while her brother chose to play video games in the next room.

We had had burgers, as mentioned before. M had one and with it, she had a nice big bulkie roll. A bulkie roll is about 39 carbs all by itself, plus, as bread is a fast-acting carb, its  effect on M's bg levels can be somewhat unpredictable. In cases like these, we typically test M's bg levels about 2 hours after eating to determine if any action must be taken.

With my back to M, I casually ask her to test her bg.

She tries.

I hear an exasperated sigh as her test strip makes itself useless.

With M's old (pre-pump) test strips, M had five seconds after it absorbed her blood before we learned the results. These new strips start the five second countdown immediately upon contact with blood. If she doesn't bleed enough onto the strip, it malfunctions, giving an obnoxious reading like "failure" or some such thing on the screen of her bg monitor.

She tries again. After a moment, I notice her slip up to her room.

My sister reports that she made a face before ascending the stairs. I finish the hand, and go up to check on her.

What I encounter surprises me. It is sheer panic, personified.

M is shaking, red-faced, and teary-eyed.

Gently, I ask, "What happened?"

Shrilly, M responds, "My blood sugar was really high!"

Quietly and calmly, "How high?"

Panicked, "Really, really high! 525!"

Wow, that is high. I pause and quietly ask if M has checked to see if her pump is working. She tells me in a high pitched tremolo that it said "No delivery" on the screen, so she pushed the buttons to administer the dose again.

I check the pump. On the screen I see that it is indeed counting down the dose that is being pumped into her body.

"How much did you have to administer?" I ask.

"19 units."

"Well, let's set the kitchen timer for 20 minutes and see if it your bg is headed in the right direction. If not, we'll give you an injection and change your infusion set, okay?"

She nods and tells me that she's scared. I hold her and tell her that I'm glad that she knows that this is serious, but that we will take care of it. I keep calm by reminding myself that her bg was likely this high for at least a week before she was diagnosed, and that she will not die in the next 20 minutes while we wait to see if the pump is working.

I head downstairs to play cards some for a little while, and dutifully set the timer.

After a very long 20 minutes, I ascend the stairs to check on my daughter. She has changed into her pajamas, and looks a little more relaxed. We test her bg: 228.

Well, now we know that the pump is working, which is a relief. M decides to bolus again, to continue to correct her bg to more normal levels. I allow her to make the call, and we agree to check her bg again in a half an hour, to make sure that she didn't over correct.

I join our guests at the table, who are witness to the joys of worrying about one's diabetic child. My friend reaches over to sympathetically trace the furrows in my brow. I always joke with my students that I need Botox thanks to them, but maybe it is this: worrying about my children, especially the one with the life-threatening illness.

M comes downstairs and sits at the table with us. She is relaxed. Smiling. Sociable. You could almost say that she is a whole other person. We check her bg again. It is 103. This whole other person is the one I am used to: the one who is pleasant, rational, and friendly. The one I knew before the diabetes.

Later M and I have the required discussion about a) making sure that you tell someone when you need help, and b) not hiding from the people who can help you.

At one point in the evening, my friend ad asked, "Do you think she ran off because I am here?"

And I reassured him, saying, "No, I think she just panicked."

But guess what? During our conversation, M told me that the reason she ran off is that she didn't know what to do with guests in the house. She was embarrassed, confused about how to be polite, and of course, somewhat irrational due to the high bg levels.

As far as WHY the bg levels spiked so high that night, we don't really know. I have my theory, which is that when M went to administer her dinner dose of insulin, she did not push the delivery button twice as required (for confirmation). It is the most logical explanation. But M says she distinctly remembers pushing the delivery button twice.

Not wanting to argue with her after her ordeal, I relent, and call it a mystery. Then again, what else could cause her bg to go up by over 350 mg/dl in two hours? I am hard pressed to think of another explanation.

Don't do this next time, please.