Not long ago, I saw this article in my local newspaper (yeah, I read the paper, and not on line either).
Campaign for a kitten
The article is about a woman who adopted a 9 week old kitten, only to learn that it has a birth defect. Its ribs are growing the wrong way so that they will not protect his heart. In fact they will eventually pierce his heart an kill him.
The woman is heartbroken and decides to raise money for the surgery, which will need to be performed twice, because he will grow and change, and they will need a special casts that will need to accommodate his growing body, etc. (For Seinfeld fans, I am reminded of this quote from George Costanza: "So they're flying in special tiny instruments from El Paso") The estimated cost for all of the kitten's needs is about $1500. Donations could be made to the "Misty the Kitten" fund.
So how did that work out, you might wonder? After all, that is a ridiculous amount of money to raise in a short period of time.
But when Misty reached 11 weeks, the campaign had raised $2046 with 12 days left in the campaign.
WHAT!??!
Not to sound bitter, but I can't even get my coworkers to give me $5 for diabetes research. Diabetes, which kills thousands upon thousands of people every year.
But wait, there's more. This happens: Misty the Kitten Dies Post-Surgery.
Super.
Stupid kitten.
Now the woman who created the fund has a bunch of money left over and she wants to use it to support other hopeless sick kitten cases.
So once in a while I read another article about some other hopeless case of a cat that would probably prefer sweet death to another pointless and painful surgery using the LEFTOVER FUNDS from the "Misty the Kitten" fund.
Fine world, have it your way.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
No choice
So a few weeks ago I receive a letter from our insurance company.
It states that my daughter is on a medication that is "no longer a preferred medication". And I think to myself, "Really. The only medication that she uses is insulin. Did you have an alternative for insulin you HMO bastard pieces of shit?" (We actually have a PPO, but I just love that quote.)
Upon further investigation, it seems that Caremark has decided that it no longer wants to work with Humalog (from the Eli Lily company in Indiana), and prefers to work with Novolog (from Novo Nordisk, a company in Denmark). They stated in their letter that failure to switch to the preferred medication may result in loss of coverage for the current medication.
This makes me nervous.
Why? Because the one student I know for sure uses this stuff has very wild swings in blood sugar during the day. His mother and I spoke about different kinds of insulins at a school event. She was touting Novolog as better because it works faster, more like natural insulin.
I thought that maybe we would try it, eventually. Maybe it would work more effectively with M's lifestyle, but we would wait to do it over the summer, if we did try it, so that we could monitor the effects of the change on her system without too much life getting in the way.
But the insurance company threw off my time line.
I asked another diabetic student about which insulin she used. She said that she uses Humalog, and that she had tried Novolog, but after trying it, her doctor wrote her a letter stating that she needed to switch back for medical reasons.
What were the medical reasons?
She wears her pump very discreetly, snaking the tubing from a pocket in her jeans to the infusion set on her thigh. While using Novolog, she said that she was developing divots on her thighs at the infusion site. Her doctor noticed that her muscles were withering where the Novolog entered her system, and successfully appealed the insurance company mandate.
I was a little alarmed.
I brought my concerns to our DNE, who immediately poo-pooed the idea. She had never heard of any of the problems to which I was referring. She told us that "There is no difference between the insulins, and anyone who tells you otherwise is blowing smoke."
After careful consideration, we chose to give Novolog a try without appealing the decisions of the insurance company. We hope that all will go well, and that we won't have to fight for an appeal in the future.
With lacrosse season starting up, I am hopeful that this new medication will interact with M and her lifestyle smoothly.
But I know better.
No adjustment is simple in D-world.
I will be sharpening my swords for battle, just in case.
It states that my daughter is on a medication that is "no longer a preferred medication". And I think to myself, "Really. The only medication that she uses is insulin. Did you have an alternative for insulin you HMO bastard pieces of shit?" (We actually have a PPO, but I just love that quote.)
Upon further investigation, it seems that Caremark has decided that it no longer wants to work with Humalog (from the Eli Lily company in Indiana), and prefers to work with Novolog (from Novo Nordisk, a company in Denmark). They stated in their letter that failure to switch to the preferred medication may result in loss of coverage for the current medication.
This makes me nervous.
Why? Because the one student I know for sure uses this stuff has very wild swings in blood sugar during the day. His mother and I spoke about different kinds of insulins at a school event. She was touting Novolog as better because it works faster, more like natural insulin.
I thought that maybe we would try it, eventually. Maybe it would work more effectively with M's lifestyle, but we would wait to do it over the summer, if we did try it, so that we could monitor the effects of the change on her system without too much life getting in the way.
But the insurance company threw off my time line.
I asked another diabetic student about which insulin she used. She said that she uses Humalog, and that she had tried Novolog, but after trying it, her doctor wrote her a letter stating that she needed to switch back for medical reasons.
What were the medical reasons?
She wears her pump very discreetly, snaking the tubing from a pocket in her jeans to the infusion set on her thigh. While using Novolog, she said that she was developing divots on her thighs at the infusion site. Her doctor noticed that her muscles were withering where the Novolog entered her system, and successfully appealed the insurance company mandate.
I was a little alarmed.
I brought my concerns to our DNE, who immediately poo-pooed the idea. She had never heard of any of the problems to which I was referring. She told us that "There is no difference between the insulins, and anyone who tells you otherwise is blowing smoke."
After careful consideration, we chose to give Novolog a try without appealing the decisions of the insurance company. We hope that all will go well, and that we won't have to fight for an appeal in the future.
With lacrosse season starting up, I am hopeful that this new medication will interact with M and her lifestyle smoothly.
But I know better.
No adjustment is simple in D-world.
I will be sharpening my swords for battle, just in case.
 |
| Please don't make me use this. |
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Rocking chairs
I first became aware of my new perspective when the Chilean coal miners were trapped below the surface in 2010. I was impressed by their fortitude. I was impressed by their hope. And I was impressed by their will to survive.
Then I heard that at least one of the miners was diabetic.
The D-mom in my brain started shrieking, "How is he going to properly manage his disease? Will he survive? Will he die? How did he survive the 17 days without any insulin at all? Does he carry insulin with him to work?"
I came upon this realization: I am D-Mom to the world.
Not only do I worry about my own little pumpkin, but I worry about all of the little diabetic pumpkins out there in the world. When disaster strikes, who is going to take care of them? Who is going to make sure, that in the event of an earthquake or a tsunami, that these people will get the life-giving insulin that they need?
Now barring any level of independent wealth, I am not sure I can do anything about this problem, except worry.
“Worry is like a rocking chair--it gives you something to do but it doesn't get you anywhere.” - Anonymous
So, whenever there is an earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster, flood or tornado in the news, you can bet that I am rocking in my rocking chair, wondering, "Is everyone okay?" and "Who is looking out for the diabetics?"
Then I heard that at least one of the miners was diabetic.
The D-mom in my brain started shrieking, "How is he going to properly manage his disease? Will he survive? Will he die? How did he survive the 17 days without any insulin at all? Does he carry insulin with him to work?"
I came upon this realization: I am D-Mom to the world.
Not only do I worry about my own little pumpkin, but I worry about all of the little diabetic pumpkins out there in the world. When disaster strikes, who is going to take care of them? Who is going to make sure, that in the event of an earthquake or a tsunami, that these people will get the life-giving insulin that they need?
Now barring any level of independent wealth, I am not sure I can do anything about this problem, except worry.
“Worry is like a rocking chair--it gives you something to do but it doesn't get you anywhere.” - Anonymous
So, whenever there is an earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster, flood or tornado in the news, you can bet that I am rocking in my rocking chair, wondering, "Is everyone okay?" and "Who is looking out for the diabetics?"
 | |
| Diabetic pumpkins on the brain... |
Friday, November 25, 2011
Reboot
Things have been going well, diabetically speaking. M has finished her field hockey season and was designated MVP of her team. Now she is living a more sedentary life. Her grades are going up, as are her blood sugars.
Higher blood glucose readings are to be expected. After all, exercise keeps bg down. Remove the daily 2 mile runs and 1 hour practices, and the bg will go up. So, although it is a bit of a bummer, it is not an unexpected one.
About two weeks after her last game, we noticed M's bgs creeping upward. We adjusted her basal rate by 0.25 units per hour over all.
Her pump had been delivering a steady stream of 3.0 units of insulin per hour at night, and 3.25 units per hour during the day. The basal rate, in theory, is the part that will keep her bg within range when she is not eating. Anything she gives herself when she eats is considered a bolus.
So now she was up to 3.25 at night, and 3.5 during the day, but we did have to make another adjustment about a week later. It seemed we had found the magic numbers. She was healthy, and her numbers seemed to be doing well.
On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we drove to pick up big brother at the airport. Since I was not driving, I though I would ask to see M's meter so that I could see how she had been doing the last few days.
She pulled the meter out.
She paused.
She started flipping through her numbers.
This is when I knew that something was up.
"You know, M, " I said casually, "I can read the meter all by myself. Just hand it up."
Long pause. Frantic pushing of buttons.
"M, hand it up," I repeated.
"There's something I have to tell you, " M said.
"Here it comes," I thought.
"Some of my numbers are missing, because I have been forgetting my meter when I go to school. So if you see any missing numbers, it's because I used my other meter at school."
When I collected the meter, I flipped through the numbers for the day. Except that there was only ONE number for the day. In fact, it was the only number for TWO days. She had only checked her bg on that meter six times since October 30th.
Here we go again.
"M," I said, "You told me that your bg was 131 this morning. That number is not here. Did you run to school and use the meter there to check it?"
No answer.
Rather than give her "buck up" speech, I said this.
"All right. starting today you will be checking your bg six times per day, and I will need to see it."
And that was all.
I was worried. I was furious. But yelling was not going to cut it. And neither was telling her that she was putting her life in danger.
So yesterday and today: six times, and I see them all.
Which is great because I can monitor her.
Which is not great, because how is she going to be responsible enough to do it herself? Ever?
I don't know.
But we will need to figure it out.
Higher blood glucose readings are to be expected. After all, exercise keeps bg down. Remove the daily 2 mile runs and 1 hour practices, and the bg will go up. So, although it is a bit of a bummer, it is not an unexpected one.
About two weeks after her last game, we noticed M's bgs creeping upward. We adjusted her basal rate by 0.25 units per hour over all.
Her pump had been delivering a steady stream of 3.0 units of insulin per hour at night, and 3.25 units per hour during the day. The basal rate, in theory, is the part that will keep her bg within range when she is not eating. Anything she gives herself when she eats is considered a bolus.
So now she was up to 3.25 at night, and 3.5 during the day, but we did have to make another adjustment about a week later. It seemed we had found the magic numbers. She was healthy, and her numbers seemed to be doing well.
On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, we drove to pick up big brother at the airport. Since I was not driving, I though I would ask to see M's meter so that I could see how she had been doing the last few days.
She pulled the meter out.
She paused.
She started flipping through her numbers.
This is when I knew that something was up.
"You know, M, " I said casually, "I can read the meter all by myself. Just hand it up."
Long pause. Frantic pushing of buttons.
"M, hand it up," I repeated.
"There's something I have to tell you, " M said.
"Here it comes," I thought.
"Some of my numbers are missing, because I have been forgetting my meter when I go to school. So if you see any missing numbers, it's because I used my other meter at school."
When I collected the meter, I flipped through the numbers for the day. Except that there was only ONE number for the day. In fact, it was the only number for TWO days. She had only checked her bg on that meter six times since October 30th.
Here we go again.
"M," I said, "You told me that your bg was 131 this morning. That number is not here. Did you run to school and use the meter there to check it?"
No answer.
Rather than give her "buck up" speech, I said this.
"All right. starting today you will be checking your bg six times per day, and I will need to see it."
And that was all.
I was worried. I was furious. But yelling was not going to cut it. And neither was telling her that she was putting her life in danger.
So yesterday and today: six times, and I see them all.
Which is great because I can monitor her.
Which is not great, because how is she going to be responsible enough to do it herself? Ever?
I don't know.
But we will need to figure it out.
 |
| Not shocked this time! |
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Pizza
Fact: If you want teens to participate in any kind of extra effort, be it volunteering, doing an extra credit project, or whatever, it is easiest to get them to participate with the promise of food.
Fact: Teens are hungry, hungry people with seemingly bottomless stomachs.
Fact: Feeding more than one teen can get expensive.
Fact: Satisfying the tastes of several different teens can be a challenge.
Fact: Anticipating the serving size one must allot per teen can be tricky.
Solution: Order pizza!
It is cheap, comes divided into manageable portions, and has a flavor to match just about every taste!
But.
But, it is super high in carbs.
M has never been concerned with pizza in the same manner that she has been with cake, but it still takes a lot of skill and luck for her to keep her bg in range for several hours after consuming even one small piece (defined here as a one-inch wide slice of a 12 inch pizza).
The tricky part is that it doesn't seem to behave in a consistent manner. Cutting back the "dose" of pizza doesn't lessen the wacky impact it has. Adding more insulin seems to make no difference either.
So what is a mom to do? Neither M nor I find the option of making a stink about the lack of food choices to be a viable option. Especially when the food is really only provided as a courtesy, not as a part of a culinary experience.
Additionally, people think we are crazy when M brings her own food, because pizza is so awesome.
Right now, even though she only has pizza maybe once every two weeks at events for church, school, or at the home of a friend, I still have this nagging feeling that we are playing a little Russian roulette with M's long term health.
So yes, folks. I will be sending food with M from time to time. After all, she doesn't even like the pizza provided at church. She eats it because she is hungry and there are no other options available.
And before you parents of non-diabetic children judge me by what an amazing killjoy I am, count your blessings that pizza is not on your list of worries.
I will offer up a prayer that it never will be.
Fact: Teens are hungry, hungry people with seemingly bottomless stomachs.
Fact: Feeding more than one teen can get expensive.
Fact: Satisfying the tastes of several different teens can be a challenge.
Fact: Anticipating the serving size one must allot per teen can be tricky.
Solution: Order pizza!
It is cheap, comes divided into manageable portions, and has a flavor to match just about every taste!
But.
But, it is super high in carbs.
M has never been concerned with pizza in the same manner that she has been with cake, but it still takes a lot of skill and luck for her to keep her bg in range for several hours after consuming even one small piece (defined here as a one-inch wide slice of a 12 inch pizza).
The tricky part is that it doesn't seem to behave in a consistent manner. Cutting back the "dose" of pizza doesn't lessen the wacky impact it has. Adding more insulin seems to make no difference either.
So what is a mom to do? Neither M nor I find the option of making a stink about the lack of food choices to be a viable option. Especially when the food is really only provided as a courtesy, not as a part of a culinary experience.
Additionally, people think we are crazy when M brings her own food, because pizza is so awesome.
Right now, even though she only has pizza maybe once every two weeks at events for church, school, or at the home of a friend, I still have this nagging feeling that we are playing a little Russian roulette with M's long term health.
So yes, folks. I will be sending food with M from time to time. After all, she doesn't even like the pizza provided at church. She eats it because she is hungry and there are no other options available.
And before you parents of non-diabetic children judge me by what an amazing killjoy I am, count your blessings that pizza is not on your list of worries.
I will offer up a prayer that it never will be.
 |
| Oh pizza, why must you be so cheap and easy? |
Friday, October 28, 2011
Field of dreams
We traditionally eat dinner at my parents' house on Saturday. It's a good way for us to stay in touch and get together for a couple of hours each week. It usually involves some kind of beef (which M loves) some starch and a vegetable.
Not long after M was diagnosed with diabetes, however, we arrived at the house for our traditional fare, when my mother lets us know that we are having spaghetti. I was a little surprised at the announcement, as Mom knows that we had M on the rigid plan. This plan allowed us a certain number of carbs within a 5 carb range at certain times of the day. Pasta would surely put us over our dinner allotment for carbs.
But, Mom was grinning. She had made a discovery at the supermarket: Dreamfields Pasta, which claims to have only 5 net carbs per serving. Oh wait! Look closer. It has 5 digestible carbs per serving.
What?
If the idea of digestible carbs is new to you, it is to me, too. I continued to read the box:
Carbs: 41
Protected carbs: 36
Net digestible carbs: 5
Pardon me for being skeptical, but what the hell is a "protected" carb? I assume we are protecting it from being digested and absorbed into the human blood stream.
I wasn't buying it. Even if the company can somehow "protect" the carbs, how can doing that be any good for you? Do they wrap the carbs in Saran Wrap?
I looked on the Dreamfields website:
Not long after M was diagnosed with diabetes, however, we arrived at the house for our traditional fare, when my mother lets us know that we are having spaghetti. I was a little surprised at the announcement, as Mom knows that we had M on the rigid plan. This plan allowed us a certain number of carbs within a 5 carb range at certain times of the day. Pasta would surely put us over our dinner allotment for carbs.
But, Mom was grinning. She had made a discovery at the supermarket: Dreamfields Pasta, which claims to have only 5 net carbs per serving. Oh wait! Look closer. It has 5 digestible carbs per serving.
What?
If the idea of digestible carbs is new to you, it is to me, too. I continued to read the box:
Carbs: 41
Protected carbs: 36
Net digestible carbs: 5
Pardon me for being skeptical, but what the hell is a "protected" carb? I assume we are protecting it from being digested and absorbed into the human blood stream.
I wasn't buying it. Even if the company can somehow "protect" the carbs, how can doing that be any good for you? Do they wrap the carbs in Saran Wrap?
I looked on the Dreamfields website:
"Why do you say that Dreamfields Pasta
only has 5 grams of digestible carbs when the nutrition label states
that it has 41 grams of carbohydrates?
While the total number of carbohydrates
is the same as traditional pasta, our patent-pending formula and unique
manufacturing process protects all but 5 grams of carbohydrates from
being digested. The Dreamfields
fiber and protein blend creates a protective barrier to reduce starch
digestion in the small intestine. The unabsorbed, or protected
carbohydrates then pass to the colon where they are fermented, providing
the same health benefits as fiber."
Yummy.
A unique manufacturing process! That spells flavorific!
Manufacturing: the same nutritional professionals that tried to convince us that creating artificial infant formula was better for our babies, only to be shot down by mother nature's unique "manufacturing" of easily digestible proteins.
Pardon me for feeling less than enthusiastic.
But, since Mom had gone to all of that trouble to make a special pasta, we ate it.
But we covered for 41 carbs with insulin. NOT for 5.
And guess what?
M's bg was in pretty good shape afterwards.
You would think that if we had given her enough insulin to cover for 36 extra carbs, she might have suffered a low. But she didn't.
So pardon me, Dreamfields, but I think you are full of hooey.
Hey! Maybe that's the unique manufacturing process!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Breast Cancer Envy
Breast cancer is a horrible disease. It threatens, and sometimes takes, lives. It alters the way a woman feels about herself and her own body. For this reason, it is recommended that women over forty start getting regular mammograms every year or two.
Billions of dollars every year are spent on education, research and prevention of breast cancer.
Kids in the high school where I teach sport "Save the boobies" wrist bands with the support of the administration.
There are organizations that will take your long hair, and use it to create wigs for women who are undergoing chemotherapy.
And every year comes the advent of breast cancer awareness month.
Today, M is participating in a breast cancer walk. A walk that is anticipated to have an attendance of over 5,000 people (it ended up being closer to 5,500!).
There are many wonderful events and campaigns that raise money for breast cancer research. I even remember nearly an entire season of General Hospital dedicated to breast cancer. During the season, the son of the breast cancer victim points out that while AIDS has turned out to be a popular charity, breast cancer kills many more people yearly.
Everyone wants to cure breast cancer. Do you think the victims of breast cancer are going to settle for better treatments? NO! They want a CURE! And I don't blame them.
But lets go back just a minute here. AJ Quartermaine, while breast cancer kills more people annually than AIDS, diabetes kills more people annually than breast cancer and AIDS combined.
While everyone seems to understand what breast cancer is, nearly 100% of the people I meet don't really understand what diabetes is. This includes some medical professionals.
We have diabetes walks. But the JDRF walk I attended last month, in the same community as M's breast cancer walk, had maybe 100 participants. MAYBE.
And, while General Hospital dedicated a lengthy, comprehensive, and detailed story line to breast cancer, what do we in the diabetic community get? Oliver, on Hannah Montana, is diagnosed with diabetes one day. Then we never see his bg meter again. Apparently Oliver is all better, and his daily management would not fit well into such a pop tween sitcom.
Finally, I am tired of people thinking that insulin is "good enough". Do you think that breast cancer patients think that mastectomies are "good enough"? I assure you, they do not.
Diabetics are expected to endure their illnesses, simply because it isn't "in your face". People can manage diabetes without you even noticing, so things must be good enough, right?
Nope.
Not even close.
Diabetes must be managed every minute of every day. It's like taking exams in class every day, except that not doing well could result in death.
Death.
We must need a better marketing team for diabetes. Maybe diabetics and their families are so busy handling the day-to-day struggles, that they don't have time to advocate for others with the disease.
Why does the public not seem to take diabetes seriously?
A nurse who goes to my church may have explained it best. She was commenting on another parishioner who routinely works very hard and volunteers regularly. But she, at times, pushes herself too hard, and doesn't take care of herself. The woman is diabetic.
One day, the nurse approached her and scolded her to take a break during our Christmas fair. Then she turned to me and said, "You know what they call diabetes, don't you? 'The silent killer'."
Well I, for one, am not going to remain "silent" any longer.
Billions of dollars every year are spent on education, research and prevention of breast cancer.
Kids in the high school where I teach sport "Save the boobies" wrist bands with the support of the administration.
There are organizations that will take your long hair, and use it to create wigs for women who are undergoing chemotherapy.
And every year comes the advent of breast cancer awareness month.
Today, M is participating in a breast cancer walk. A walk that is anticipated to have an attendance of over 5,000 people (it ended up being closer to 5,500!).
There are many wonderful events and campaigns that raise money for breast cancer research. I even remember nearly an entire season of General Hospital dedicated to breast cancer. During the season, the son of the breast cancer victim points out that while AIDS has turned out to be a popular charity, breast cancer kills many more people yearly.
Everyone wants to cure breast cancer. Do you think the victims of breast cancer are going to settle for better treatments? NO! They want a CURE! And I don't blame them.
But lets go back just a minute here. AJ Quartermaine, while breast cancer kills more people annually than AIDS, diabetes kills more people annually than breast cancer and AIDS combined.
While everyone seems to understand what breast cancer is, nearly 100% of the people I meet don't really understand what diabetes is. This includes some medical professionals.
We have diabetes walks. But the JDRF walk I attended last month, in the same community as M's breast cancer walk, had maybe 100 participants. MAYBE.
And, while General Hospital dedicated a lengthy, comprehensive, and detailed story line to breast cancer, what do we in the diabetic community get? Oliver, on Hannah Montana, is diagnosed with diabetes one day. Then we never see his bg meter again. Apparently Oliver is all better, and his daily management would not fit well into such a pop tween sitcom.
Finally, I am tired of people thinking that insulin is "good enough". Do you think that breast cancer patients think that mastectomies are "good enough"? I assure you, they do not.
Diabetics are expected to endure their illnesses, simply because it isn't "in your face". People can manage diabetes without you even noticing, so things must be good enough, right?
Nope.
Not even close.
Diabetes must be managed every minute of every day. It's like taking exams in class every day, except that not doing well could result in death.
Death.
We must need a better marketing team for diabetes. Maybe diabetics and their families are so busy handling the day-to-day struggles, that they don't have time to advocate for others with the disease.
Why does the public not seem to take diabetes seriously?
A nurse who goes to my church may have explained it best. She was commenting on another parishioner who routinely works very hard and volunteers regularly. But she, at times, pushes herself too hard, and doesn't take care of herself. The woman is diabetic.
One day, the nurse approached her and scolded her to take a break during our Christmas fair. Then she turned to me and said, "You know what they call diabetes, don't you? 'The silent killer'."
Well I, for one, am not going to remain "silent" any longer.
 |
| Good luck ladies! |
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The stages of grief
This most recent summer, I realized that being diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, or any other serious illness for that matter, can fall into that category that utilizes the five (or seven, depending on your school of thought) stages of grief.
I do not necessarily agree that grief can be divided into stages. This is a very inflexible-everything-can- be-qualified-and-quantified-and-progresses-in-a-linear-fashion way of thinking.
But, this summer, I did get a good look at stage 1 - Denial.
Although in M's case, it was more like stage 4. Her first stage was acceptance, which is technically supposed to be stage 5.
Never let it be said that M does anything halfway. She did denial absolute justice.
She denied herself information that would better help her manage her diabetes, by not checking her blood sugar.
She denied the value of that information by simply making up blood sugar numbers to plug into her pump.
She denied that this could cause her any health problems by thinking that her method of "management" would be adequate.
And when I started probing her with questions about her management, she denied to herself that I would ever figure it out.
Now that she is no longer in denial, I will have to wait to see what unexpected turn her grief will take next.
Right now the safe bet might be on one of the unofficial stages: "whining".
I do not necessarily agree that grief can be divided into stages. This is a very inflexible-everything-can- be-qualified-and-quantified-and-progresses-in-a-linear-fashion way of thinking.
But, this summer, I did get a good look at stage 1 - Denial.
Although in M's case, it was more like stage 4. Her first stage was acceptance, which is technically supposed to be stage 5.
Never let it be said that M does anything halfway. She did denial absolute justice.
She denied herself information that would better help her manage her diabetes, by not checking her blood sugar.
She denied the value of that information by simply making up blood sugar numbers to plug into her pump.
She denied that this could cause her any health problems by thinking that her method of "management" would be adequate.
And when I started probing her with questions about her management, she denied to herself that I would ever figure it out.
Now that she is no longer in denial, I will have to wait to see what unexpected turn her grief will take next.
Right now the safe bet might be on one of the unofficial stages: "whining".
 |
| Yeah, if we ever get through it! |
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Paranoia
Recently, Joanne blogged about what is known in the DOC as "the thought." Her son is approaching the age at which her daughter was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. "The thought" has also been addressed by Kerri, a diabetic mother with a not-quite-two-year-old.
"The thought" plagues every parent that has diabetes, or has a child with diabetes. "The thought" is the idea that perhaps another one of our loved ones will be stricken with this disease.
You see, nearly everyone's Type 1 diabetes diagnosis has a similar story. " I felt sick/ nauseous/ fatigued for two/ three weeks. I was eating/ drinking all of the time. I was also extremely moody. I thought I was just suffering from a bad cold/ going through a growth spurt. After a while, I went/was taken to the doctor, where I found out that I lost 10/ 14 / 20 pounds in those couple of weeks. The doctor tested my blood sugar and it was 470/635/900. I didn't really know what that meant until I found out that a normal person's blood sugar readings are between 80 and 100."
(FYI: M's story is nauseous, fatigued, three weeks, eating, cold and growth spurt, 20 lbs, bg of 635).
But, as you can see, the symptoms of diabetes can easily be misconstrued as a bad cold, mono, or a mild case of the flu. In fact, in ancient times, there was only one way to identify whether someone had diabetes. One had to taste the patient's urine. If it was really sweet, then one knew that the person had diabetes and was going to die within a year or two. (Yikes!)
The point is, the symptoms of diabetes are very similar to those of many other, less life-threatening maladies. A list of such common symptoms can make things a little harrowing for those of us who have gone through the process of Type 1 diagnosis in the past.
Case in point: M has an older brother. Not one full year after M was diagnosed, he started exhibiting these symptoms: fatigue, pallid complexion, unusual thirst, and weight loss.
My mind went right to diabetes.
Now perhaps this seems crazy to a medical professional. After all, M is the ONLY person in my giant extended family with Type 1. The closest relative we could find that had it was my father's cousin's grandson. (What is that, her 17th cousin 7 times removed? I never understood how that worked...). Indeed I wondered if I might be a little paranoid.
But I felt better after talking with Bill.
I asked, "Do you think I'm crazy for thinking that our son could possibly have diabetes?"
I felt so much less crazy when he said this:
"No. I'm thinking that it could be diabetes. Of course we are thinking it could be diabetes. Why wouldn't we?"
Which is one of the many reasons I love this man.
The quick answer was to use May's bg meter on her brother to learn that his bg was normal, which it was. He just had a bad cold. But I will tell you that the 5 seconds of waiting for the result were the longest 5 seconds we had had in a long time.
I see diabetes everywhere. One week my dog seems especially thirsty. Does she have diabetes? I have a student who seems increasingly pale and tired. Does she have diabetes?
It's nerve-wracking.
"The thought" even makes people feel guilty for thinking it, as if by thinking it, we might make it happen.
"The thought" robs people of normalcy.
Well, at least the normalcy you can have while checking, double checking, and triple checking bg levels, adjusting insulin doses, tracking all food consumption, waking up in the middle of the night to make sure your kid is still breathing, etc.
But seriously, with all the punishment that comes with diabetes, it seems that "the thought" just adds insult to injury.
We must rally to find a cure for "the thought".
"The thought" plagues every parent that has diabetes, or has a child with diabetes. "The thought" is the idea that perhaps another one of our loved ones will be stricken with this disease.
You see, nearly everyone's Type 1 diabetes diagnosis has a similar story. " I felt sick/ nauseous/ fatigued for two/ three weeks. I was eating/ drinking all of the time. I was also extremely moody. I thought I was just suffering from a bad cold/ going through a growth spurt. After a while, I went/was taken to the doctor, where I found out that I lost 10/ 14 / 20 pounds in those couple of weeks. The doctor tested my blood sugar and it was 470/635/900. I didn't really know what that meant until I found out that a normal person's blood sugar readings are between 80 and 100."
(FYI: M's story is nauseous, fatigued, three weeks, eating, cold and growth spurt, 20 lbs, bg of 635).
But, as you can see, the symptoms of diabetes can easily be misconstrued as a bad cold, mono, or a mild case of the flu. In fact, in ancient times, there was only one way to identify whether someone had diabetes. One had to taste the patient's urine. If it was really sweet, then one knew that the person had diabetes and was going to die within a year or two. (Yikes!)
The point is, the symptoms of diabetes are very similar to those of many other, less life-threatening maladies. A list of such common symptoms can make things a little harrowing for those of us who have gone through the process of Type 1 diagnosis in the past.
Case in point: M has an older brother. Not one full year after M was diagnosed, he started exhibiting these symptoms: fatigue, pallid complexion, unusual thirst, and weight loss.
My mind went right to diabetes.
Now perhaps this seems crazy to a medical professional. After all, M is the ONLY person in my giant extended family with Type 1. The closest relative we could find that had it was my father's cousin's grandson. (What is that, her 17th cousin 7 times removed? I never understood how that worked...). Indeed I wondered if I might be a little paranoid.
But I felt better after talking with Bill.
I asked, "Do you think I'm crazy for thinking that our son could possibly have diabetes?"
I felt so much less crazy when he said this:
"No. I'm thinking that it could be diabetes. Of course we are thinking it could be diabetes. Why wouldn't we?"
Which is one of the many reasons I love this man.
The quick answer was to use May's bg meter on her brother to learn that his bg was normal, which it was. He just had a bad cold. But I will tell you that the 5 seconds of waiting for the result were the longest 5 seconds we had had in a long time.
I see diabetes everywhere. One week my dog seems especially thirsty. Does she have diabetes? I have a student who seems increasingly pale and tired. Does she have diabetes?
It's nerve-wracking.
"The thought" even makes people feel guilty for thinking it, as if by thinking it, we might make it happen.
"The thought" robs people of normalcy.
Well, at least the normalcy you can have while checking, double checking, and triple checking bg levels, adjusting insulin doses, tracking all food consumption, waking up in the middle of the night to make sure your kid is still breathing, etc.
But seriously, with all the punishment that comes with diabetes, it seems that "the thought" just adds insult to injury.
We must rally to find a cure for "the thought".
 |
| I don't know if this quite qualifies as a "cure" but maybe it's a start! |
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Flu shots
As I drive around scouting Back to School sales, I have begun to notice those signs cropping up outside of pharmacies.
Back in my more carefree days, I thought flu shots were for the elderly and infirm.
I have scoffed at flu shots, thinking that they were an unnecessary expense and a hassle. I had heard too many stories about people getting a mild case of the flu from the flu shot, and I thought that I would take my chances with the real flu.
My gambling paid off. My kids had never had neither the shot nor the flu. After 21 years of teaching, I have had the flu twice. Each time it was two horrible days of torture, and then it was over.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?
But then M was diagnosed with diabetes, and I had to reconsider my relationship with the flu shot. I hated to do it, but she was going to have to get it.
Every year.
Vomiting is just too big a deal when you are diabetic.
Another one of life's choices robbed by diabetes.
Back in my more carefree days, I thought flu shots were for the elderly and infirm.
I have scoffed at flu shots, thinking that they were an unnecessary expense and a hassle. I had heard too many stories about people getting a mild case of the flu from the flu shot, and I thought that I would take my chances with the real flu.
My gambling paid off. My kids had never had neither the shot nor the flu. After 21 years of teaching, I have had the flu twice. Each time it was two horrible days of torture, and then it was over.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?
But then M was diagnosed with diabetes, and I had to reconsider my relationship with the flu shot. I hated to do it, but she was going to have to get it.
Every year.
Vomiting is just too big a deal when you are diabetic.
Another one of life's choices robbed by diabetes.
Friday, August 26, 2011
504 plan
I have mentioned before that I teach in high school.
I may have also mentioned that my kids attended Montessori schools and my older son attended a Catholic high school.
I have never really had the "public school" experience before. At least not from the parenting end.
Now, as a teacher, I receive 504 plans at the beginning of every semester. These plans tell me which student needs special accommodations, eg: make sure this child doesn't eat peanut products, make sure this child is able to use the bathroom as often as he likes, please allow child to eat in classroom, etc.
Now that M is entering public high school, I realize that she probably needs a 504 plan.
The problem is this: I didn't know I was supposed to write the darn thing!
Now, don't ask me who I thought was supposed to write it. I guess I thought that some medical professional would do it. Our DNE, the school nurse, somebody else that wasn't me. Someone that know what they are doing.
Our DNE gave me a sample 504 plan, prepared by the ADA and the DREDF. The sample was lengthy (8 pages!) , and sounded punitive: "Do this or else!" - not exactly the coalition-building language I was seeking. Being a teacher myself, I found the approach of the sample a little offensive. It assumed that I couldn't be trusted to know that if a kid leaves for health management reasons, he should not be penalized.
So I did what any ambivalent parent might do: I tried to get out of writing it.
I e-mailed the guidance counselor who helped M put together her schedule, and asked if I really needed a 504 plan. After all, I reasoned in the e-mail, we interviewed the nurse before we even decided to enroll M in this school, and decided that she was capable. M is independent with her diabetes management so, aside from the occasional snack in class or walk to the nurse' office, she should be fine. Couldn't I just e-mail the teachers, explain what's going on, and talk with them like civilized human beings?
The short answer was no.
"A 504 plan is a very important legal document that protects all of the individuals involved."
I sighed, understanding that people feel better when there is a form filled out somewhere. I also understand that a 504 plan can simplify things for people new to diabetes.
But I don't wanna! It looks hard. And redundant.
I think I would be far more keen to write and implement a plan if M were a frail 6-year-old with Type 1, rather than the robust 14-year-old that she has become. She is far more independent and less distractable than many children who are younger. Also, since most people are diagnosed with diabetes as children or young adults, it makes sense that more children are diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes by the time they hit high school. As a result, I think that a lot more teachers and staff have been exposed to and understand Type 1 diabetes at the high school level.
I pondered my justifications for being a lazy butthead, and continued reading the e-mail, disappointed.
The guidance counselor indicated that the e-mail I sent him would be forwarded to M's regular guidance counselor, so that he could be in touch with me. The regular guidance counselor and I would write the 504 together.
Well today, I got an e-mail from M's regular guidance counselor. This is what it said:
And I think, "YES!"
Believing that my laziness has paid off, I triumphantly shoot the regular guidance counselor an e-mail, telling him that I think that the "wait and see" approach is a great idea.
But then I realize that laziness is not going to happen. I have decided that I will print up a diabetic cheat sheet for M's teachers, like I did for her coaches, and give them my contact information in case they have any questions.
I comfort myself with the thought that it will probably take less time to write than the 504. And hopefully the language will not be punitive.
And then we'll wait and see.
I may have also mentioned that my kids attended Montessori schools and my older son attended a Catholic high school.
I have never really had the "public school" experience before. At least not from the parenting end.
Now, as a teacher, I receive 504 plans at the beginning of every semester. These plans tell me which student needs special accommodations, eg: make sure this child doesn't eat peanut products, make sure this child is able to use the bathroom as often as he likes, please allow child to eat in classroom, etc.
Now that M is entering public high school, I realize that she probably needs a 504 plan.
The problem is this: I didn't know I was supposed to write the darn thing!
Now, don't ask me who I thought was supposed to write it. I guess I thought that some medical professional would do it. Our DNE, the school nurse, somebody else that wasn't me. Someone that know what they are doing.
Our DNE gave me a sample 504 plan, prepared by the ADA and the DREDF. The sample was lengthy (8 pages!) , and sounded punitive: "Do this or else!" - not exactly the coalition-building language I was seeking. Being a teacher myself, I found the approach of the sample a little offensive. It assumed that I couldn't be trusted to know that if a kid leaves for health management reasons, he should not be penalized.
So I did what any ambivalent parent might do: I tried to get out of writing it.
I e-mailed the guidance counselor who helped M put together her schedule, and asked if I really needed a 504 plan. After all, I reasoned in the e-mail, we interviewed the nurse before we even decided to enroll M in this school, and decided that she was capable. M is independent with her diabetes management so, aside from the occasional snack in class or walk to the nurse' office, she should be fine. Couldn't I just e-mail the teachers, explain what's going on, and talk with them like civilized human beings?
The short answer was no.
"A 504 plan is a very important legal document that protects all of the individuals involved."
I sighed, understanding that people feel better when there is a form filled out somewhere. I also understand that a 504 plan can simplify things for people new to diabetes.
But I don't wanna! It looks hard. And redundant.
I think I would be far more keen to write and implement a plan if M were a frail 6-year-old with Type 1, rather than the robust 14-year-old that she has become. She is far more independent and less distractable than many children who are younger. Also, since most people are diagnosed with diabetes as children or young adults, it makes sense that more children are diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes by the time they hit high school. As a result, I think that a lot more teachers and staff have been exposed to and understand Type 1 diabetes at the high school level.
I pondered my justifications for being a lazy butthead, and continued reading the e-mail, disappointed.
The guidance counselor indicated that the e-mail I sent him would be forwarded to M's regular guidance counselor, so that he could be in touch with me. The regular guidance counselor and I would write the 504 together.
Well today, I got an e-mail from M's regular guidance counselor. This is what it said:
We have several students in the school who have diabetes and other medical issues. They are managed by the school nurse- in my opinion - extremely well. All teachers are notified and the nurse develops a close relationship with the student with daily check-ins as needed. This is available without a 504 plan.
Of course as a parent you have a right to a 504 plan if you would like. I guess I would suggest that maybe we start off without one and see how things go. We can always develop a 504 plan at any time should any party feel it necessary.
Let me know how you would like to proceed or if you would like to come in and meet me.
And I think, "YES!"
Believing that my laziness has paid off, I triumphantly shoot the regular guidance counselor an e-mail, telling him that I think that the "wait and see" approach is a great idea.
But then I realize that laziness is not going to happen. I have decided that I will print up a diabetic cheat sheet for M's teachers, like I did for her coaches, and give them my contact information in case they have any questions.
I comfort myself with the thought that it will probably take less time to write than the 504. And hopefully the language will not be punitive.
And then we'll wait and see.
 | |
| Of course, we still have about 20 other forms to fill out! |
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!
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! |
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Deal
You know, once we've become parents, we've signed up for "The Deal".
The deal that says we will do everything in our power to protect our offspring and bring them forth to a healthy, productive adulthood.
I signed up for this deal. I signed up willingly. Eagerly, even. I enjoy being a parent, and hope that my guidance will provide my children with what they need. I try really hard to do justice to the deal. I nursed them, I held them, I scolded them, I advised them.
Things seemed to be going along swimmingly. My kids arrived, composed of good raw material, and I didn't mess them up.
At least not too much.
Then this whole big monkey wrench called diabetes came into the mix.
Now just one second. I don't remember signing up for THIS deal! In THIS deal, I have to watch what my daughter eats like a hawk. She gets pretty snippy about it, too.
In THIS deal, I have to make sure that my teenager isn't falsifying records so that I won't worry about her, because "she can handle it."
In THIS deal, I have to become one of THOSE parents, who needs to make party hosts, coaches, and teachers aware of a condition that makes my gorgeous, intelligent, funny daughter less than perfect. I have to work hard not to wax dramatic by pointing out that it is life-threatening. Even though it IS life threatening.
In THIS deal, I have to let her go deal with it herself, or else she will NEVER be able to do it on her own. If I don't let her make mistakes now, how will she handle life in college? The dating world? The bakery?
In THIS deal, I have to wonder which mistakes she makes are acceptable, and which ones might kill her, and then somehow make her understand the difference, when maybe I am not entirely sure myself.
I am not fond of THIS deal. No siree, Bob.
I am not sure who in the universe thought I would be equipped for THIS deal. I would like to give that committee a piece of my mind.
Because you know what? Even if I deserve THIS deal. My daughter, most certainly does not.
The deal that says we will do everything in our power to protect our offspring and bring them forth to a healthy, productive adulthood.
I signed up for this deal. I signed up willingly. Eagerly, even. I enjoy being a parent, and hope that my guidance will provide my children with what they need. I try really hard to do justice to the deal. I nursed them, I held them, I scolded them, I advised them.
Things seemed to be going along swimmingly. My kids arrived, composed of good raw material, and I didn't mess them up.
At least not too much.
Then this whole big monkey wrench called diabetes came into the mix.
Now just one second. I don't remember signing up for THIS deal! In THIS deal, I have to watch what my daughter eats like a hawk. She gets pretty snippy about it, too.
In THIS deal, I have to make sure that my teenager isn't falsifying records so that I won't worry about her, because "she can handle it."
In THIS deal, I have to become one of THOSE parents, who needs to make party hosts, coaches, and teachers aware of a condition that makes my gorgeous, intelligent, funny daughter less than perfect. I have to work hard not to wax dramatic by pointing out that it is life-threatening. Even though it IS life threatening.
In THIS deal, I have to let her go deal with it herself, or else she will NEVER be able to do it on her own. If I don't let her make mistakes now, how will she handle life in college? The dating world? The bakery?
In THIS deal, I have to wonder which mistakes she makes are acceptable, and which ones might kill her, and then somehow make her understand the difference, when maybe I am not entirely sure myself.
I am not fond of THIS deal. No siree, Bob.
I am not sure who in the universe thought I would be equipped for THIS deal. I would like to give that committee a piece of my mind.
Because you know what? Even if I deserve THIS deal. My daughter, most certainly does not.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Gross
My daughter is strong. Determined. Beautiful. Awe-inspiring. And she has no idea how to maintain a life without carrying bio hazards around with her.
In other words, she is also kind of gross.
I understand that sometimes we just don't feel like getting off of our butts to throw away the needle that we just used to inject insulin into ourselves. I can even understand not moving it off the dinner table while we eat. I CANNOT understand how it can stay there for more than three days.
Ew. Just ew.
Signs of diabetic slobbery are evidenced all over our house. The syringe next to the computer. The sanitary covers from the pen needle caps on or under the dining room table. The used test strip on the bedroom floor.
Sometimes when M reaches into her kit to give herself a shot, she spends a lot of time digging around in there.
"What are you looking for?" I might ask.
"Nothing. I'll find it," might be the reply.
There is a distinctive sound that emanates from a fanny pack full of used pen needles, their foil protectors, and their safety caps as they are methodically shoved around and pawed as M searches for the one lonely unused item in the bag.
There is a shimmery appeal to the myriad foil wrappers containing used test strips as they cascade from the bg meter case to the floor. Sometimes there are up to thirty of them.
Again, ew.
There is a proper procedure for handling bio hazardous waste. We apply this method when it is brought to our attention that M hasn't been holding up this end of the diabetic bargain.
1)Remove all used needles, lancets, syringes from wherever they are being stored. These, in the medical field, are called "sharps".
2)Put the sharps in a designated "sharps" container. You may purchase official red bio hazard marked plastic containers for this purpose. With all of the perfectly intact plastic containers around, this seems a bit ridiculous. At my dump (no garbage collection in my little New England town), the dump guys tell us to use a sturdy plastic container.
3)Fill up the container, seal it with duct tape, and write "SHARPS" in big letters all over it. In Sharpie, please.
In fact, my dump guys like us to use the new plastic coffee cans with the handles on them. They like us to use them so much, that our dump guys set these canisters aside for us behind the cardboard crushing machine.
Talking to the dump guys is very educational. I learned that some of the residents in our little town just throw their needles in the dump without marking them. Once they had to pick syringes out of a clothing box on site.
While disturbing, I do know that M does a slightly better job than these folks. The sharps do eventually make it to the coffee can. The idea that other people might not be happy to see used medical supplies on their eating surfaces, however, may be forever lost to her. I equate it to the moment I was giving birth. I didn't care who was there, what was going on, or how messy it was, people were just going to have to deal with it.
I wonder if that is how M sees her diabetes. Maybe she figures that if she has to suffer, the rest of the world should have to suck it up and suffer right alongside her.
So yeah, ew.
But maybe also, "you go girl."
In other words, she is also kind of gross.
I understand that sometimes we just don't feel like getting off of our butts to throw away the needle that we just used to inject insulin into ourselves. I can even understand not moving it off the dinner table while we eat. I CANNOT understand how it can stay there for more than three days.
Ew. Just ew.
Signs of diabetic slobbery are evidenced all over our house. The syringe next to the computer. The sanitary covers from the pen needle caps on or under the dining room table. The used test strip on the bedroom floor.
Sometimes when M reaches into her kit to give herself a shot, she spends a lot of time digging around in there.
"What are you looking for?" I might ask.
"Nothing. I'll find it," might be the reply.
There is a distinctive sound that emanates from a fanny pack full of used pen needles, their foil protectors, and their safety caps as they are methodically shoved around and pawed as M searches for the one lonely unused item in the bag.
There is a shimmery appeal to the myriad foil wrappers containing used test strips as they cascade from the bg meter case to the floor. Sometimes there are up to thirty of them.
Again, ew.
There is a proper procedure for handling bio hazardous waste. We apply this method when it is brought to our attention that M hasn't been holding up this end of the diabetic bargain.
1)Remove all used needles, lancets, syringes from wherever they are being stored. These, in the medical field, are called "sharps".
2)Put the sharps in a designated "sharps" container. You may purchase official red bio hazard marked plastic containers for this purpose. With all of the perfectly intact plastic containers around, this seems a bit ridiculous. At my dump (no garbage collection in my little New England town), the dump guys tell us to use a sturdy plastic container.
3)Fill up the container, seal it with duct tape, and write "SHARPS" in big letters all over it. In Sharpie, please.
In fact, my dump guys like us to use the new plastic coffee cans with the handles on them. They like us to use them so much, that our dump guys set these canisters aside for us behind the cardboard crushing machine.
Talking to the dump guys is very educational. I learned that some of the residents in our little town just throw their needles in the dump without marking them. Once they had to pick syringes out of a clothing box on site.
While disturbing, I do know that M does a slightly better job than these folks. The sharps do eventually make it to the coffee can. The idea that other people might not be happy to see used medical supplies on their eating surfaces, however, may be forever lost to her. I equate it to the moment I was giving birth. I didn't care who was there, what was going on, or how messy it was, people were just going to have to deal with it.
I wonder if that is how M sees her diabetes. Maybe she figures that if she has to suffer, the rest of the world should have to suck it up and suffer right alongside her.
So yeah, ew.
But maybe also, "you go girl."
 |
| Maybe. |
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Cake
Cake makes me mad.
Why? Because it frustrates M. She always loved cake. But when her new lifetime pal diabetes came along we discovered, practically right away, that cake gave her problems.
I have other diabetic friends and acquaintances who have shared with me their own freaky food sensitivities. I know people who can eat cake with no problem; no significant change to their blood glucose levels. But they can't eat carrots. Or maybe potatoes. Cherries. Bread. Peanut butter. For some weird reason, not all diabetics react to the same foods the same way.
I have tried to rationalize the cake problem. I have thought about the glycemic index, the inability of the FDA to properly estimate the amount of carbs in bakery items and various other random thoughts. But I think that it's "just one of those things".
I found myself in a conversation with a parent of a non-diabetic sufferer of celiac disease. She was talking about how challenging it is for her child to attend social functions filled with gluten. I could sympathize. I explained M's cake problem. Despite her knowledge about gluten and foods in general, this piece of information flummoxed my new friend.
New Friend: How could carbs from cake be any different than carbs from anything else?
Me: I don't know.
New Friend: Did you try lots of different kinds of cakes?
Me: Oh, yes. She can eat ice cream cake.
New Friend: But why can't she eat cake? That's weird.
Me: I don't know. Yes it is.
Sure, technically M could eat cake. She did. Several times. Each time, we gave her an irrationally large dose of insulin to cover the intake of carbohydrates. Each time, her blood glucose readings were through the roof.
M decided that giving up cake was easier than feeling the swoon of high blood sugar afterwards.
We have adapted. Ice cream cake it is.
I am sorry it is weird. Too bad.
Stupid cake.
Why? Because it frustrates M. She always loved cake. But when her new lifetime pal diabetes came along we discovered, practically right away, that cake gave her problems.
I have other diabetic friends and acquaintances who have shared with me their own freaky food sensitivities. I know people who can eat cake with no problem; no significant change to their blood glucose levels. But they can't eat carrots. Or maybe potatoes. Cherries. Bread. Peanut butter. For some weird reason, not all diabetics react to the same foods the same way.
I have tried to rationalize the cake problem. I have thought about the glycemic index, the inability of the FDA to properly estimate the amount of carbs in bakery items and various other random thoughts. But I think that it's "just one of those things".
I found myself in a conversation with a parent of a non-diabetic sufferer of celiac disease. She was talking about how challenging it is for her child to attend social functions filled with gluten. I could sympathize. I explained M's cake problem. Despite her knowledge about gluten and foods in general, this piece of information flummoxed my new friend.
New Friend: How could carbs from cake be any different than carbs from anything else?
Me: I don't know.
New Friend: Did you try lots of different kinds of cakes?
Me: Oh, yes. She can eat ice cream cake.
New Friend: But why can't she eat cake? That's weird.
Me: I don't know. Yes it is.
Sure, technically M could eat cake. She did. Several times. Each time, we gave her an irrationally large dose of insulin to cover the intake of carbohydrates. Each time, her blood glucose readings were through the roof.
M decided that giving up cake was easier than feeling the swoon of high blood sugar afterwards.
We have adapted. Ice cream cake it is.
I am sorry it is weird. Too bad.
Stupid cake.
 |
| Sometimes the cake makers are stupid, too! |
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Lather, rinse, repeat
5:45 am - M wakes up
6:00 am - She comes downstairs and decides what to eat.
6:05 am - She calculates how many carbs are in the food she eats.
6:08 am- She checks her bg levels with her monitor
6:10 am - She records the results of her bg levels and her carb amounts onto a sheet of paper
6:11 am - She calculates the amount of insulin she needs to cover the carbs ( carbs divided by 10) and the amount of insulin she needs to correct her bg levels (bg minus target level divided by 21)
6:14 am - She adds the two amounts of insulin - to cover carbs and to correct bg levels - together. The result is how much insulin she will need to take this time before she eats.
6:15 am - She screws a needle onto her humalog pen and dials the amount needed to the nearest 0.5 units
6:16 am - She gives herself an injection, either in the belly, the back of the arm, or the leg.
6:17 am - She eats. Then, if I am lucky, she cleans up the debris from the procedure (bloody test strip and wrapper, needle cover, needle wrapper, needle...)
6:25 She brushes her teeth.
6:30 We leave for school.
Repeat at 9:30 am, 12:00 pm, 6:00 pm, and any other time she eats.
At 8:00 pm she gets a syringe full of Lantus.
9:30 pm - She goes to bed. Usually.
M's best friend. Well, her best electronic friend anyhow.
6:00 am - She comes downstairs and decides what to eat.
6:05 am - She calculates how many carbs are in the food she eats.
6:08 am- She checks her bg levels with her monitor
6:10 am - She records the results of her bg levels and her carb amounts onto a sheet of paper
6:11 am - She calculates the amount of insulin she needs to cover the carbs ( carbs divided by 10) and the amount of insulin she needs to correct her bg levels (bg minus target level divided by 21)
6:14 am - She adds the two amounts of insulin - to cover carbs and to correct bg levels - together. The result is how much insulin she will need to take this time before she eats.
6:15 am - She screws a needle onto her humalog pen and dials the amount needed to the nearest 0.5 units
6:16 am - She gives herself an injection, either in the belly, the back of the arm, or the leg.
6:17 am - She eats. Then, if I am lucky, she cleans up the debris from the procedure (bloody test strip and wrapper, needle cover, needle wrapper, needle...)
6:25 She brushes her teeth.
6:30 We leave for school.
Repeat at 9:30 am, 12:00 pm, 6:00 pm, and any other time she eats.
At 8:00 pm she gets a syringe full of Lantus.
9:30 pm - She goes to bed. Usually.
M's best friend. Well, her best electronic friend anyhow.
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