Tuesday, April 23, 2013
"might as well drink water"
Oh, the faces made when a "skinny girl" asks for a diet drink at a company potluck.
temptation
I don't take mealtime insulin just yet, so the only way to avoid high blood sugars is to eat accordingly. This means limiting my carb intake; something that is easier said than done. Especially in the face of temptation.
Take this weekend: my family went out to dinner to celebrate my sister passing her mock-boards and deciding not to study any more, ever. <--just for the night, right, sis?
I ordered a crab cake, asparagus, and grilled veggies, and split rolls with my sister.
THEN the server tells us that it's free dessert night, and everyone gets a piece of cake!
FREE CAKE.
FREE CHOCOLATE FRICKIN FUDGE CAKE.
To box it up or to spike? That is the question.
PS. I split it, boxed half, AND spiked. The trifecta.
Another example:
This week is Medical Laboratory Professionals week.
This means that our vendors and pathologists provide meals for the lab during the week. (Or it means that your lab is cheap and lab employees provide their own potlucks.) <--our lab is 50/50 this year.
This morning was free breakfast. I take an early break. The only breakfast set up at that point was bagels, and like I said, we're cheap so I figured that would be it. I took half a bagel and also ate the canteloupe from home, but only because it was the last serving and I have to get this canteloupe out of my house.
No sooner do I finish my meal than a vendor shows up late, bearing chick-fil-a. Hash browns. Chicken biscuits. Smelling like all my wildest dreams.
Scratch that. My wildest dreams would smell like Channing Tatum's ab sweat.
Anyway, what is this bad timing? I would have foregone the bagel and thrown out the canteloupe to have a chicken biscuit. As it is, I certainly can't enjoy chick-fil-a ON TOP of my breakfast without a jog around the building...
Which may explain why there is a chick-fil-a chicken biscuit hiding in my locker :)
Take this weekend: my family went out to dinner to celebrate my sister passing her mock-boards and deciding not to study any more, ever. <--just for the night, right, sis?
I ordered a crab cake, asparagus, and grilled veggies, and split rolls with my sister.
THEN the server tells us that it's free dessert night, and everyone gets a piece of cake!
 |
| Free what? |
FREE CHOCOLATE FRICKIN FUDGE CAKE.
To box it up or to spike? That is the question.
PS. I split it, boxed half, AND spiked. The trifecta.
Another example:
This week is Medical Laboratory Professionals week.
 |
| My expectation of Lab Week. Hope springs eternal. |
This morning was free breakfast. I take an early break. The only breakfast set up at that point was bagels, and like I said, we're cheap so I figured that would be it. I took half a bagel and also ate the canteloupe from home, but only because it was the last serving and I have to get this canteloupe out of my house.
No sooner do I finish my meal than a vendor shows up late, bearing chick-fil-a. Hash browns. Chicken biscuits. Smelling like all my wildest dreams.
 |
| I can't bolus for this, so I'll enjoy it the only way I know how. |
Anyway, what is this bad timing? I would have foregone the bagel and thrown out the canteloupe to have a chicken biscuit. As it is, I certainly can't enjoy chick-fil-a ON TOP of my breakfast without a jog around the building...
Which may explain why there is a chick-fil-a chicken biscuit hiding in my locker :)
Monday, April 22, 2013
multiple choice
I've seen waaaay higher blood sugar readings over the past 4 days than I have in the past 2 months.
Am I...
...too liberal with my carb allowances?
...nearing the end of my honeymoon?
...PREGNANT?
PS. I'm not sick.
Am I...
...too liberal with my carb allowances?
...nearing the end of my honeymoon?
...PREGNANT?
PS. I'm not sick.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
on faith
Some days it hits me: my diabetes will never be easier than it is right now.
That's a scary thought. But the truth is, I'm still on a honeymoon. I only inject twice a day. I don't know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night ridiculously low, and I don't have a pump attached to me at all times. Heck, only 4% of the diabetes problems tumblr applies to me.
It's like I'm not even a "real" diabetic yet.
But I will be one day.
Our church started a new Sunday school class this winter for young adults. One of the get-to-know-you exercises was what our pastor/fearless leader referred to as "Quaker questions". <--great, now I want some oatmeal. They started off pretty basic, and then got a little deeper. One question was "when did you start seeing God at work in your daily life?"
Der. I mean, I grew up in church and have always taken God's presence for granted. I know He's always there; like the wind and yada yada. But when did I truly see Him?
The day I had antibody testing drawn to confirm that I was, in fact, a closet type 1 diabetic.
Until that day, I "believed" in God, I "trusted" God, I "had faith" in God. But I was always in control. Type A personality up in here. Planner. God was the back-up dancer. The Joey Fatone to my Justin Timberlake.
On that day, I walked into the draw station, waited for my name to be called to the chair, and started to pray about what .I. wanted.
You know, the kind of prayer where you say, "God, this is/isn't what I want, please make this happen/not happen and PS thanks in advance and I'll read my Bible every day and not cuss and stop watching Honey Boo Boo marathons".
Except those words didn't come.
Instead, His truth became so painfully, so gloriously clear:
He holds me in His hands. I am His. He created me, and He had already decided the answers that I sought. He had known for my whole 25 years what the results of those tests would be.
He knew that I would be diabetic. And in that moment of recognition, I knew I would be diabetic.
So I had my blood drawn and returned to work. And for the first time I could remember, I prayed for real, honest, unhesitating acceptance of His plan. For the understanding that His will, not mine, would be done.
When I finally saw the results (is it a HIPAA violation to check your own labs?), my prayer didn't change.
When my endo called with the news, my prayer didn't change.
When I obsess about the future, when I fear the unknown, when I feel like my pancreas is a ticking timebomb, my prayer doesn't change.
"Thy will be done". It's the hardest thing I've ever had to say, and yet the most liberating.
It's not a punishment. It's not even so much a challenge. It's an opportunity to acknowledge that God is with me in every situation. I will never be alone with diabetes, with Graves disease, with a crappy day at work or a crappy day at life.
So no, my diabetes will never be easier than it is right now. But it will never be in charge of me, either.
He will be.
That's a scary thought. But the truth is, I'm still on a honeymoon. I only inject twice a day. I don't know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night ridiculously low, and I don't have a pump attached to me at all times. Heck, only 4% of the diabetes problems tumblr applies to me.
It's like I'm not even a "real" diabetic yet.
But I will be one day.
Our church started a new Sunday school class this winter for young adults. One of the get-to-know-you exercises was what our pastor/fearless leader referred to as "Quaker questions". <--great, now I want some oatmeal. They started off pretty basic, and then got a little deeper. One question was "when did you start seeing God at work in your daily life?"
Der. I mean, I grew up in church and have always taken God's presence for granted. I know He's always there; like the wind and yada yada. But when did I truly see Him?
The day I had antibody testing drawn to confirm that I was, in fact, a closet type 1 diabetic.
Until that day, I "believed" in God, I "trusted" God, I "had faith" in God. But I was always in control. Type A personality up in here. Planner. God was the back-up dancer. The Joey Fatone to my Justin Timberlake.
On that day, I walked into the draw station, waited for my name to be called to the chair, and started to pray about what .I. wanted.
You know, the kind of prayer where you say, "God, this is/isn't what I want, please make this happen/not happen and PS thanks in advance and I'll read my Bible every day and not cuss and stop watching Honey Boo Boo marathons".
Except those words didn't come.
Instead, His truth became so painfully, so gloriously clear:
He holds me in His hands. I am His. He created me, and He had already decided the answers that I sought. He had known for my whole 25 years what the results of those tests would be.
He knew that I would be diabetic. And in that moment of recognition, I knew I would be diabetic.
So I had my blood drawn and returned to work. And for the first time I could remember, I prayed for real, honest, unhesitating acceptance of His plan. For the understanding that His will, not mine, would be done.
When I finally saw the results (is it a HIPAA violation to check your own labs?), my prayer didn't change.
When my endo called with the news, my prayer didn't change.
When I obsess about the future, when I fear the unknown, when I feel like my pancreas is a ticking timebomb, my prayer doesn't change.
"Thy will be done". It's the hardest thing I've ever had to say, and yet the most liberating.
It's not a punishment. It's not even so much a challenge. It's an opportunity to acknowledge that God is with me in every situation. I will never be alone with diabetes, with Graves disease, with a crappy day at work or a crappy day at life.
So no, my diabetes will never be easier than it is right now. But it will never be in charge of me, either.
He will be.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
taste the rainbow
So right now my thing for heading off a low is Skittles.
I mean, I could carry around glucose tabs, but rumor is they're nasty.
(As if I needed a reason to keep candy in my purse.)
The fun-size bags are a good serving for getting sugar up, and your jaw is only a liiiiitle sore when you're done.
However, my OCD becomes pretty obvious when I break into my emergency candy supply.
Eric insists that "Taste the Rainbow" = "the whole bag at once".
But that's NOT a rainbow! That's a rainblob! <-- what I imagine unicorn poop to look like.
I have to taste the rainbow one color at a time, starting with my least favorite. It goes:
purple
orange
yellow
green
red <--if red isn't your favorite Skittle, you're doing it wrong.
I could also eat them according to ROYGBIV, but that would be a little too weird. Who wants to think through the color spectrum in slow-mo?
I mean, I could carry around glucose tabs, but rumor is they're nasty.
(As if I needed a reason to keep candy in my purse.)
The fun-size bags are a good serving for getting sugar up, and your jaw is only a liiiiitle sore when you're done.
However, my OCD becomes pretty obvious when I break into my emergency candy supply.
Eric insists that "Taste the Rainbow" = "the whole bag at once".
But that's NOT a rainbow! That's a rainblob! <-- what I imagine unicorn poop to look like.
 |
| This shit is fabulous. |
purple
orange
yellow
green
red <--if red isn't your favorite Skittle, you're doing it wrong.
I could also eat them according to ROYGBIV, but that would be a little too weird. Who wants to think through the color spectrum in slow-mo?
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
revelation
Finding out that you don't have to change your lancet every time you test is hands down the best diabetes thing that's happened to me yet.
Friday, March 29, 2013
yuck
Working Good Friday and a low around 50 hits. <--sounds like my ideal weather report. Didn't feel like eating so I went to my work stash of Hawaiian Punch.
Talk about a sugar rush.
I've been cutting my juice with water and living on diet sodas long enough now to have forgotten just how sweet sugar is.
It's kind of gross. Sickening. Nauseating.
I actually don't miss it. And I spent my formative years chugging McDonald's sweet tea with a Mountain Dew chaser.
Talk about a sugar rush.
I've been cutting my juice with water and living on diet sodas long enough now to have forgotten just how sweet sugar is.
It's kind of gross. Sickening. Nauseating.
I actually don't miss it. And I spent my formative years chugging McDonald's sweet tea with a Mountain Dew chaser.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
dumb and doma
Y'all, I live in the South. North Carolina born and raised. (spin it like a helicopter!...no?) A state that just this past summer voted to add a constitutional amendement that defines marriage as 1 man + 1 woman.
Boy, I am not proud.
With Supreme Court hearings this week concerning California's Prop 8 and DOMA legistlation, my Facebook newsfeed has been blowing up with arguements, opinions, and red equals signs.
People on both sides of this debate get ridiculous, but there is one group of folks that just dumbfounds me:
The parents who righteously oppose marriage equality.
Why?
Because it's my opinion that no human can know the meaning of "unconditional love" like a parent does. I can only imagine holding your child for the first time and feeling the overwhelming truth of God's grace and mercy rush in.
We don't get to decide whom we love.
And I don't buy into "love the sinner, hate the sin". That's not love. That sin that you find so detestable in a person is woven into the fabric of their very being. It is as much a part of them as his eyes or her laugh. Hating a person's orientation is the same as hating the sinner.
And I'm sorry, I just can't hate people's kids. Maybe I get mad at them for walking through my grass or driving recklessly through our neighborhood, but I refuse to hate them for loving differently than I do.
So to my friends with kids: when I see you post against gay marriage, I always have to wonder how you would react if your child had a closet to come out of.
Never EVER would I want my son or daughter to feel like they are unnatural, dysfunctional, or anything less than how God desired. How could I preach the love of Jesus Christ and yet want to deny my children the respect and value that they deserve?
I hope those friends's kids all turn out to be nice, straight boys and girls for the simple fact that no child should have to face fear, shame, and disappointment at the hands of their parents.
But if even one of them blossoms into a gay adult, I hope that those same parents find it in their hearts to mourn NOT the loss of a son or daughter, but instead mourn a culture that discriminates against a social minority.
I would be devastated if my children couldn't safely create and raise their own families all because their lifestyle was deemed inferior to my own.
God created every living thing with a purpose, and I believe he created gays lovingly - not as an abomination. Maybe it is the pupose of the homo sapien to teach the hetero sapien about love.
Boy, I am not proud.
With Supreme Court hearings this week concerning California's Prop 8 and DOMA legistlation, my Facebook newsfeed has been blowing up with arguements, opinions, and red equals signs.
People on both sides of this debate get ridiculous, but there is one group of folks that just dumbfounds me:
The parents who righteously oppose marriage equality.
Why?
Because it's my opinion that no human can know the meaning of "unconditional love" like a parent does. I can only imagine holding your child for the first time and feeling the overwhelming truth of God's grace and mercy rush in.
We don't get to decide whom we love.
And I don't buy into "love the sinner, hate the sin". That's not love. That sin that you find so detestable in a person is woven into the fabric of their very being. It is as much a part of them as his eyes or her laugh. Hating a person's orientation is the same as hating the sinner.
And I'm sorry, I just can't hate people's kids. Maybe I get mad at them for walking through my grass or driving recklessly through our neighborhood, but I refuse to hate them for loving differently than I do.
So to my friends with kids: when I see you post against gay marriage, I always have to wonder how you would react if your child had a closet to come out of.
Never EVER would I want my son or daughter to feel like they are unnatural, dysfunctional, or anything less than how God desired. How could I preach the love of Jesus Christ and yet want to deny my children the respect and value that they deserve?
I hope those friends's kids all turn out to be nice, straight boys and girls for the simple fact that no child should have to face fear, shame, and disappointment at the hands of their parents.
But if even one of them blossoms into a gay adult, I hope that those same parents find it in their hearts to mourn NOT the loss of a son or daughter, but instead mourn a culture that discriminates against a social minority.
I would be devastated if my children couldn't safely create and raise their own families all because their lifestyle was deemed inferior to my own.
God created every living thing with a purpose, and I believe he created gays lovingly - not as an abomination. Maybe it is the pupose of the homo sapien to teach the hetero sapien about love.
Friday, March 22, 2013
you just had to go and tell them
You get a lot of different reactions when you tell someone you're diabetic.
My BFF had carb-counting booklets all ready to go along with her matter-of-fact-yet-upbeat attitude. Homegirl is going to be the world's best registered dietician.
My little sister shared love and support in what I can only assume was a heart-warming phone conversation. She called me after. eleven. thirty. PM. on a weeknight. College kids...
My eternally eloquent sister-in-law kept her reaction concise as "fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck" (her words).
My bikini-wax girl shared that her boss is Type 1. <--yes, I have a bikini-wax girl, and she and my husband are logically neck-and-neck in their intimate knowledge of my dramatic weight loss plus tummy bruising, so there was a legit need to share here.
My father-in-law, a type 2, offered his finger ET-style. All that needed to be said passed between our tender pokey fingers.
My college girlfriend asked how this would affect our plans to start a family, and lovingly offered prayers plus the contact information of her Type 1 friend.
But a lot of times you hear stuff like:
...but you're so skinny!
...do you eat a lot of junk food?
...are you on insulin pills?
I even had a coworker (reminder: medical professional) tell me that "it goes away sometimes" because she knows a girl who had weight loss surgery and her diabetes got better. <--maybe the JDRF should look into this ground-breaking miracle cure?
I'm realizing there are a lot of misconceptions about diabetes. My current struggle is in figuring out how to be the best advocate for diabetes when I hear cringeworthy stuff. I mean, do you smile and nod, letting the misguided carry on on with their good intentions? Do you correct them and risk sounding all preachy? Do you drop it and act super awkward because they just called you skinny and seriously - how awkward is that?
And suddenly everyone has a "bad diabetic" story - you know: that uncle who "didn't take his care of himself" then went all Augustus Gloop at the Golden Corral chocolate wonderfall.
Awkward.
My BFF had carb-counting booklets all ready to go along with her matter-of-fact-yet-upbeat attitude. Homegirl is going to be the world's best registered dietician.
My little sister shared love and support in what I can only assume was a heart-warming phone conversation. She called me after. eleven. thirty. PM. on a weeknight. College kids...
My eternally eloquent sister-in-law kept her reaction concise as "fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck" (her words).
My bikini-wax girl shared that her boss is Type 1. <--yes, I have a bikini-wax girl, and she and my husband are logically neck-and-neck in their intimate knowledge of my dramatic weight loss plus tummy bruising, so there was a legit need to share here.
My father-in-law, a type 2, offered his finger ET-style. All that needed to be said passed between our tender pokey fingers.
My college girlfriend asked how this would affect our plans to start a family, and lovingly offered prayers plus the contact information of her Type 1 friend.
But a lot of times you hear stuff like:
...but you're so skinny!
...do you eat a lot of junk food?
...are you on insulin pills?
I even had a coworker (reminder: medical professional) tell me that "it goes away sometimes" because she knows a girl who had weight loss surgery and her diabetes got better. <--maybe the JDRF should look into this ground-breaking miracle cure?
I'm realizing there are a lot of misconceptions about diabetes. My current struggle is in figuring out how to be the best advocate for diabetes when I hear cringeworthy stuff. I mean, do you smile and nod, letting the misguided carry on on with their good intentions? Do you correct them and risk sounding all preachy? Do you drop it and act super awkward because they just called you skinny and seriously - how awkward is that?
And suddenly everyone has a "bad diabetic" story - you know: that uncle who "didn't take his care of himself" then went all Augustus Gloop at the Golden Corral chocolate wonderfall.
Awkward.
Friday, March 15, 2013
opposites attract
I feel like a zombie today.
I've eaten every hour on the hour but I can't keep my blood sugar up to where I feel human.
But I just saw a diagnosis code for DKA on a patient, so it could be worse.
I've eaten every hour on the hour but I can't keep my blood sugar up to where I feel human.
But I just saw a diagnosis code for DKA on a patient, so it could be worse.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
sugar-free dream
Talk about a weird dream.
I dreamt that I picked up a whole grocery cart of sugar-free Jello and decided to stack all the little boxes in a mostly-empty kitchen cabinet. <--should have tipped me off that I was dreaming. My kitchen cabinets runneth over.
Anyway, I say "mostly empty" because it was home to a few pieces of Easter candy. To make room, I figured it couldn't hurt to just eat the candy. Of course, dream candy trumps real candy because it magically doubles when you eat it. I couldn't make any headway because the more candy I ate, the more appeared.
Wouldn't you know: I woke up in a cold sweat cursing the damn Easter bunny.
I dreamt that I picked up a whole grocery cart of sugar-free Jello and decided to stack all the little boxes in a mostly-empty kitchen cabinet. <--should have tipped me off that I was dreaming. My kitchen cabinets runneth over.
Anyway, I say "mostly empty" because it was home to a few pieces of Easter candy. To make room, I figured it couldn't hurt to just eat the candy. Of course, dream candy trumps real candy because it magically doubles when you eat it. I couldn't make any headway because the more candy I ate, the more appeared.
Wouldn't you know: I woke up in a cold sweat cursing the damn Easter bunny.
juicy
I finished my second insulin pen this week. Woo!
Yes, I discard my sharps into an empty orange juice carton. It was what I had on hand at the time I started injections, but there's a little irony at play. Orange juice (=all juice) is wicked high in carbs. It's one thing I've given up almost completely. And quite sadly, I might add. Now it's a treat I give myself on the weekends, if I scale back my cereal bowl. This is what a serving of orange juice looks like:
My juice glasses used to be, well...juice glasses. Now our cupboard is home to a half-pint mason jar, all for me. I love that it has a line for 4 ounces (4 measly ounces!) so my early morning measuring skills can be on point.
 |
| 2 pens = 4 weeks = 56 needles |
 |
| 1/2 cup orange juice |
snacks
I have a snacking problem.
I'm not just talking about an overindulgence problem. I'm talking about a pathological, hoarders-esque food problem.
Like, bitch is crazy.
For example, as a kid if I played at friends' houses,I both longed for and dreaded snack time. One Little Debbie donut stick, a couple handfuls of Cheez-Its...it was never enough. I wanted 3 donut sticks, half a box of Cheez-Its. I watched my friends closely so I could be sure not to eat more than they did (even little girls may judge you), but once the box would go back into the pantry I became immediately resentful.
At home I looooved to eat out of spite. I was awake for breakfast on time and my sister wasn't? Fine, I'll be sure to bite the crunchy tips off of all your bacon. You're eyeing that last piece of cake? I'll be sure to save you a bite.
I know Eric notices. I can't imagine what it's like sharing a bag of chips with me. We start off normally - one for you, one for me...but something takes over and I insist on holding the bag and eating to my heart's content while being just generous enough to offer you a crumb every third commercial break.
I even secret-eat. More than once, I've made a grocery store run specifically for Duncan Hines chocolate frosting (obviously this was before diabetes). I'd make a deal with myself: one spoonful for every chore done or homework question answered. Within no time, it would morph into me hiding the can of frosting at the back of the pantry or OMG in my freaking closet. Once, I was so embarrassed that I snuck a spoon out to the fence under the pretense of "I'll just take the dog for a potty" and polished the rest of my frosting can off. <--seriously, who does this?
You would think that at some point in my life, I've had food taken away from me or at least limited in some way. Exact opposite. My dad worked for a snack food company, for crying out loud! I've never had to go hungry or worry about food. But I DO worry about food! I worry that it will never be enough, and maybe I should keep munching because munching makes me happy. The taste, the feeling, the indulgence.
As a new diabetic, this has easily been my greatest struggle. You don't just go from smuggling frosting to being a smart snacker in a day. I'm still the worst about making deals with myself. Now it's: I'll just check my blood sugar and if it's below ___ I can have a snack. It's not healthy.
In fact, it's disgusting.
That's why I'm cracking down on snacking.
First of all, have you ever eaten a single serving size of anything? Do you even know what one looks like? I had no clue, and now it's imperative for me to know how many carbs are going into my body. So now my routine is this:
Pick out a snack at the grocery store. Bring it home. Open it. Calculate a 15 gram serving of carbs. Measure out that amount. Package into plastic bags. Do this for the entire bag/box of food.
(Have you noticed I have an orange snack foods addiction?)
Then I pile all the plastic baggies in a snack basket for my pantry.
Doing this means I'm limited in how much I can mindlessly eat. No more sitting on the couch with some Oreos and plowing through half the bag before settling on a tv show (ps. why isn't anything good on tv?). Now I pick a bag, sit down, eat sloooooowly, and make the conscious decision NOT to walk back to the pantry.
Of course, string cheese and salted peanuts are fair game :)
I'm not just talking about an overindulgence problem. I'm talking about a pathological, hoarders-esque food problem.
Like, bitch is crazy.
For example, as a kid if I played at friends' houses,I both longed for and dreaded snack time. One Little Debbie donut stick, a couple handfuls of Cheez-Its...it was never enough. I wanted 3 donut sticks, half a box of Cheez-Its. I watched my friends closely so I could be sure not to eat more than they did (even little girls may judge you), but once the box would go back into the pantry I became immediately resentful.
At home I looooved to eat out of spite. I was awake for breakfast on time and my sister wasn't? Fine, I'll be sure to bite the crunchy tips off of all your bacon. You're eyeing that last piece of cake? I'll be sure to save you a bite.
I know Eric notices. I can't imagine what it's like sharing a bag of chips with me. We start off normally - one for you, one for me...but something takes over and I insist on holding the bag and eating to my heart's content while being just generous enough to offer you a crumb every third commercial break.
I even secret-eat. More than once, I've made a grocery store run specifically for Duncan Hines chocolate frosting (obviously this was before diabetes). I'd make a deal with myself: one spoonful for every chore done or homework question answered. Within no time, it would morph into me hiding the can of frosting at the back of the pantry or OMG in my freaking closet. Once, I was so embarrassed that I snuck a spoon out to the fence under the pretense of "I'll just take the dog for a potty" and polished the rest of my frosting can off. <--seriously, who does this?
You would think that at some point in my life, I've had food taken away from me or at least limited in some way. Exact opposite. My dad worked for a snack food company, for crying out loud! I've never had to go hungry or worry about food. But I DO worry about food! I worry that it will never be enough, and maybe I should keep munching because munching makes me happy. The taste, the feeling, the indulgence.
As a new diabetic, this has easily been my greatest struggle. You don't just go from smuggling frosting to being a smart snacker in a day. I'm still the worst about making deals with myself. Now it's: I'll just check my blood sugar and if it's below ___ I can have a snack. It's not healthy.
In fact, it's disgusting.
That's why I'm cracking down on snacking.
First of all, have you ever eaten a single serving size of anything? Do you even know what one looks like? I had no clue, and now it's imperative for me to know how many carbs are going into my body. So now my routine is this:
Pick out a snack at the grocery store. Bring it home. Open it. Calculate a 15 gram serving of carbs. Measure out that amount. Package into plastic bags. Do this for the entire bag/box of food.
 |
| 15 grams of carbs = 1/2 cup Cheez-Its |
 |
| 15 grams carbs = 1/3 cup Baby Goldfish |
Then I pile all the plastic baggies in a snack basket for my pantry.
 |
| Look at all those delicious snacks! |
Of course, string cheese and salted peanuts are fair game :)
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
stitchery
Diabetics have a lot of gear. I have just a little right now: my meter, my pen, strips and lancets, alcohol pads, and needles. I've been schlepping it all around in a free pouch from Thirty-One (ok, it wasn't technically a free pouch...I had to spend a certain amount...) but it just wasn't doing the job.
Enter my sewing maching.
Enter my sewing maching.
I used a great wallet tutorial from Kelly at The Complete Guide to Imperfect Homemaking, tweaking it just a little. I omitted the credit card slots and only made 4 pockets instead of 6. My stroke of brilliance was to line the cover with laminated fabric. This gives me a little placemat where I can work. If I spray insulin all over the place when I prime my pen, I can just wipe if off and keep moving. It also makes me feel a little cleaner when I'm out and about to have a dedicated space instead of laying a paper towel down.
 |
| Tutorial at http://www.imperfecthomemaking.com/2013/01/diy-wallet-for-cash-envelope-system.html |
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
first
 |
| 2 weeks = 28 needles |
Tonight is my last injection with my first insulin pen. One down, infinity to go! They're good for 2 weeks in use, so tomorrow morning I start with a brand new one. Now every time I report to Eric on my numbers, we share a look that says "it's working". I'm too superstitious to say it out loud, but some days I feel like doing a dance. A booty dance. Starting out on an insulin injection twice a day has drastically brought my blood sugar down, and it seems like my pancreas is keeping up fine at mealtimes - for now.
But man, these lows? Killer. The first 60-something was alarming enough, but every lunch since then has started out in the 50s. My first instinct is to eat everything in sight, including free-for-all breakroom food. Number 1 sign I'm low: if I am drawn to some shit whose origins can't be confirmed. I scarfed down 4 unmarked cookies yesterday before I stopped to question what flavor they even were. Brown flavor? I'm still not sure.
Do I eat lunch earlier? Do I sneak away for a snack break? Do I stay away from breakroom food? <-- yes on that one.
The first tell-tale for me is if I can't use a pipette without making a mess: it's time to eat.
2nd: If I can't put my reagents back in their little stadium seats on the first try, it's time to eat.
Don't mind him. That's just Winston.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
sweets for my sweet
Happy Valentine's Day! A day to celebrate your sweetie, or better yet: a time to celebrate sweets. Chocolates, lollipops, conversation hearts (who actually eats those?), jelly beans, truffles...
Wait, what am I talking about? My days of plowing through a bag of holiday-shaped Reese's are over. <--those are my favorite
I can't resist baking at holidays, though. I found a recipe for strawberry cookies with pink cream cheese frosting and SPRINKLES! that screamed Hallmark holiday. They were super delicious and Eric-approved. In fact, he thanked me for making HIM Valentine's cookies. Whoops. I didn't have the heart to tell him I baked them to take to work.
So I didn't tell him. I just snuck off to work with them this morning and left him one lonely cookie on the counter. I'm such a sweetheart :)
I can't just bake things to have at the house anymore - I'd eat them all! Literally. I have absolutely no will power. That means my coworkers have the wonderful benefit now of eating all my baked goods (is that a good thing?). I may even feel some random acts of kindess coming on...
Wait, what am I talking about? My days of plowing through a bag of holiday-shaped Reese's are over. <--those are my favorite
I can't resist baking at holidays, though. I found a recipe for strawberry cookies with pink cream cheese frosting and SPRINKLES! that screamed Hallmark holiday. They were super delicious and Eric-approved. In fact, he thanked me for making HIM Valentine's cookies. Whoops. I didn't have the heart to tell him I baked them to take to work.
So I didn't tell him. I just snuck off to work with them this morning and left him one lonely cookie on the counter. I'm such a sweetheart :)
I can't just bake things to have at the house anymore - I'd eat them all! Literally. I have absolutely no will power. That means my coworkers have the wonderful benefit now of eating all my baked goods (is that a good thing?). I may even feel some random acts of kindess coming on...
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
low and lower
I had my first insulin-related low yesterday at work. It's seriously a crazy feeling. I ate breakfast and then worked through til lunch like always. I was feeling off well before my usual lunchtime, but being a creature of habit I pushed myself until noon. Then I got caught up in work and pushed myself a half hour longer. By the time I was taking off my lab coat, my blood sugar was down to 61. It was one of those numbers you read on the glucose meter and think "yep, that's about right".
I was told in our education class that people on a low may act like they're drunk. That's because brain function is impaired if the brain isn't getting enough sugar. I was surprised to find out the two feelings are so similiar. I could sense that my walk wasn't right; I was swaying and lurching with only the thought of food keeping me moving forward instead of falling over. It was the kind of trip where you get where you're going and then stop to think "how did I get here?". I picked the hightop cafe table for my lunch, which was a bad idea. I was afraid I was going to slide right off it. A booth would have been a much more comfortable place to pass out, for sure. I couldn't even eat right: shaky hands + terrible depth perception meant that I kept missing my mouth and knocking food off my fork. I felt like the only shot at maintaining any dignity was to shoot dirty looks at the surgical girls nearby who would surely judge my inability to eat food.
So yea, being hypoglycemic is a lot like being drunk. The difference is that being hypo sucks and being drunk is pretty enjoyable.
And that's not to say I'm a huge drinker. I turned 21 my senior year of college and barely touched any alcohol while I was on campus. I was that girl who didn't want to hit up the liquor store for her underage friends. I was such a baby. In fact, I only have one good drinking story and one bad drinking story. The bad one I save for my husband and my BFF (one of them will surely blackmail me one day).
The good one comes from an out-of-town wedding (don't they all?). The groom's dad - a sweetheart, by the way - got me happy on wine over the course of the reception. Afterwards we joined the wedding party at a bar downtown. It just so happened to be St. Patrick's Day weekend AND conference tourney time for NCAA basketball, and I got plowed cheering on the local team. Mixed in with the green beer was an Irish car bomb: that business tastes like dirty Starbucks in case you don't know. By the time we made it to our hotel I was lucky to be upright, as some of our party had passed out in the cargo area of my car. Eric was the DD as usual, so I was surprised that sober he didn't see a red flag waving over my white girl wasted walk to our hotel room. Not even past the lobby, I tripped and faceplanted. Hard. Turns out hotel floors are concrete underneath really cheap carpet. I heard a crunch in my nose and contemplated falling asleep facedown outside a stranger's room. In fact, the only reason I got up was because I heard a pizza delivery guy ask Eric if I was ok and I couldn't be THAT girl. So I ran to my room (drunk running feels like flying); Eric reassured the pizza guy and followed. One look at me had him holding back laughter: I had an immediate goose egg on my forehead. I alternated between sloppy drunk tears and maniacal laughter as I fell into bed.
We had a 10 hour drive back home the next day and I spent much of it stealing glances at my purple knotty face in the side-view mirror. The bridge of my nose had also bruised up nicely. The wonder of it all was my hands. They showed no bruising, no soreness, nothing. I took this to mean that I was so gone I hadn't even employed your #1 face saving mechanism: bracing your fall with your hands.
I tried to cover my battle wounds with makeup, but I hadn't been back at work 5 minutes before my coworker/BFF asked "what happened to your face?". Bitch. I'm pretty sure she spent the rest of the day asking me about my "trip" to Kentucky. I would have done the same.
Being that we work in a lab, I wear latex gloves all day. Here's where it gets weird: by the end of the night, pulling gloves off over and over had bruises rising to the surface on my palms. Taking off a glove was like giving my hand a hicky. When it was time to clock out, by hands were purple from my wrist to my fingertips. It was disturbing, but it proved that I must have tried, however ineffectually, to save myself from the fall.
Keep reading because this story is relevant. I mean, not to be "the diabetes girl", but it is.
I'm only good at testing my sugar on two fingers: my left middle and left ring. My right hand probably has some good bleeders but I'm not ambidextrous to the point where I can use the lancet/meter with my left hand. In fact, my left hand is just about useless. I'm pretty sure God only gave it to me so I don't look lopsided. Anyway, this means those two fingers get pricked and milked all the time. Over the past couple days I could tell my middle finger was getting really sore from all the abuse. So I start pulling my gloves off at work and wouldn't you know: my whole fingetip was purple. From the knuckle to the nail.
Many lessons are to be learned from this chain of events: don't work when you can eat, don't rely on one testing finger, and don't drink anything with a theme name.
I was told in our education class that people on a low may act like they're drunk. That's because brain function is impaired if the brain isn't getting enough sugar. I was surprised to find out the two feelings are so similiar. I could sense that my walk wasn't right; I was swaying and lurching with only the thought of food keeping me moving forward instead of falling over. It was the kind of trip where you get where you're going and then stop to think "how did I get here?". I picked the hightop cafe table for my lunch, which was a bad idea. I was afraid I was going to slide right off it. A booth would have been a much more comfortable place to pass out, for sure. I couldn't even eat right: shaky hands + terrible depth perception meant that I kept missing my mouth and knocking food off my fork. I felt like the only shot at maintaining any dignity was to shoot dirty looks at the surgical girls nearby who would surely judge my inability to eat food.
So yea, being hypoglycemic is a lot like being drunk. The difference is that being hypo sucks and being drunk is pretty enjoyable.
And that's not to say I'm a huge drinker. I turned 21 my senior year of college and barely touched any alcohol while I was on campus. I was that girl who didn't want to hit up the liquor store for her underage friends. I was such a baby. In fact, I only have one good drinking story and one bad drinking story. The bad one I save for my husband and my BFF (one of them will surely blackmail me one day).
The good one comes from an out-of-town wedding (don't they all?). The groom's dad - a sweetheart, by the way - got me happy on wine over the course of the reception. Afterwards we joined the wedding party at a bar downtown. It just so happened to be St. Patrick's Day weekend AND conference tourney time for NCAA basketball, and I got plowed cheering on the local team. Mixed in with the green beer was an Irish car bomb: that business tastes like dirty Starbucks in case you don't know. By the time we made it to our hotel I was lucky to be upright, as some of our party had passed out in the cargo area of my car. Eric was the DD as usual, so I was surprised that sober he didn't see a red flag waving over my white girl wasted walk to our hotel room. Not even past the lobby, I tripped and faceplanted. Hard. Turns out hotel floors are concrete underneath really cheap carpet. I heard a crunch in my nose and contemplated falling asleep facedown outside a stranger's room. In fact, the only reason I got up was because I heard a pizza delivery guy ask Eric if I was ok and I couldn't be THAT girl. So I ran to my room (drunk running feels like flying); Eric reassured the pizza guy and followed. One look at me had him holding back laughter: I had an immediate goose egg on my forehead. I alternated between sloppy drunk tears and maniacal laughter as I fell into bed.
We had a 10 hour drive back home the next day and I spent much of it stealing glances at my purple knotty face in the side-view mirror. The bridge of my nose had also bruised up nicely. The wonder of it all was my hands. They showed no bruising, no soreness, nothing. I took this to mean that I was so gone I hadn't even employed your #1 face saving mechanism: bracing your fall with your hands.
I tried to cover my battle wounds with makeup, but I hadn't been back at work 5 minutes before my coworker/BFF asked "what happened to your face?". Bitch. I'm pretty sure she spent the rest of the day asking me about my "trip" to Kentucky. I would have done the same.
Being that we work in a lab, I wear latex gloves all day. Here's where it gets weird: by the end of the night, pulling gloves off over and over had bruises rising to the surface on my palms. Taking off a glove was like giving my hand a hicky. When it was time to clock out, by hands were purple from my wrist to my fingertips. It was disturbing, but it proved that I must have tried, however ineffectually, to save myself from the fall.
Keep reading because this story is relevant. I mean, not to be "the diabetes girl", but it is.
I'm only good at testing my sugar on two fingers: my left middle and left ring. My right hand probably has some good bleeders but I'm not ambidextrous to the point where I can use the lancet/meter with my left hand. In fact, my left hand is just about useless. I'm pretty sure God only gave it to me so I don't look lopsided. Anyway, this means those two fingers get pricked and milked all the time. Over the past couple days I could tell my middle finger was getting really sore from all the abuse. So I start pulling my gloves off at work and wouldn't you know: my whole fingetip was purple. From the knuckle to the nail.
Many lessons are to be learned from this chain of events: don't work when you can eat, don't rely on one testing finger, and don't drink anything with a theme name.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
the skinny
Weight is something most girls are conscious of, usually because they're looking to get rid of some. For that reason alone, I hate to complain about losing weight.
In my adult life, I was smallest right before my wedding at 115 pounds. I thought it was a combination of stress and the desire to look good in a wedding dress, but in reality I looked sickly. Turns out, I WAS sick - with raging thyroid disease.
Controlling my thyroid hormones got my weight back in check, and then eating like a newlywed (it's a thing, ask every newlywed ever) piled weight back on - up to 130.
Over the 2012 calendar year I dropped 11 pounds. This time, I owed it to diet, exercise, thyroid recurrence, and dun-dun-DUN diabetes.
In January alone I lost 6 more pounds, bringing me down to 113.
I say that to say this: I am crazy small right now. Not like a "hey girl, have you lost weight?" kind of way...more like a "have you heard if Katherine's sick?" kind of way. My favorite soft, stretchy Gap jeans are now my "fat pants" and I'm wearing jeans from high school. Only difference is I was heavier in high school and I had dat azz. My scrub pants are falling off - and if you can't keep pants tied up around your waist with a drawstring, you have a problem. Maybe saddest of all, I've lost noticeable weight in my -ahem- chest, which didn't have that much to give.
The difference between now-me and pre-wedding-me is confidence. I've got muscle this time around - like muscle you can actually see. That's saying a lot for a girl whose family used to pick on her "spaghetti arms".
So rather than focus on how much weight I'm losing, I'm excited to go shopping. <--a girl can always turn it around. This will be the summer of short shorts. Maybe even a bikini. A friend told me my wakeboarding song can still be "Baby Got Back" should I want to finally try wakeboarding at the lake. I also bought a pair of teal skinny jeans at Loft Outlet, something I couldn't wear 17 pounds ago. The plus is, they were only $19.99 so I won't feel bad if Iput weight back on (or teal skinny jeans go out of style).
Of course, the nurse at Dr. O's office pointed out a problem of being too skinny: while we were doing a test injection, I pulled up my shirt and asked where on my belly I could poke. She sighed in the way only soft Southern grandmas can, and said "honey, you hardly have enough fat on you to pinch."
I just pretend I'm Honey Boo Boo when it comes time for my injection.
In my adult life, I was smallest right before my wedding at 115 pounds. I thought it was a combination of stress and the desire to look good in a wedding dress, but in reality I looked sickly. Turns out, I WAS sick - with raging thyroid disease.
Controlling my thyroid hormones got my weight back in check, and then eating like a newlywed (it's a thing, ask every newlywed ever) piled weight back on - up to 130.
Over the 2012 calendar year I dropped 11 pounds. This time, I owed it to diet, exercise, thyroid recurrence, and dun-dun-DUN diabetes.
In January alone I lost 6 more pounds, bringing me down to 113.
I say that to say this: I am crazy small right now. Not like a "hey girl, have you lost weight?" kind of way...more like a "have you heard if Katherine's sick?" kind of way. My favorite soft, stretchy Gap jeans are now my "fat pants" and I'm wearing jeans from high school. Only difference is I was heavier in high school and I had dat azz. My scrub pants are falling off - and if you can't keep pants tied up around your waist with a drawstring, you have a problem. Maybe saddest of all, I've lost noticeable weight in my -ahem- chest, which didn't have that much to give.
The difference between now-me and pre-wedding-me is confidence. I've got muscle this time around - like muscle you can actually see. That's saying a lot for a girl whose family used to pick on her "spaghetti arms".
So rather than focus on how much weight I'm losing, I'm excited to go shopping. <--a girl can always turn it around. This will be the summer of short shorts. Maybe even a bikini. A friend told me my wakeboarding song can still be "Baby Got Back" should I want to finally try wakeboarding at the lake. I also bought a pair of teal skinny jeans at Loft Outlet, something I couldn't wear 17 pounds ago. The plus is, they were only $19.99 so I won't feel bad if Iput weight back on (or teal skinny jeans go out of style).
Of course, the nurse at Dr. O's office pointed out a problem of being too skinny: while we were doing a test injection, I pulled up my shirt and asked where on my belly I could poke. She sighed in the way only soft Southern grandmas can, and said "honey, you hardly have enough fat on you to pinch."
I just pretend I'm Honey Boo Boo when it comes time for my injection.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
why can't my honeymoon be in the tropics?
Yesterday I met my diabetes specialist, Dr. O. He reminds me of a friend's dad, so there's a win for the trust side. That's normal, right?
It was my lunchtime when I checked in, and I hadn't eaten in 4+ hours. My blood sugar was 65 so I got to drink an apple juice and sit in the exam room where I waited for close to an hour. I was in the throes of hypoglycemia and talking out of my ass (Eric came along - I wasn't talking to myself). I made some joke about eating TWO cheeseburgers (?) and lost it, but luckily sobered up before meeting the doc. Am I the only one who gets wacky nervous at doctors' offices?
Dr. O was very reassuring right from the get-go and even offered to take me on as a thyroid patient as well, so I don't have to pay separate $50 specialist copays. I guess that's the good thing about having two endocrine disorders - one doctor can treat them simultaneously.
He described my situation as the "honeymoon phase". Basically my pancreas is still making some insulin but eventually my islet cells will be completely destroyed. There's no telling how long before that happens - it could be weeks, months, a couple years. I mean, I've been married for three years and still feel like we're on a honeymoon :) Aww, I know right?
That being the case, Dr. O started me on a basal insulin injection. This will serve as the background insulin that a healthy pancreas is able to put out constantly. For now, my pancreas should be working enough to secrete meal-time insulin. The goal is that the injection will help take some of the strain off my poor dying pancreas and (hopefully) prolong its function a little longer. If I'm on the honeymoon, this first injection is like marriage counseling before the divorce.
It was my lunchtime when I checked in, and I hadn't eaten in 4+ hours. My blood sugar was 65 so I got to drink an apple juice and sit in the exam room where I waited for close to an hour. I was in the throes of hypoglycemia and talking out of my ass (Eric came along - I wasn't talking to myself). I made some joke about eating TWO cheeseburgers (?) and lost it, but luckily sobered up before meeting the doc. Am I the only one who gets wacky nervous at doctors' offices?
Dr. O was very reassuring right from the get-go and even offered to take me on as a thyroid patient as well, so I don't have to pay separate $50 specialist copays. I guess that's the good thing about having two endocrine disorders - one doctor can treat them simultaneously.
He described my situation as the "honeymoon phase". Basically my pancreas is still making some insulin but eventually my islet cells will be completely destroyed. There's no telling how long before that happens - it could be weeks, months, a couple years. I mean, I've been married for three years and still feel like we're on a honeymoon :) Aww, I know right?
That being the case, Dr. O started me on a basal insulin injection. This will serve as the background insulin that a healthy pancreas is able to put out constantly. For now, my pancreas should be working enough to secrete meal-time insulin. The goal is that the injection will help take some of the strain off my poor dying pancreas and (hopefully) prolong its function a little longer. If I'm on the honeymoon, this first injection is like marriage counseling before the divorce.
Friday, January 25, 2013
carb counting
Going to diabetes education class really opened our eyes up to just how many carbs we take in each day. We've both been holding ourselves to carb limits and our meals have been winners this week on that front.
The least gourmet but most exciting meal has been grilled cheese and chicken noodle soup. Ok, I'm just mostly tickled about this one. One sandwich and 1 bowl of soup topped out at 3 carbs. Grilled cheese is one of my favorite foods; in fact, I survived on it exclusively from 2006-2008.
I mean, even good dining hall food is still dining hall food...
The least gourmet but most exciting meal has been grilled cheese and chicken noodle soup. Ok, I'm just mostly tickled about this one. One sandwich and 1 bowl of soup topped out at 3 carbs. Grilled cheese is one of my favorite foods; in fact, I survived on it exclusively from 2006-2008.
I mean, even good dining hall food is still dining hall food...
Saturday, January 19, 2013
reassurance
On Wednesday Eric and I went to an all-day diabetes education class through a local hospital (that just happens to be where I work). It actually made me feel better on a few counts.
First, though, can we talk about hospital registration? Wouldn't you know that B had a large McCafe iced frappe something or other AND a cupcake calendar at her desk?
I'll get that bitch some sweets. Bitches love sweets.
Anyway, back to class.
We covered the basics of the disease process, complications, medications, mental health, exercise, and diet.
We'll call our main instructor "R". When she was diagnosed as a type 2 diabetic, R chose to use insulin therapy over medication. Number 1 reassurance. She's been doing this (successfully) for over a decade and lives an active lifestyle. While insulin is the only treatment option for type 1 diabetics, I think there's a stigma that goes along with insulin, like it's a last resort/end-of-the-road kind of thing. That someone would choose insulin when others have no choice was incomprehensible to me at first, but actually makes sense: it's able to give the tightest control on your blood sugar and can therefore make you feel like you have more freedom.
Of the 5 patients in attendance, my A1C was the best-controlled. Number 2 reassurance. I've felt like a failure with my diet and exercise choices because that number was high. Come to find out there are people walking around with an A1C TWICE AS HIGH as mine.
The number 3 reassurance comes from the support of my husband. The carb counting exercise was fun (and eye-opening...have you ever measured out a serving size of cereal? do it right now) but it was overwhelming to picture the rest of my life thinking about carbohydrates. I hated biochem, remember? But Eric faithfully insists that we'll do this together. I feel horrible knowing he'll be restricted because of me, but he reminded me that's a two-way street. I know that if we both make a diligent effort to be healthy, we'll be better off in the long run. Especially since we plan on being married for like, a hundred more years.
All in all, the class was very informative. This program offers monthly follow-up classes that focus on specific subjects, and just knowing that the support staff are right in my building and only a phone call away is reassurance #4.
I've never been one to keep (correction: make) healthy New Years resolutions, but in this case I don't think I have a choice. BUT I feel more peace of mind right now than I have this past year.
I got this.
First, though, can we talk about hospital registration? Wouldn't you know that B had a large McCafe iced frappe something or other AND a cupcake calendar at her desk?
I'll get that bitch some sweets. Bitches love sweets.
Anyway, back to class.
We covered the basics of the disease process, complications, medications, mental health, exercise, and diet.
We'll call our main instructor "R". When she was diagnosed as a type 2 diabetic, R chose to use insulin therapy over medication. Number 1 reassurance. She's been doing this (successfully) for over a decade and lives an active lifestyle. While insulin is the only treatment option for type 1 diabetics, I think there's a stigma that goes along with insulin, like it's a last resort/end-of-the-road kind of thing. That someone would choose insulin when others have no choice was incomprehensible to me at first, but actually makes sense: it's able to give the tightest control on your blood sugar and can therefore make you feel like you have more freedom.
Of the 5 patients in attendance, my A1C was the best-controlled. Number 2 reassurance. I've felt like a failure with my diet and exercise choices because that number was high. Come to find out there are people walking around with an A1C TWICE AS HIGH as mine.
The number 3 reassurance comes from the support of my husband. The carb counting exercise was fun (and eye-opening...have you ever measured out a serving size of cereal? do it right now) but it was overwhelming to picture the rest of my life thinking about carbohydrates. I hated biochem, remember? But Eric faithfully insists that we'll do this together. I feel horrible knowing he'll be restricted because of me, but he reminded me that's a two-way street. I know that if we both make a diligent effort to be healthy, we'll be better off in the long run. Especially since we plan on being married for like, a hundred more years.
All in all, the class was very informative. This program offers monthly follow-up classes that focus on specific subjects, and just knowing that the support staff are right in my building and only a phone call away is reassurance #4.
I've never been one to keep (correction: make) healthy New Years resolutions, but in this case I don't think I have a choice. BUT I feel more peace of mind right now than I have this past year.
I got this.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
what's in a name?
When I hear the term "juvenile delinquent" I can't help but think: badass. Which I totally am. So that's fitting. But if we break it down:
ju·ve·nile
noun: a young person; youth
adjective: immature; childish; infantile
de·lin·quent
adjective: failing in or neglectful of a duty or obligation; guilty of a misdeed or offense. past
due; overdue.
You've probably heard type 1 diabetes referred to as juvenile diabetes, given its occurrence in children and youth.
Juvenile is a good name to pin on this blog because I am so new to this; my diabetes is in its infancy. My goal is to record as I'm learning.
I also tend to be pretty crass, sarcastic...juvenile. That's how I deal with things that make me uncomfortable. Make a joke, pick fun.
Delinquent is a little harder to define. Although it's not unusual to see an onset of type 1 diabetes in young adults, it's a little shocking to find out it's YOU. It feels like you're a part of a joke but late getting to the punch line. Especially when the rules of rounding put you closer to 30 than 20.
Delinquent is also a good word to describe my attitude throughout this process. At first it was denial; being deliberately late to accept the truth. Acceptance, when it came, was accompanied by depression. That definition, "neglectful of a duty or obligation" is a perfect description of the mean cloud I lived in. For months I neglected my role as a wife, a friend, a coworker, a sister, daughter, you name it. I was so consumed with anger, disappointment, and jealousy that I chose to avoid interaction and wallow instead in my self-pity.
This blog is my way of expressing the emotions than I find impossible to say out loud. I haven't invited anyone to read it, and I don't know that I will. I can say that I'm not in a place of deliquency any longer. But if I fall behind on my emotional rent again, I hope this is a place where I can turn it around.
Monday, January 14, 2013
I guess an introduction is in order. I'm Katherine, 25 and healthy.
Except for that diabetes thing.
And that thyroid thing.
But other than that, I'm pretty low-maintenence.
I'm also a medical laboratory technologist. Funny thing: in school, I never quite got an academic grasp on the physiology of diabetes. Go figure. I feel like my life is a giant biochem test right now, and I'm cramming an hour before the test. PS. I hated biochem. I know you feel me.
You should know I'm not insulin dependent. Yet. I'm maintaining glycemic control with Metformin. For now.
Yet. For now. Unkown. Known.
The unknowns in my life far outnumber the knowns.
This time one year ago, my unknowns were exciting ones. My goals for 2012 were big. New shift: check. Kids: that'd be pretty sweet. Turning 25: eesh, but in a cool way.
That's really where this begins. Turning 25 does crazy things to a person; quarter-life-crisis and all that. (I blame John Mayer.) I decided to get myself hooked up with a primary care physician for the first time ever and have a physical. No big.
Siiike.
My fasting blood glucose was high. No big, I probably suck at fasting. We'll just re-test and it'll be a-ok.
Siiike.
Still high. Pre-diabetes. Your BMI is 21.3 and you have a history of autoimmune disease? This does not bode well. Eat greener and sweat more.
Check and check. I joined a gym, people! I'll just enjoy my denial a little more over the summer, no big.
Siiike.
My denial cost me an extra point on my A1C. FYI: A1Cs are scored like putt-putt. I hit a 7 on a par 5. (Incidentally, this is a typical round of putt-putt for me, so good luck if we ever play girls vs. boys or some shit like that.)
Well, you're doing "ok" on Metformin, but you pee all the time and have tingly feet. Go hook up with a specialist. Aaaaand your thyroid is making you act like a crazy person.
Which brings us to today. Monday. Still waiting on labs, but the preliminary report is no bueno. (Side note: thanks to Mix101.5 for playing Daniel Powter's "Bad Day" at 0530 on a Monday. Way to really kick off the week, guys.)
...you sing a sad song just to turn it around
Except for that diabetes thing.
And that thyroid thing.
But other than that, I'm pretty low-maintenence.
I'm also a medical laboratory technologist. Funny thing: in school, I never quite got an academic grasp on the physiology of diabetes. Go figure. I feel like my life is a giant biochem test right now, and I'm cramming an hour before the test. PS. I hated biochem. I know you feel me.
You should know I'm not insulin dependent. Yet. I'm maintaining glycemic control with Metformin. For now.
Yet. For now. Unkown. Known.
The unknowns in my life far outnumber the knowns.
This time one year ago, my unknowns were exciting ones. My goals for 2012 were big. New shift: check. Kids: that'd be pretty sweet. Turning 25: eesh, but in a cool way.
That's really where this begins. Turning 25 does crazy things to a person; quarter-life-crisis and all that. (I blame John Mayer.) I decided to get myself hooked up with a primary care physician for the first time ever and have a physical. No big.
Siiike.
My fasting blood glucose was high. No big, I probably suck at fasting. We'll just re-test and it'll be a-ok.
Siiike.
Still high. Pre-diabetes. Your BMI is 21.3 and you have a history of autoimmune disease? This does not bode well. Eat greener and sweat more.
Check and check. I joined a gym, people! I'll just enjoy my denial a little more over the summer, no big.
Siiike.
My denial cost me an extra point on my A1C. FYI: A1Cs are scored like putt-putt. I hit a 7 on a par 5. (Incidentally, this is a typical round of putt-putt for me, so good luck if we ever play girls vs. boys or some shit like that.)
Well, you're doing "ok" on Metformin, but you pee all the time and have tingly feet. Go hook up with a specialist. Aaaaand your thyroid is making you act like a crazy person.
Which brings us to today. Monday. Still waiting on labs, but the preliminary report is no bueno. (Side note: thanks to Mix101.5 for playing Daniel Powter's "Bad Day" at 0530 on a Monday. Way to really kick off the week, guys.)
...you sing a sad song just to turn it around
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