Sugar Free Ang

First Aide: For (diabetic) Dummies

2010-02-16T11:14:00.000-08:00

Recently I’ve had a career change. I went from a meaningless, faceless job to a more fulfilling and gratifying career in personal care. I studied marketing in college. I have a knack for business and communications, so this is a far cry from anything I’ve done before.

Part of my required training was a mandatory emergency first aide class through St. John’s Ambulance. It was a fantastic course. I really enjoyed it. It’s something that I think everyone should do… put it in schools or something. It is a one day affair that covers CPR, severe bleeding, emergency burns, and the Heimlich maneuver (It is no longer to be called the Heimlich maneuver actually. Apparently the relatives of Dr. Heimlich wanted to be paid to use his name for this so they changed it. This was kind of a revelation for me. Seriously, what next? “I expect a 50 cent royalty every time someone chokes and is saved by my maneuver!” I have to physically resist rolling my eyes as I type this.)

Near the end of the day we reached a section of the program on special conditions. The first of these was diabetes. That morning we’d been given the first aide textbook. When we got to the section on diabetes I skimmed through the information on the page. I was a little dismayed but definitely unsurprised by what was listed there as to what to do in an emergency with a diabetic person.

I find that the diabetic medical community is really on the ball with the needs of diabetics. The doctors, nurses, and other health care workers really know their stuff. They seem to be well informed about the complexities of the illness both physical and emotional. It is the general medical community that seems to fall short. Their information is uneven and clumsy, sometimes sadly outdated. I don’t understand how an illness so dramatically widespread and so drastically on the rise, can be so widely misunderstood.

The advice of the St. John’s Ambulance textbook was not necessarily wrong… just incomplete, and therefore easily confusing for anyone not intimately familiar with the condition. There were two things that struck me when first reading this section; first, they list the signs and symptoms of someone suffering from either hypo or hyperglycemia. This list, the way it is written sounds absolute and very clear. That is what makes it so misleading. For example, exhaustion is listed for low blood sugars. But exhaustion and lack of energy can be a sign of both hyper and hypoglycemia. And it is so important to realize that each diabetic is different in their symptoms. In cases of extremely low sugars or extremely high sugars, dizziness, eyesight difficulties, and confusion are common. This textbook made it sound like these symptoms are strictly one or the other.

Ok… so contrary to what St. John’s ambulance would have us believe, if you are unfamiliar with diabetes it may not be easy to tell if the individual is suffering from high or low sugars. Now what?

The textbook says to give the person sugar. It has a delightful drawing of a woman sitting on the floor stating that she is confused, and a young man offering her something ( juice, I’m guessing) and saying “Here, this may help, and it definitely will not hurt.”

I was sitting in class trying to suppress my irritation.

I’ve had record high sugars. The highest recorded was something like 54. I was perfectly lucid and capable at the time. I’d driven myself to the hospital. I was a little sick but I wasn’t confused or unable to do things on my own. So what number would I have to reach before that happened? 60? 65? 75?

I don’t know.

So let’s say I get confused. And my first aide responder opens the textbook to the diabetes page and sees I’m confused and can’t breathe well and have no energy. They give me a glass of orange juice.

Then what?

Seizures? Coma? It only takes that juice seconds to do the job.

I couldn’t hold my tongue. I said some of this stuff to our first aide teacher. She responded by saying that the general rule of thumb was to give the person sugar… then wait 5 to 10 minutes because they should start to feel better right away. If they don’t, then the problem is high sugars and to call the ambulance.

Well ok.

That seemed fairly reasonable to me. In an emergency situation there are only so many options you have. However, nowhere in the book does it say any of this reasonable stuff! Just: “Give them sugar!”

Again: then what?

Well according to the book that’s it. So my poor inexperienced first aide responder thinks: “Ok, they are not better… more sugar?”

More sugar?!

How would they know what to do if I was too sick to tell them?

There is the flaw. Just a tiny bit more information and this risk is greatly diminished. One sentence: “If the sugar does not begin to revive the individual after 5 to 10 minutes, an ambulance needs to be called immediately.”

Sound reasonable?

H1N-What?

2009-12-07T07:11:00.000-08:00

It’s an epidemic. Or is it a pandemic…?

I get my “-emic’s” mixed up.

I watch the news everyday; I consider the footage of airports filled with passengers wearing paper masks. Pictures of people coughing. Directions on how to sneeze properly. (Have you heard? They have changed the rules on this. It is supposed to be into your sleeve now, not your hands. I wonder if it will turn into another margarine VS. butter debate… which one is really better for you?)

Yesterday washing your hands was the BEST WAY to ward off the illness and today NEW RESEARCH has decided that maybe that’s not the case… (Sense a hint of sarcasm?)

Wear a mask in public places.
Sneeze into your sleeve.
Sanitize sanitize sanitize…

And good heavens don’t even mention travelling to Mexico. (It’s like talking about bombs in an airport… oh no no no no no …)

We as diabetics are considered a “high risk” category. Along with the tiny children, the asthmatics, and all others who have chronic illness or who live with someone who does. (Sheesh, does that even leave anyone?)

There has been a lot of controversy surrounding this flu shot. So the underlying question: Do we, or don’t we?

I did.

I’d heard of the sickness people were suffering from it. I’d heard rumors of seizures and swollen arms. But I get the regular flu shot every year. So I just bit the bullet and got both done at once, despite all the kerfuffle. (Seriously folks… what’s one more needle right?)

Heck I’m still waiting for the bird flu to hit, never mind this pig thing. What ever happened to that? This thing the birds were bringing overseas from, what, Asia or somewhere, that was going to wipe out human kind…? I always get this mental image in my head of flocks of rabid seagulls (all red eyed and frothing from the beak) zooming and zipping in from over the ocean and dive bombing us like war planes.

Well clearly that never happened. (It’s also like when someone mentions Mad-Cow. Isn’t your first thought always a cow-who-looks-angry? Like a Gary Larson cartoon? No? Just me?)
There has been a lot of media hype over this H1N1 thing that might be slightly disproportionate to the reality. It’s a shame that absolute truth in these situations is impossible to achieve or even guess at.

I have a friend who believes that it’s all a conspiracy and that these flu viruses are being cooked up in a lab somewhere and inflicted on us by a foreign government as a type of ware fare.

That one may be a bit of a stretch --- (I have an idea, we all just need to eat more bacon. This way there will be fewer pigs, and therefore less swine flu. Just need to eat more bacon… It’s hard to argue logic like that.)

Either way, my fellow diabetics, keep healthy, be careful. Whether or not you decide to get the H1N1 shot is for only you to choose. It’s a very personal choice so weigh your pros and cons carefully and don’t be too swayed by scare tactics and irrational propaganda. And remember: sneeze into your sleeve.

It’s the LAW now!

Mummy and Me

2009-11-16T09:26:00.000-08:00

There’s nobody in the world quite like our mother. She cooks for us. Feeds us soup when we’re sick. Heals our wounds both physical and emotional. She worries about us uncontrollably and loves us unconditionally. She always has the answers.

I was never certain I wanted to be a mom. The idea of trying to raise children was daunting. .. frightening. And I was selfish in some ways and I knew it. I wanted a business or creative career. I wanted to travel to exotic places. I wanted to delve into my own personal projects. I wanted to pursue my own dreams.

And to my everlasting shame, I never ever wanted to experience labor.

I know I’ve mentioned my low (low) pain threshold.

I suppose the nuclear family life was always in the back of my mind filed under “eventually”. Husband, home, children (maybe 2?) and the dog (of course). Football games, piano lessons, PTA…

Maybe that’d be nice. Stability of family life. Scrapbooks of first steps and snowball fights. Braces and school dances.

The older I got the more that seemed like maybe… maybe I do want all that. Eventually. After I travel the world, build a satisfying business career, become a published writer, and spend a few years with my husband… of course.

Of course.

Things have changed again.

I have made the decision not to have children.

After being diagnosed with diabetes it has been something of a difficult question: Do we have a child or do we not accept that risk? A non diabetic woman’s body has the ability to turn itself inside out to accomplish this feat. Ours does as well but the risks are different.

It’s amazing. Little by little I began to learn what that could mean for me should I choose to go that route. I’m clearly no medical professional, and risks vary so much from person to person, but after looking at the possibilities … at what exactly could happen to myself or my baby, throwing in my own personal health history… and it just doesn’t seem like a possibility any longer.

I guess it’s a question of trust. I don’t trust my ability to keep a perfect sugar reading through pregnancy. And how could that hurt my child? How could I live with a guilt like that should something go wrong?
It’s astounding what you don’t want until you find out you can’t have it. It’s in our nature I think. To desire what is not ours to have.

Like me and egg sandwiches.

I’m so allergic to eggs.

It’s a very intimate, personal choice, this baby decision. Something each woman has to make for herself. And it’s not like there are no other options out there; surrogacy, adoption. Each with their own emotional results.

Have you ever been asked this question: “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”

I actually hate this question. Usually it’s in reference to a career path. (what is the right answer to that, by the way? I’ve never known quite what to say)

Well , where do you see yourself in 20 years? 40 years? 50 years?

I’ve always been hazy with these imaginings. I picture me and my husband , both with white hair, our faces are fuzzy but it does appear that I am at least 100 pounds overweight.

Apparently I’m going to be fat in my old age (fat and happy I hope!).

The other thing is that I always imagine that I have grown children… with children of there own. I have to actively remove them from my little picture. When I do it seems a little empty.

I have made peace with my decision.

The pitter patter of little feet will be from Oscar (my little dachshund). Or rather Oscar IV or V or something…

What happened to Compassion?

2009-11-02T09:29:00.002-08:00

I used to make it a regular practice to buy at least one thing every time I went to the grocery store, that I would put into the food bank bin.

I would reason that someday, at some point in my life I will be in need of social services such as this. As a matter of duty I feel I should contribute now.

I am not naturally inclined to be charitable. When I say that I don’t mean to imply that I’m not generous or giving. I just mean it’s not in my nature. It’s something that I actively work at on a daily basis. In a lot of ways we live in a selfish world where each person must watch out for themselves first.

Dog eat dog.

I was out at a pub one night with some friends. The alcohol induced conversation drifted towards the state of the world. Lily, my friend who has single-handedly-decided-to-Save-The-World was getting heated about a food plight somewhere in Africa. She slammed her hand down on the table and demanded:

“Why don’t people care?”

To me the answer was clear as day:

“Lily, no one has time to care.”

I went on to explain how it’s taking up most of my energy trying to gain some control over my own illness and my own life to be able to contemplate the issues Africa is facing. My boyfriend at the time agreed and pointed out that if it wasn’t for the fact that I had diabetes, and that was something we dealt with everyday – then he wouldn’t have as much energy invested in it himself.

I’ve thought about that conversation a lot.

There are so many challenges we face in our lives. So many big, big things. So many health conditions, so many financial situations and family difficulties. Issues with lovers and stress over careers.

Big, big things.

Right now my challenge is diabetes. (Maybe it’s yours too?) Maybe it’s also my excuse.

The answer I gave to my friend was honest. But it was also shameful. We all have so much on our plates it’s hard to see beyond it.

That’s the problem.

On another day this friend of mine, Lily was lamenting on my condition. She was saying it was terrible that I’ve had to deal with all this. But maybe I could look at the good things it gave me.

I was doubtful but curious.

She said I would never have achieved such an understanding and compassion for the pain, illness, and discouragement of others any other way.

It’s a backwards gift.

But we all have it.

We all know how it feels to be afraid. To crave comfort. To feel misunderstood.

Or to feel pain. Exhaustion.

Can’t that be put to better use?

I can’t save Africa. But I can save some one.
I can listen to a friend who needs a shoulder.
I can put a can of food in the food bank.
I can smile at someone instead of frown.

I guess what I’m saying is that I can try.
I don’t want to be one of those people so consumed with their own problems they can’t see anything else. Heaven knows I’ve thrown myself enough pity-parties complete with full seasons of FRIENDS on DVD and pints of ice cream (sugar-free of course).

So no more pity-parties.
Well, less of them anyways.

The people around me have noticed a change. I don’t seem like a grouch anymore. I’m not always miserable. When you make an effort to help someone else who may be suffering – it makes your own a little less.

I promise you this.

Stress Is A Four Letter Word

2009-11-02T09:29:00.001-08:00

How do you handle stress?

I eat lemon cake.

Or fried chicken.

My best friend doesn’t eat at all. She loses her appetite completely.

My co-worker pops pills.

I know others who need to take a walk to calm down.

My boss turns into super woman and goes into a frenzy to accomplish a thousand things all at once.

Well, I cut back on the cake and chicken. I had to when stress is a constant daily factor. The calories really start to add up…

I read once that stress is related to 99% of all illnesses. Actually I think it’s written on my Lululemon shopping bag. It makes sense to me though. It raises our blood sugars, doesn’t it? It affects those with heart conditions, causes stomach ulcers… who knows what other bad and scary things could be happening inside our bodies due to this intangible, mysterious thing.

It’s illusive. It means different things to different people. Some people thrive on it. School stress is my motivation and I love what I can accomplish with it. Daily stress is something else though, the little things that pile up and up and up until – well… what?

Panic attack?
Meltdown?
Anxiety disorder?
Depression?

If you have had one of those things you’ve probably had another. They all hold hands together. And I know the answers are unclear. I feel like I’m just an uncertain being asking other uncertain beings how to “catch smoke” by trying to manage my stress.

So we medicate.
Sedate.
Meditate.
Contemplate.
Then medicate some more…

I’ve been told that depression can be a by-product of high blood sugars. So when our sugars run away on us, our stress levels run away with us.

Then our stress levels keep our sugars high.

It’s a tricky-sticky situation to find yourself in. But maybe we can try to , I don’t know…

Motivate?

Try to turn what stress we can into positive energy that pushes to us to achieve. And the stress we can’t? There will always be the stress we can’t change.

But there’s help for that.

Help we can get so that this type of stress doesn’t change us.

Sick Days

2009-11-02T09:28:00.000-08:00

For most of March I laid in bed. Counting down the days until my 24th birthday and watching the crack in my ceiling get longer…. And longer….

Rolling over in bed seemed hard.

Getting up to pee seemed like an extensive excursion.

Out of 20 days of work I missed 18 that month.

I had the flu.

And we all know what happens when we have the flu. Blood sugars sky rocket. Uncontrollably. Which in turn keeps us sick and makes it hard to recover.

Which keeps our blood sugars uncontrollably high.

And ‘round and ‘round we go…

I didn’t go to the doctor right away. I mean, who goes running to the doctor the minute they get a sniffle? No, we wait until we realize that it’s not getting better on it’s own. Right? Plus there was the added difficulty that I was so tired and sick and out of breath that making it down the hall to the bathroom was near impossible, never mind all the way to my doctor’s office.

But I wasn’t getting any better. So eventually I did go to the doctor. Because I had to.

My GP is very good. He was the one who initially realized I was diabetic. He’s intuitive. His administration girls are very nice. He always gives me what I need.

But I hate going there.

It’s the way he makes me feel when he comes into the “little” room. Like he is the parent and I am the naughty child. I have always done something wrong.

Very tall and intimidating, he looks down his nose and asks me how my blood sugars have been.

“Fine!” I squeak

He gives me the Eye.

“Good, in fact!” I lie.

He looks at me like he knows darn well I’m not being truthful but can’t very well sit there and argue with me. Not very doctorly.

If I had a tail, it would be between my legs.

On this particular visit I am once again in trouble. Apparently I should have come in right away instead of waiting two and a half weeks of illness to go to the doctor. He might as well be wagging a finger at me. I tried shamefaced to explain about not wanting to come in for every little cold… but that weak argument was silenced when he told me that the reason for this was because since I had waited so long I had now developed an infection (infections again!!) in my lungs.

Pneumonia!

I was floored. I mean, I’d know I was sick but pneumonia?! I had no idea I was that sick.

I left the doctor’s that day with 2 prescriptions and a lecture on pneumonia prevention.

Now whenever I sneeze or cough my family jokes about how I should call the doctor right away or I’ll be in trouble. (oh so funny. Everybody’s a comedian.)

Actually my throat is feeling a bit dry right now.

It might be strep.

Maybe I’d better leave a message for my doctor just in case…..

Hey, listen to me!

2009-08-18T11:13:00.000-07:00

There are some ancient medical practices that in today’s scientific times seem ludicrous, dangerous, and in extreme cases: positively barbaric. I’ve watched movies that take place in an age when all illnesses were believed to be carried through the blood. Their natural thought pattern led them to then drain as much blood from the patient as possible in order to rid them of whatever their affliction was.

It makes me wonder how many of these poor people died of blood loss rather than whatever it was that made them sick in the first place.

Did you know they used to use mercury to treat wounds and other ailments (seriously!) or that heroine was often used to cure coughs (interestingly this actually works, of course you may die…). Lobotomies were used to “cure” depression and mental illness (nothing like another hole in the head…).

It seems laughable.

Doctors would never use such outdated ideas today. As medical research advances, I’d like to think that it filters down to us as patients. I’d like to think that our Doctors and nurses make changes to their regimes and policies as new and (hopefully) improved medical information becomes available.

Well, we all hope that, don’t we?

A few weeks ago I woke up with pain…. down there. An all too familiar type of pain. My heart plummeted into my stomach – I was so scared to look… I took a peek and – lightning split the sky, thunder roared in my ears, dogs began an unearthly howl, birds fell from the sky and none of that really happened but I would have taken any of those things in exchange for what was actually the case.

An abscess.

Again.

It was on the surface this time, and small as far abscess’ go. But painful enough to not allow me to sit up. And the bigger it grew; walking was becoming more and more tricky as well. I packed a little overnight bag: extra clothes, toothbrush, book, snacks. I knew the drill. Off to the hospital.

*Sigh* here we go again.

It was the same sort of thing as every other infection hospitalization I have had. Young attractive, male intern-doctor…and a horrible horrible embarrassing extremely vulnerable situation. Wow, ladies… if it’s the young hot doctor thing that does it for you… get yourself an infection. And then maybe a salon appointment on your way in. And smile a lot despite intense pain…. Hah… anyways…

Due to the area and sensitive nature of my “issue” as I will now refer to it as, I was moved up to the Woman’s Hospital … aka- Gyno. Nice and quiet there, nurses were actually to be commended. I had some I felt went out of their way to help me when I got upset. And I really appreciate the little things, like handwashing my pants when I stained them due to my wound and got very upset. Thank you for that.

I was inspected (OW. With inspecting abscess’ everything is ow.)
I was poked for blood often.
Given morphine. (pain was bad. Could not move easily)
Poked more.
Prodded a little
More blood taken.
Hooked up to pumps for dehydration and antibiotics to get RID of this stupid thing on me that is inconveniencing my life.
Inspected again (Ow.)

I basically had to wait this one out in the hopes that antibiotics would take care of it. I was under constant scrutiny because my sugars were all over the place – like I was doing this on purpose. Like I had sugar cubes hidden under the mattress or something. I had not anticipated a lengthy hospital stay and did not have my own insulin with me. At the mercy of the institution. At the mercy of despair.

This is where the story gets dicey.

They had put me on an insulin sliding scale. Sadly I did not understand exactly what that meant for me at the time. Basically if my blood sugars read between 0 and 8 I am not allowed any insulin, between 8 and 12 and they give me a set X amount, etc.

I bet you can already see how this is going to be a problem…. Can’t you?

At 2:00am, the middle of the night I woke up starving so I wheeled my pump down to the vending machines and bought a bag of Cheetos. I then took my Cheetos and wheeled my silly-beepy-pump to the nurse’s station to get some insulin so I could eat my Cheeto-goodness.

They asked what my sugar level was.

7.2 I said proudly.

Nope. Not allowed to have insulin.

….‘K-what?

Since I was in the 0-8 range I was not allowed insulin, I was informed. At first I didn’t think they understood. Yes, I was good now… but I wanted to eat Cheetos. Didn’t they get that I needed insulin to do that?

Nope not allowed, said the nurses. I could eat my Cheetos, then in an hour or so they would come check my sugars and give me insulin to bring it back down. So I was supposed to continually let my sugar get very high in order to get my insulin to bring it back down? I was told yes. I was told that was how they always do it.

Whaaaaaat…?

Is something wrong with this picture? Please, my fellow diabetics… write to me and tell me what you think of this.

Well at that time, even through my drug-induced haze, I was sure this lunacy must have been some kind of weird mistake. That seriously couldn’t be what they “always” do with diabetics… make them ill on purpose? It just didn’t make any sense. But I didn’t want to fight about it. I just wheeled my way back to my room and decided I just wouldn’t eat until I could get insulin and speak to somebody with sense.

I was very upset.

A little while later the overnight doctor came to see me, I guess having heard about my dispute with the nurses. She asked me what ‘my problem was’ (literally).

When I explained to her my issues with the Cheetos and the nonsensical sliding scale, I was again told that was how it was always done. I told her that was wrong. I told them that would make my sugars yo-yo, which was just wrong. I knew I needed to keep my sugars more stable, lower, if I ever expected my infection to heal.

The fight that ensued was neither professional nor practical. I had not intended to get into it with her… fighting with doctors never accomplishes anything, they mostly have the attitude that they are always right (even if they are not). But I did feel provoked and spurred on by my own internal self-righteousness. She was disrespectful and sarcastic, implying that I did not know how to carb-count (as if it was some impossible thing no one could do) and kept challenging me to carb-count things and demanding to know how much insulin I would take for different hospital foods. She kept saying “Prove it! Prove it!”

It was such an unnatural, strange experience. By the end I had to tell her to leave, repeatedly because I was so upset. Finally she did.

I did not eat.

I was enraged. I knew I’d been right in trying to administer preventative insulin, instead of only corrective. The next morning the doctor I’d been admitted under came to see me. I guess news of my fight had gotten around. After telling her my views and the basic play by play of what had happened, she told me I had been right – that she did not agree with the sliding scale and assured me she would speak to that gynecologist-doctor that had fought with me and the nurses from the night before.

It felt a bit better that someone had listened to me. That someone had taken my side.

The doctors and nurses within our healthcare system are generally caring, intelligent people. They’re here to help us and guide us. They do an amazing job.

But there comes a time when we need to take responsibility for ourselves, for our own bodies and healthcare. We carb-count everyday, we dial our own insulin, inject our own shots. And we are knowledgeable and capable. If something doesn’t feel or sound right to you, you have the right to ask and speak for yourself. After leaving the hospital I did my own research. What really was a sliding scale? Why were they using such a system that seemed so contradictory to what I’d been taught?

First I realized that there is more than one kind of sliding scale. Endos sometimes use them in patients individual night time long acting insulin regimes… the type I was more interested in was when they use them to treat diabetic patients in hospitals. The results I found were interesting and shed some light on my weird hospital stay.

It seems it is generally agreed amongst the endo-community that this is an old, outdated, and cringe worthy process. It is spoken of the “lazy” way to take care of a diabetic in hospital. It’s an “easy” way for the attending doctor to leave a simple guideline for nurses to administer insulin without the need for “complicated” checking, analysis, and calculating of proper insulin needs. It takes the need for the doctor out of the picture by leaving it up to the nurse. And it ups the risk for the patient by astronomical proportions – depending on their reason for hospitalization in the first place of course. It does not take into consideration what the patient is eating or when, what their condition is, or other insulin regimes. It’s dangerous, to put it bluntly. It is reactive rather then proactive. It is shameful that this is considered common practice where I was. And what is far worse, is the way my own insight into my own condition and my own body were so quickly tuned out and disregarded. Absolutely no one took half a moment to hear what I had to say… that is until my attending came to visit me the next morning.

My nurses didn’t know better and were trying, I think, to do the right thing. .. I don’t know who or what was responsible for this sliding scale nonsense but it needs to end – now. It scares me to think of extreme yo-yo blood sugars that are completely unnecessary in a place that is supposed to be safe for us. My abscess would never have healed if I’d let that situation continue.

My urgent advice is to learn from my mistake. Have your nurse’s, your doctor’s, your endocrinologist’s (especially), phone numbers, beeper numbers… have everything with you all the time. Because I was unprepared.

I won’t be again.

If they won’t listen to you, get them in touch with those who they will listen to. It’s your body, It’s your health. Don’t let anyone disregard what you have to say.

9. Are you lovin' it?

2009-07-15T12:55:00.000-07:00

I don’t smoke.
I rarely have a drink.
I don’t really have any substance abuse problems at all.

Except maybe one….. Mcdonalds.

It’s awful isn’t it? Makes your stomach churn? I know. I find that people have a love/hate relationship with this fast-food chain. You love it, or you hate it. Am I right?

I love it.

And I hate it.

I eat McDonalds often (far more often than I should), and no matter what I order it’s so awesome when I am stuffing my face with the glorious greasiness, and then the worst thing ever the literal second I am finished. Oh my stomach hates it. And yet I still go back… time after time. I can’t stop myself…

I have a thing for McDonald’s breakfast (and I know I’m not the only one…).

Carb-tastic.

I order the Bacon + Egg bagel-with-no-egg. I swear I feel like an absolute moron every time I order it, but hey, they always know what I mean. What can I say, I am allergic to eggs (I had a friend who recently converted to vegetarian-ism and now orders cheeseburgers with no meat… I thought it was so funny until I learned that McDonalds actually has a button for that on their cash register! Crazy.) I also find that the more you go, the more you want it.

It is so addictive.

It was a blow when I had to take the “egg” part of it out. Just awful. I watch other people eating eggs around me and it actually makes me mad sometimes. It was such a perfect no-carb food. In the beginning I was so upset about it that I refused to stop eating them ( oh me and my Denial…) was that ever not worth it. I get so sick. But we are all sort of in the same boat, aren’t we? Do you eat sugar-full ice cream? If you don’t… does it sometimes make you mad that you feel like you can’t? Well, maybe ice-cream isn’t your thing… but everyone must have a vice of some kind. It’s true that it’s not really fair.

That’s the thing about fast-food. It’s fast. I work full time, I have class all night two nights a week, I have a study partner another night and tons and tons of homework. And family, and friends and my own projects, and my dog. That’s only my normal-person stuff. I also have to check sugars what feels like every five seconds and calculate insulin and inject and carb count and sheesh! Who has time for it all? And on top of it we are supposed to cook well and eat well and exercise. It can get to be too much….

Who could resist a drive through when you’re rushed and starving and don’t have the ability to cook healthy meals for the next couple of days after school at 10pm? The yellow arch all glowing and omnipresent sure starts to look good.

For some reason I can never seem to get the insulin-to-gross-McDonalds-food ratio quite right. I guess that’s my biggest problem with it right now. That, and that I need to just eat less of it in general. I have accepted that McDonalds will probably always be my “problem”, but that if I cut back, it may be less detrimental. It’s not that I don’t like healthy foods, because I do. In fact I eat better than most people I know. I just like UNhealthy foods much better.

I’m still lovin’ it….

8. He's just not that into...Diabetes.

2009-07-15T12:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve recently been through a difficult breakup. During our two and a half years together, through ups and downs… one common factor has always been my, often poor, health.

Unfortunately chronic illness takes it’s toll not only on the ones afflicted, but of course everyone surrounding them, including and predominantly significantly others. The ones we love most.

It can be such a difficult decision to be with someone at all. We bring baggage into a relationship automatically. We suffer … and our lovers suffer with us. We have depression and our mates are at a loss as to how to comfort us. It is not an easy life we offer them.

And so the ones we love… do we hold on to them, build lives with them, and a “forever”? It’s been a constant debate in my mind. When you love someone you naturally want what is best for them. Maybe being with some one sick is not the best life we can offer them. Maybe it isn’t fair to them.

But maybe being sick isn’t fair to us.

And you know I don’t necessarily mean physically sick. My mental health has occasionally been shaky. Depression can be incapacitating. Anxiety limits you.

Are we limiting ourselves with these things?

Dating is hard. Love takes work. Throw illness and the insecurities it brings into the mix and maybe it’s impossible. Your significant other has a tall order to fill.

Not only to potentially have to take care of our physical need should something go wrong, but they need to be a support system in every other way as well. They need to truly understand illness. If someone has never had an affliction, never had an immediate family member with one, that is tough to do.

Among other things, try as we might, my relationship could not withstand this test. But I’m hopeful. I have the potential to live and love and build a life. I have a fantastic life to offer.

I don’t want to date because I’m scared of bringing someone knew into my chaos.

I don’t want to be alone and single.

Unfortunately there is no third option.

Is there?

Well there IS Oscar. My dachshund puppy. My little man. He listens to me. He cuddles with me. He will go for walks and adventures with me and share my popcorn. That’s almost as good. Right?
…..
…..right?

7. Hospitals

2009-04-20T07:50:00.001-07:00

How many of us have not had a hospital stay? Those of you who haven't, have at least been to a hospital... in this age of sickness and ill health.... who hasn't?

They have a smell. Don't they? And it's always the same. It smells like sick. And a little institutional. Like palpable despair. Sadness so thick you could cut through it with a knife. Sick institutional despair.

Pleasant.

What folks don't know about are the funny smells that attack when you live in the hospital for a week. Or two. When you have hospital visits every few months (almost like clockwork). And you sleep there. And you eat there. And you attempt to wash there. The pumps... the beeping... the needle pricks... the noise.

There is the washrooms with a shower head, that have no discernable shower, just a drain in floor. It helps when you have a pump and hose attached to your arm (or two... as I have had the pleasure of dealing with) and have to pull some Circe-de-Soleil-ish moves to get yourself in there without ripping your arm(s) open. But it also has the audacity to make you feel like your in prison. Not that I have been to prison per se. Just from what I see on HBO the shower rooms are not really rooms at all but just large open areas with the said drains in the floor. They have this standardized pump soap that is soap/shampoo/conditioner-and-antibacterial all in one. Very convenient! It has a nice flowery smell actually.

The problem is that flowery smell can attack you out of nowhere when you least expect it. Long after you have left the Sick Institutional Despair, on a nice summer day outside you can be walking your dog, happy as a clam (where did that expression come from anyway? Do you think clams are happy? That they lead happy-little-contented lives? With those irritating grains of sand that bother them and make them create beautiful precious pearls for us?) when BAM your neighbor has planted the wrong flowers in their garden and the smell suddenly brings back raging memories of Sick Institutional Despair and the day is not beautiful anymore. Now your thinking of prison showers, being poked with needles, and disturbing blue gowns that show your bum when you stand up.

If you ask anyone about hospitals, the first thing they think of is the Food. Hospital Food is an entity in itself. I actually don't mind the Food myself. It's the most exciting part of the hospital day! 3 meals in bed. What could be better? Brought on a tray, as much coffee as you like. And they always gave me pudding. Not too shabby.

Even despite the fantastic culinary delights, the hospital is still not a great experience. In fact I couldn't think of a single decent memory of the hospital until last week. It was always a horrible place, but I am still surprised that I overlooked this one thing....

My best friend had her baby. A beautiful tiny girl. All pink and perfect. And when I went to visit her in the hospital I walked in and smelled that familiar Sick Institutional Despair, but it didn't effect me the same. I was just so happy! And it made me think that maybe this place isn't really meant to be the awful prison it seems. The health care workers are there to help us, to return us from sickness to health and to deliver to us new lives.

What could be more encouraging than that?

6. My Story

2009-01-19T09:14:00.000-08:00

I suppose it's time to tell my story, the one that led me to this place, to this part of my life. It occurred to me recently that no one really knows how it all happened... How this chaos factor entered my existence....

19 years old and in my very own first apartment. The first space that was all my own! It was thrilling. It was exhilarating.... it really wasn't that great of a place. It was a large bachelor apartment in a rundown brick building. My specific unit was relatively well kept and clean, but the building itself was... less than ideal. Horrific yelling in the halls was common and occasionally a drunk that hadn't quite made it into his apartment was found lying outside it asleep. There was no buzzer, no security. But it was mine! For the first time in my life I was doing it on my own. That more then made up for the less than stellar conditions. I wore my rose colored glasses and just thought... no, knew everything was going to be fine. Great, even.

The difficulty is that I cannot cook. I don't want to cook.... I do not enjoy cooking. So after 19 years of beautiful, tasty and cleverly disguised healthy cooking from my mother.... I began a diet of Kraft Dinner, instant-anything, and McDonalds (which was a decent hike down the road... and therefore my excuse for eating it: the "healthy" walk on the way to and from). Yum. The pounds slowly crept up and up and up. I also began working in a breakfast restaurant mistakenly believing that the running around all day would somehow counteract the greasy food I would eat there. I knew my body was young and resilient and could withstand this moderate abuse. I mean... I didn't smoke.... I didn't do drugs... I didn't even drink very often. And I reasoned with myself that I did see vegetables... in my burgers or in the teeny side salads I would get with my tuna melt after work.

It's funny that I didn't see what was happening before I could stop it.

Suddenly I was sick all the time. I always had the flu. I always had a head cold or some weird illness that made me miss work. I figured my immune system was dragging a bit. I started taking one-a-day vitamins.

I still ate fried chicken and Taco Bell (my all time favorite) all the time. I was taking vitamins now! I had my health covered (right?).

I do admit that I found the weight gain frustrating (what young woman wouldn't?) but even that was no deterrent for my lifestyle. Then it was like I got hit by a bus: I contracted Mono. What a doozy! It is nothing like being sick with the flu! My neck swelled in weird places and I couldn't eat anything for weeks at a time except Ginger ale and freezies (I recommend those if you are ever in a similar position... It was the only thing I could keep down!). I waited it out... bed ridden and miserable.

My clearest conclusion of that time is that I had weakened my immune system enough with the lack of nutrients that my body just couldn't stand up well to being sick anymore.

Gradually I recovered from my sick-induced haze. I will spare you anymore details, but in short: I got better. It was so startling and thrilling to be able to just choke down a sandwich again! Yesssss!

It was on the road to recovery that it happened: lightning struck.

I was sick again! But why? It was so strange. I was weak and confused. I couldn't stop drinking water. I would finish a liter and fill up the bottle again, drink it and immediately fill it and drink it all again. It scared me. Other people who knew no better were encouraging me that being able to drink lots of water was a good thing. I tried to believe them but it just did not seem natural. Drinking and peeing was all I could do. And I was ravenously hungry. I ate enough for three sumo-wrestlers every meal (or so it felt like at the time). Food food food water water water. And instead of gaining more weight... I was losing weight. It just dropped off. That part seemed too good to be true! (I bet this stuff is starting to sound oh-so-familiar... isn't it?) But I couldn't gain strength... and was struggling for breath all the time... panting like a dog. I was getting frightened... But I didn't know the signs. I had never heard of the signs of diabetes before. How could I know?

It all grew to a climax when I woke up one morning and did not have the strength and energy to roll over in my bed. I felt chained to the one spot... I knew then that I was really sick. Something was so very wrong. I reached for my phone and called my dad. I was whisked to my family doctor.... He seemed to poke and prod at my tummy for a bit. Then he uttered the words I don't think I will ever forget: “You are much sicker than you think you are"

I was rushed to emergency. Slapped into a wheel chair... tags on my wrists... the nurses were checking my blood sugar for the first time... that was an interesting experience...especially since I had no idea what they were doing... Yelling numbers to each other that meant nothing to me 17.9???? What??? Nobody seemed to have the ability to slow down enough to explain anything.

You would think all of this would be enough to concern me. But it didn't. I was just tired. I slept through the emergency room. Every half an hour or so they would come in, wake me up and take more blood. And more blood. And more blood. I wasn't scared anymore. Just annoyed as heck. Why wouldn't they just let me sleep? I was in a training hospital. So every so often people I thought were doctors would come in and tell me "looks like diabetes." and then someone else would come "well no we don't know it's diabetes." the constant back and forth information was making my head swim. I mean, they had taken like half the blood in my body to test.... shouldn't they know by now?

After a day or two in hospital (my memories of the time passing were hazy at best. I slept most of the time) the diagnosis was certain. Type 1 diabetes. My "team" (as you always have a “team” in a training hospital) didn't quite know what to do with me. I was 20 years old. None of these young doctors had heard of type 1 popping up in someone so old... they led me to believe that this was rare to the point of "unheard of". I sat in my bed glaring at them all thinking to myself "what a way to use up my "one in a million chances" of something. Couldn't have been 649? Oh no:.... diabetes...." Ha.

The experiences from that first week long hospital visit that stick out the most, first of all was that they never seemed to have time to speak to me during the day. It was always 3 in the morning or some such nonsense when some super-good-looking young doctor would come in wake me out of my groggy slumber and ask me a questionnaire. The questions were always the same, the doctor was always young and attractive, and they never failed to ask me (while I was sleepy and embarrassed as it was) about not only what I considered to be pertinent information such as my family history of diabetes (there is none. I am the first in all immediate AND extended... which is why I refer to it as lightning), but also about things like sexual history. Sexual history... like seriously... what?? I can vaguely remember sitting there thinking: is this a joke? A stupid joke? Or am I deluded? Diabetes is not a sexually transmitted disease... IS IT? Keep in mind I was always barely awake during these sessions.

The second experience that sticks out is the "diabetes education" that I received during this week long life-altering ordeal. I had a nurse I had to go visit and a dietician. My dietician was very informative and attempted to be helpful. My nurse was difficult and I remember feeling like an ignorant idiot most of my time there. I remember those sessions being the only time I wanted to cry. I did learn the basics, like needles and simple insulin information. But I also found out later about some gross misinformation that was given to me there, and some important things that were not included... I learned about keytones of course. But the significance of them was lost on me. Nobody explained until a year or so into my condition that, um yes high enough blood sugars can be just as fatal as low blood sugars at a given time. That was terrifying. And even more so was the realization that I had not known this for a year.

*Just a side note here, I feel very strongly that a government directed standard diabetes education curriculum is absolutely and 100% NEEDED for new diabetics of any age, type 1 or 2. Rather than relying on the resources and discretion of each individual institution. And if I have missed my mark, and there already is such a thing... it needs to be strictly enforced, since according to my own little un-scientific research... this doesn't really exist for the adult age group.

Learning to give myself insulin was tricky. Sticking yourself with a needle just doesn’t feel natural does it? They taught me to inject the syringe into my belly into the skin around my belly button. I remember thinking that the teeny little syringe felt light and very breakable in my clumsy hand. And it took a looong time holding that stupid thing before I could work up the nerve to actually do it. My friend was sitting there waiting for me to do it. It took her finally getting exasperated and spitting out “Just do it already!” before I gulped down a lungful of air (as if it would be my last) and plunged the tiny needle into my stomach. I laughed. I didn’t even feel it! Though it still took me like, half an hour to work up the nerve to do it every single time in my first couple of weeks. My friend was encouraging. She said something to me that day in the hospital that I will always remember: “You just do what you gotta do. You just do it.” (Ha, that sounds like a Nike ad, doesn’t it? Well it’s still true.)

During that week I learned that, while they cannot prove it conclusively, they strongly believe that it was my Mono that triggered my body to attack my pancreas wrongly... causing my diabetes. Apparently it is common (I use the word "common" extremely loosely here) for a virus to trigger this condition. Not everyone knows about this possibility. That is a little scary to me. Because when I trace it back in my head I wonder had the McDonalds, the instant food, the Kraft Dinner... the malnutrition... if I had taken care of myself then... would I have contracted Mono as a result of a poor immune system? And if not, would lightning have struck?

5. A Letter to Caregivers

2008-12-15T07:01:00.000-08:00

We are often stressed.
Grouchy.
Angry.
Hormonal.
Depressed.

We have ups and downs, we get frustrated. We feel misunderstood and pushed to the limits of sanity.
It shows in our bodies, our diaries, our ability to sleep, and our road rage.

But nowhere does it show as greatly as on our caregivers.
Unfortunately it is the ones that love us the most who suffer as much as we do from this condition that ails us. I think everyone can agree that Diabetes has just as strong (or more) an effect on our minds as our bodies, and I think it is often overlooked how much damage can be done to those around us as well. Stress and worry comes with the package. Most type 1 diabetics were diagnosed as small children (though from what I understand, that is starting to change). Parents and loved ones shoulder the hurt and confusion for us, as we slowly grow up learning and adapting to this lifestyle.

My mum is a natural worrier. I was raised with her waiting up for me at night when I went out. With her giving me advise from Oprah and Dateline... the TV programs informing us on how many predators there are out there preying on us. I look both ways and never leave my drink unattended.

I was diagnosed as an adult. But my mother still worries. And so do the others around me who care for me. Who help me when I am sick. Who looked after me for years when I did not look after myself. We resent their intrusiveness and get exasperated with their worry. They in turn, do not understand our frustration or why this disease is difficult. To many, it should be as simple as checking, eating, injecting.

We know, don't we? That it is so much more than that.
I suppose this is my message to you caregivers.

We often need time. I did. I needed time to realize that I didn't want to live that way... with high blood sugars. I didn't want to live sickly. I had so much more to achieve in life than that sick condition would allow. I needed time to realize that my rebellion towards all who questioned me about my food choices and my blood sugar and my insulin, was hurting myself and them... for what? What?

To pretend I was independent.

Dear caregiver, be patient. Be gentle. But always, always be persistent. Scaring with stories of consequences is pointless I will tell you. Yelling or lecturing with: "Fine! Go ahead and lose your feet!" and such is counterproductive. You don't want them to give up! Or feel that there is no point to trying! Being inspiring, and supportive is your most difficult quest. I think most people live and thrive against all odds, we can too! But not without help. Your help.

This little letter was inspired by my caregivers who not only faced my opposition and rebellion on a daily basis, but also my wrath, and my depression. My mother wanted me to let every caregiver out there know what is necessary. That we need time to come to terms with this ourselves, and hope that our bodies can withstand our self inflicted pain long enough to let our minds catch up with acceptance.

Here's to you.

ttyl!

4. What's the Skinny?

2008-12-03T07:42:00.000-08:00

I used to be overweight. I had a lovely pear-shaped body inherited directly from my mum. Good child-bearing hips. A healthy figure. God I can't tell you how us women hate that term. It suggests "large" in our poor, advertising-adulterated minds (think a "healthy appetite" or a "healthy size" of anything). I admit my girl friends and I speak often about calorie-counts, diets, muffin tops (you know what I mean right? When the excess skin or fat pushes out a bit above the waist of your jeans?), bloating, and the way clothes fit. Diabetes took care of my weight "issues". Before I even realized it I had shrunk down to practically a wisp. Not only did I not have any fat anymore, I had no muscle either. My years of uncontrolled sugars kept me abnormally thin. I got used to seeing myself that way.

Women put themselves and each other under extreme pressure and scrutiny. I think my perception of normal became very warped. Have you ever seen an episode of "America's Next Top Model"? I had somehow decided that the sharp angles of those bodies were what I should be. A lot of it was subconscious. There is a line in the movie: "The Devil Wears Prada" that goes like this:
Andy: So none of the girls here eat anything?
Nigel: Not since two became the new four and zero became the new two
Andy: Well, I’m a six…
Nigel: Which is the new fourteen.

It's funny right? It's also becoming true. Take for example the Jennifer Love Hewitt fiasco. I don't know if you heard about this, but the gist was that some "unflattering" photos were taken of her in her bathing suit at the beach. She did not look like a runway model. She looked.... well, in my opinion she looked great. She was smiling. She was laughing. Playing in the water. I know this has been said already, but why couldn't she be admired for being happy? Admired for having a good time with her partner? I was envious of her apparent happiness in a good-for-you-I wish-it-was-me kind of way. Then the atrocious gossip began. It was shameful. Nobody is perfect... It is an impossible and impossibly childish cycle. We ridicule those in the public eye who are not perfect in our high opinions. AND we ridicule those who are. Because of jealousy, insecurity, and who knows what else.

The two most common and well known eating disorders are anorexia and bulimia. I have been witness to both and they damage the heart as well as the body. Those who succumb to these awful disorders live in a constant state of anxiety and failure. They feel as though they are failing themselves when they eat, and they are failing others if they don't. It is hard to imagine for anyone, as each case is different and differently difficult. It seems now though that a new and even more deadly strain of eating disorder has emerged. Primarily in young women with diabetes. Skimping or skipping insulin doses to avoid the potential weight gain they may bring after eating is becoming more and more prevalent. It is easy to see why. I myself would be lying if I said I had never done this in the past.

It can seem like an easy solution to eating what you want and maintaining or achieving a slim figure. Unlike anorexia, which depends on deprivation, which is nearly impossible, and saving yourself from the uncomfortable feeling of purging your stomach after a large meal, skipping insulin could seem like a good idea. Please hear me when I say that it is not.

In the world of Diabetes, we already have a slight obsession with food. We are already carb counters. We already know the calories and fiber and fat intake of everything. We already plan our meals and think about the sugars and count count count. All the fabulous early behavior of the two biggest eating disorders out there. Where do we stop? Where do we draw that line that divides us from obsessive compulsive behavior that takes us into the realm of "disorder" and makes this all UNhealthy in our strives to be healthiER?

It's vague. Dietitians, nutritionists, our GP, everyone.... will say "Hey you can do this, it can be simple and here is how..." But the ugly truth is that it often is not simple, and not everyone succeeds in managing it. I know, the idea of maintaining a certain figure or number on the scale is hypnotizing. Ahhh... but so is food... right? I love food. In fact I would put myself in the category of an emotional eater. Most people think of emotional eaters as those who are depressed and "eat their feelings". That's not really what it is. It's eating for any emotion. Yes, I want chocolate when I'm sad. But I also want it when I'm happy. When I want to celebrate....well, anything. When I miss my friends. When I am bored. When I am so frustrated. When I am comfortable and content. In fact the only emotional state I can think of that may not warrant celebratory OR conciliatory eating must be when I am distracted. And that's not really because I do not want to eat, it's just because I haven't thought of it. I guess that's what leads to my own weight gain.

Even this morning, The Scale and I had a pretty extreme argument.

We argue a lot actually.

That's usually when I am tempted to skip my morning insulin. Just to fit in to my skinny jeans a bit better (with less muffin-top haha). Then I have to mentally slap myself. I have a little mantra and tell myself severely: "Enough is enough, Angela." I don't like to use scare tactics on myself. I don't like to think of outrageous diabetic complications that are really not that outrageous at all but rather very real. Scaring myself generally would not be productive, and could lead to panicking myself unnecessarily. But sometimes that little nudge of "what if..?" is just what I need. What if something awful happens because I don't take my insulin this time in an effort not to gain an extra pound? You probably read my infection story.... not all diabetic complications are far away. Some of them can be immediate. Ick.

And so what is a food-loving-diabetic to do to stay healthily slim? I admit I am generally a lazy person when it comes to exercise. So let me rephrase: what is a lazy-food-loving-diabetic to do?
I had to grudgingly admit to my remaining option: The Gym. (If I thought my arguments with The Scale were bad....)

So I joined The Gym. I have decided The Gym is a male entity. He woo-ed me with gifts (a free gym bag and healthy living self-help book). He boasted a good time and fun activities (Yoga and martial arts-style classes), but I fear once the honey-moon phase is over that this relationship may become tedious. I am determined however. I will make this relationship work.... like with a man (or woman, depending on who you are): a little give-and-take, a little work, and a little self sacrifice and I will get what I want out of it.

I went the first time last night in fact. I swallowed my self-consciousness, put on my sweats and jumped on a bike. I set the controls for First Level, Random setting, 15 minutes. Easy right? I mean, I used to ride my bike all over in the summer. This couldn't be much different. HA!

1.45 minutes into my "workout" and I thought I would die. What was I thinking?

Have you seen Bridget Jones’ Diary? The scene when she's on the stationary bike and is going so hard she pretty much falls off? Yea that was me after 10 minutes. Suddenly that movie seemed a lot less funny.

I kept going though. I have a friend who is a personal trainer. She suggested going slow at first. Like 30 minutes a few times a week for cardio exercise and maybe one yoga class. I managed the 30 minute workout I am proud to say. Stepping off the treadmill at the end was like stepping out of a space shuttle after a moon landing. My legs didn't seem to know how to work right on solid ground. I must have looked ridiculous. 30 minutes may not seem like a lot, but for me... someone who has been very sedentary for so long because of my uncontrolled diabetes, it was a miracle. I literally bounced out of there at the end (even despite my moon-landing legs).

I am still not used to the size of my body now. I am not overweight by any means. I just got used to being a size 3, I got used to looking bony. I got used to having no energy, having to psyche myself up for climbing the front stairs to the house because the first stair was a bit bigger than the normal size (seriously... if I had a bag of groceries or something I would put it down to haul myself up by the railings because I couldn't walk up the three stupid stairs with my leg power alone. How sad is that?) Some of my favorite clothes don't fit anymore and that's annoying.

But I can now do something that I haven't been able to do in years: I can run in the park with my dog. It's exhilarating. I'd forgotten just how good that feels.

Oscar, the man in my life, my little min-dachshund, he's pretty thrilled too.

ttyl!
sugar.free.Ang

3. The Screaming Hyena

2008-12-03T07:36:00.000-08:00

I think one of the toughest things I went through (and continually go through) is the incomprehension of the complexities of my condition from those around me. It's an isolated feeling. Sometimes very lonely. I always knew there were many other young people going through the same things, but finding them, speaking to them...was near impossible. I suppose that is why I wanted to be involved in this project. Since I wish there had been something like this to turn to when I was diagnosed, when I was really struggling. Just knowing that other people are dealing with this as well might have helped me.

I have mentioned before, I refused to take care of myself for the first few years. This naturally led to some ridiculous complications. The worst of which were by far the infections:

I guess it started off as a small pain in my rear end. Sitting at work suddenly became uncomfortable, then painful, and finally unbearable. I had no idea what was wrong... it was not an area of the body that is easily visibly accessible. As you might guess, getting someone else to check it out for me was out of the question. So I endured as long as possible (looking back, that maybe wasn't the smartest move. Early detection is the best thing possible in these cases). Finally I couldn't take it anymore and went to the doctor.

I thought at the time, as a 21 year old young woman, that lying on my side on an examination table dressed in a gown made out of paper, and squeezing my eyes shut as my doctor poked around that sensitive area with clinically cold hands, that that had to be the worst experience I could possibly have to endure.

Whoo-boy.

Fast forward 6 hours, to me at the hospital in another fancy paper gown, being poked by multiple clinically-cold hands. My hospital of choice (and the best in the city, in my sort-of-expert opinion) just happens to be a training hospital. So instead of enduring one stranger peeking near my privates, I was lucky to have my very own TEAM! A whole team of interns, and I get to help facilitate their learning experience.

Fantastic.

I rethought my first judgment of "the worst experience I could possibly have to endure"

It turned out I had an abscess. A pocket of infection under the skin. It needed "emergency surgery" I had to wait about 36 more hours for a free operating room. Until then they continued to check up on me. There's nothing quite like having to drop your pants every 20 minutes or so for the next group of strangers to have a "look-see".

It's a humbling experience.

The surgery was the easy part. What I had not realized, and was horrified to discover, was that in cases such as this, the wound needs to be packed with gauze so that it does not just refill with infection (this is a little gross I know...). This packing needs to be taken out and re-packed with clean gauze so that the wound heals from the inside out.

Can you imagine the effect this has on a raw wound? For any out there who have been through this, you have my deepest condolences.

Two days after the surgery they decide is when they are going to change the packing. About 20 members of my team cram themselves into my hospital room. The feeling radiating from them is ominous. Ominous and curious. One of the lucky ones gets to do the procedure herself.

I should tell you now that I'm a suck for pain. A total wimp.

I'm watching them prepare some equipment to do this and I'm sweating through my gown. Sweating through my bed sheets, I see my intern and my nurse pull out a long toothpick-looking thing they would be using to stuff the clean gauze back into me after removing the old gauze and come to the (correct) conclusion that this is not going to be good.

I reluctantly role onto my side and reason with myself that they at least have to remove the old gauze, I mean, they can't leave that stuff in there forever, right? About 3 seconds later I decide that I was wrong. And that I could completely be fine with just leaving the gauze in my bum for the rest of my life!

The intern had given the gauze one hard tug, ripping out the first section of it dry. Yes... dry. Apparently they had stuffed yards of it in there.... this was only the beginning! I refused to let her do any more. Beyond all rational thought I started yelling that she needed to knock it off, because I wasn't going to let her touch me again. I think they tried to reason with me, saying that she wouldn't pull anymore without telling me first, but that they thought saturating the gauze with saline solution would help it slide out more smoothly. My nurse was busy pumping painkillers and sleep aides into my IV, but I barely noticed her.

I rolled over again to let them pour the saline, confident they would tell me before pulling again.

Not so!

Suddenly yanking the remaining string of gauze she pulled. And pulled. And pulled.

I had a friend waiting out in the hall. She described the noise that came from my room as a screaming hyena. For the rest of the week in fact, nurses would come in and tell me of concerned patients from the other side of the ward who'd heard my wails of distress.

When she yanked that gauze, going back on her promise to tell me beforehand, my rage took over. My pain took over. To my everlasting shame, I swung around and punched her. I punched her in the head actually. Luckily she'd gotten the remainder of the gauze out. It was about then that the sedatives took affect (a little late) and I fell asleep.

I heard later that because of my, um... slightly adverse reaction... they decided to forgo the normally obligatory re-packing of the incision. Therefore I was very lucky that I did not have any re infection. I healed well and aside from not being able to sit properly for awhile (my mum offered to buy me one of those inflatable seat doughnuts but I couldn't bare the embarrassment of that) life went on.

Over these years that I have lived with this disease, I've found that through their concern, medical professionals inadvertently resort to scare tactics to encourage straying diabetics to get their acts together and take care of themselves.

That is not what this is.

While I realize it could be a potentially scary story to some, what I intended it to be was just an experience of mine. Something I wanted to share, as it contributed to me. It showed me about myself. It is an attempt to sympathize with any who perhaps have also had the same misfortune.

ttyl!
sugar.free.Ang

2. Diabetes Police

2008-12-03T07:34:00.000-08:00

I went to a diabetes convention a couple of years ago. It was a huge event. Lots of guest speakers and booths. One of the speakers spoke about the Diabetes Police. Have you heard this term before?

I had an allergy test done once. I found out I was allergic to eggs. I don’t think I have ever craved an egg sandwich more than when I left the doctor’s office that day.

I think it’s human nature to want things that we cannot have. When I first got braces I suddenly wanted to chew bubble gum all the time. Why? I have never been a gum chewer in my whole life!

Do you have a well-meaning-always-has-your-best-interests-at-heart family member or close friend? You know the one: every time you take a bite you get the obligatory “should you be eating that?” The person who sneakily steals your M & M’s from your purse and replaces them with a No Sugar Added granola bar? You open your email to find 101 forwards with titles like: “FUNtastic diabetic recipes”.

For me it’s my mum.
I used to find it intensely frustrating. It made me want to rebel.
Chocolate cake! Gummy bears! Ice cream!
I’m sorry…. I CAN'T eat that?? Just watch me!
I fought against her. I had to! I couldn’t keep my sanity any other way.
If I had a headache: “Have you checked your sugar?”
If I felt ill: “What’s your blood sugars??”
If I was grouchy: “Are your sugars high? You seem irritable.” ( I can tell you, nothing makes a person irritable quicker than being called irritable. I get irritated just thinking about it actually…)

I not only fought against her…. I made myself sick fighting. Until I woke up one day and had a striking thought: “What is wrong with me?” My poor mum was worrying herself sick about me, all for this false, ridiculous, pride I had. I mean hey, if she loves me enough to put up with my stupid rebellion and still worry, and still warn me… maybe I should chill out a bit.

So I did. And I listened to her.

Not that I don’t still get irritated. Because I do (“no mom, I don’t think my hangnail has to do with my blood sugars…”) but I love her for it. Who else is going to watch my back?

ttyl
sugar.free.Ang

1. Denial

2008-12-03T07:01:00.000-08:00

According to my friends: needles are scary. Terrifying, in fact. Just pulling out my insulin pen can send some of them running. Not to me. Needles are no big deal. They weren’t even in my pre-diabetes days. My fear is much worse. Much more frightening: my meter. I have been known to make up any excuse possible to avoid checking my blood sugar. I didn’t want to know what that number was going to be. It’s like playing hide-and-seek with a little kid. You know, when they just close their eyes convinced that if they can’t see you, you must not be able to see them?

And so it was with me, playing an eternal game of hide and seek with my little glucose monitor. If I don’t see that my sugar is high, it must not be….right? Right?
I know what you’re thinking: DENIAL.
You’re right.
Hello step number two of the grieving process!

I think I skipped step number one: Shock, and went straight to Denial. The next steps were Anger and Guilt. Anger sped by (it’s hard to be angry with no one to blame) then guilt. Ohhh, every diabetic must experience the guilt. But somehow I always fell back on denial. Maybe it comes from having been diagnosed at age 20, having lived so many years without it, how could I have diabetes now?!
So I decide that I don’t. I stop checking, and the inevitable always happens… I get sick, I lose weight, I scare everyone.
I don’t even notice, but apparently my personality changes too.

“It’s so funny how everyone argues with me about everything when my sugars are high.”
What? I’m the one who’s irrational? ME? Never!

They say that the only way to conquer your fear is to face it head on. Like if you’re afraid of drowning you go in the pool and hang out in the shallow end, slowly getting deeper as your fear subsides. If you’re afraid of spiders you… I don’t know… make friends with a spider?
So I check my sugar: 22.2. Damn.
Take insulin in a blind panic.
Check sugar: 16.5 More insulin! Hyperventilate! Where’s my brown paper bag?!?
Check sugar: 10.2 Hey that’s not so bad.
Check sugar: 7.9 Safe zone. Suddenly I have no fear. The world is my oyster!
I can do anything! I love everybody! Why was I so afraid? Diabetes is a breeze!
Check sugar: 17.8 WHAT? Hyperventilate! Hyperventilate! Insulin! Insulin!
Check sugar: 8.0
Whew.

A typical day of me trying to lower my sugars, and overcome my fear. I like to think I’ve come to Acceptance. I check my sugars (still with hesitation) regularly and try to keep my panic to a minimum. I know my weakness. Sometimes it feels like that little machine has too much power, doesn’t it? But it also gives us power, to take control, to live better.

I’m also afraid of sharks.

ttyl!
sugar.free.Ang