A Pain In The...

I got a call from my sister on Wednesday afternoon. “I’m in the emergency room.”

“What, who?” I jumped all over it.

Evidently my 15-year-old niece K. was having really strong abdominal pain and had come home early from her first day of school. The nurse warned my sister it could be something serious and an hour later they were in the ER, with K. unable to walk or move.

Since abdominal pain could be caused by any number of things, they had to run a million tests to rule things out and confirm others. When the results came back around 7 o’clock that night, the verdict was appendicitis. Her appendix wasn’t perforated, but her white blood cell count was ridiculous and the surgeon on call decided the appendix had to go that very night. When they took it out, it was twice the size it’s supposed to be.

The doctor told K. that with all of this, she had to have felt some pain earlier than that day, and had probably had some form of pain for at least a week. She said she had, but didn’t really think much of it until it became bad.

She’s home now, recovering in her own bed with her mom and dad serving her hand and foot, and a gaggle of new messages on her Facebook page.

But lesson learned, at least for me. Take the pain seriously. Give it some thought, consider what it may or may not be, and if you can’t make a judgment call on what it might or might not be, ask the doctor. You can’t be brave and “not a wuss” when you’re laid up in the hospital…or worse.

As always, more to come (but not from the hospital, please)…

I'm A Busy Girl

I am, I am. I'm a busy girl. I've got a project at work I really like doing, so I'm actually working at work. I've been keeping my house in order, so that takes up a little time (I'm determined not to have to do any work over the Labor Day weekend (laundry included), so I'm trying to catch up on everything before the weekend.

Then there's the Facebook thing. I signed on a few months ago, but never put up a page. I was hoping just to be able to check in on my 15-year-old niece here and there, but it didn't work. Then I got an invite to be "friends" with my cousin. Then one from a friend in Las Vegas. Then my niece figured out I had a log in, but not a page and I was told I needed to be on there. So last week I created my Facebook page and accepted everyone's friend invitations. Then I got hooked, looking up old friends and writing on people's walls. I find it fascinating and addictive—at least for the next couple of weeks, when I'll undoubtedly emerge from the infatuation cloud. I'm proud to say I now have nine friends (this is actually a little pathetic, given that my nice has 834 or some obnoxiously high number, but it works for me). The best part is that I have almost daily contact with the niece, which is very nice.

My numbers are okay. The freakish low day continued straight through until two in the morning, when I set my alarm to check and came in with a 125; finally a number I felt comfortable with. The next day I ate a bagel (a big no-no for me) and that seemed to be the last carb boost I needed to gain control again. I went grocery shopping this weekend and stocked up on all sorts of fun 1-carb-unit foods and refilled my supplies at work and home.

Life is okay. I like okay.

As always, more to come...

This Is What I Ate:

1 small tube of red writing icing (1 carb unit)
2 yogurt Nutrigrain bars (4 carb units total)
1 Pringles snack stick pack (1 carb unit)
1 Snickers bar (2 carb units)

This is what my sugar finally climbed to when the dust settled and the crumbs cleared:

93

I have absolutely no explanation for why I went low and could not get high no matter what I ate during the last five hours. It’s just one of those frickin’ freaky diabetes episodes that can neither be explained or denied.

This is what I’m doing right now:

Waiting for the giant mountain of carbohydrates I ate to come out of wherever they’ve been hiding in my body and not showing up on my meter to enter my bloodstream. And give me a reading that’s through the roof. For which I will simply sigh and continue watching TV.

As always, more to come (but no more food, please—I’m quite full)…

All You Have To Do Is Try

All my life, I’ve been a people-pleaser. I do what I can to make other people happy, make sure they have what they need, offer favors and services to make their lives easier. It’s a role I don’t mind; I’ve never really felt taken advantage of and I like when the people around me are content and I’ve had something to do with that.

Most of my adult life, actually from about the mid-teens on, I’ve also felt the need for control. I’m fairly organized, I like to plan things. I write appointments on calendars. I have a to-do list at work. I have a house projects binder at home. I have a grocery list on my computer that I created based on how my grocery store is set up (really). I like being able to cross things off and know that I’m going to get done what needs to be done. Or if I need a piece of Scotch tape, I know which clear plastic bin it resides in among the other many clear plastic bins containing a variety of objects (tissue paper, ribbon, glue, markers, mosaic tiles, glitter, nylon wire, etc., etc., etc.).

So imagine my world coming to a screeching halt when I got the big diabetes diagnosis. Not only did I have to learn a whole new set of rules regarding eating, testing, shots and all that good stuff, but I had to learn a whole new way to deal with my ingrained behaviours.

I made a valiant attempt for several months—there was so much to learn that my mind didn’t have an extra second to process anything else. When it finally did, it went a little crazy.

At first, it was just random thoughts that would niggle at my brain and keep me up for hours. I obsessed for weeks about the water in my outside garden hose. I turned the nozzle off, but what if there was a build-up of water behind the nozzle. Where does the water go? Will it explode under my house?

Then the thoughts started doing more than keeping me up at night—they started to give me panic attacks. Minor hyperventilation, wringing of hands, the inescapable feeling that something was going to go horribly wrong even though logically, intelligently, I knew it was impossible.

Enter a brand-new therapist and Lora’s first exposure to psychology as more than a class to pass. The therapist explained to me that my panic attacks were a backlash of my behaviors trying to adjust. Control freak? Can’t be that all the time when you’re a diabetic—diabetes does what it wants and there’s just no way you can have total control over it. People-pleaser? While I could still fill my traditional role some of the time, I now had to put myself first with the diabetes—make sure I was eating when I needed to, testing when I needed to, exercising and anything else that was vital to my health.

Better living through chemistry. A phrase that I believe has been bandied about and one I came to understand after my therapist prescribed anti-anxiety meds. At first, I was reluctant to take anything. I’m a big “mind over matter” type of person and I thought I could talk myself through the panic attacks and give them less power, eventually gain control (I do love that word) over my mind. I figured out that my panic attacks were triggered by a completely illogical element—vibrations and the idea of some sort of crash or ruination happening because of them. Being completely illogical, I should be able to overcome them. Right?

At first, it was actual vibrations that got to me. If I was in the living room, and my husband was on the treadmill in the next room, I could feel the vibrations on the floor and, bam, I’d be in panic mode. Then it moved to the thought or inference of vibrations. I was watching the movie Footloose, and in the prom scene at the end, everyone stomps on the floor. The husband was watching with me when I softly said, “Oh.” He looked at me and said, “The floor on the TV is shaking.” And I said, “You got it. Panic mode.”

I tried a little self-motivation. I printed out signs on my computer that said “All you have to do is try.” I picked pretty fonts. Inspiring fonts. I printed about ten of them and hung them in various places around my house where I would continually see them. All I had to do was try to make it through the next panic attack. It didn’t work.

The final straw came when we got a new washer and dryer. I really wanted them, but had deep-seated, hidden fears that they might really bother me. The old ones were so worn out, they didn’t really cause much of a commotion.

I was sitting in the living room when the high speed spin cycle on the washing machine kicked in for the first time. It was loud (I still think the installation is a little off), and the machine shook so hard, the box of dryer sheets on top of it fell off. I’ve never had a panic attack that bad before or since then. I was sweating profusely, I was hyperventilating, my hands were raw from wringing them, my heart was beating so fast I thought it would stop, my brain was swirling and spiraling and I couldn’t quell anything. I finally had to leave the house, shut the door and sit on my back deck, crying and trying to catch my breath until the machine finished.

My next visit to the therapist, I asked for drugs.

I don’t take much—just enough to keep everything at bay. It’s not so much medication that I can’t still have a panic attack, they’re just slower to come. And if I can’t stop it through my own willpower—which I’ve gotten better at—then I have an extra special pill I can take.

I used to have a panic attack two or three times a week. Now I have one maybe once every two or three months. The last tingle of one came when the window-unit air conditioner in my bedroom made a funny noise and I jumped to the conclusion that it was about to crash two stories down into the gangway. I was already in bed, but I got up and paced back and forth in front of the air conditioner until I was sure it wasn’t making any more weird noises, and that the window was securely holding it in place. My husband also assured me that he had “really stuck that thing in there” and there was no chance it was going anywhere. I made it through without having to take the special pill and eventually fell asleep—without having to turn the air conditioner off.

I have learned how to give up some control, and to take the time I need for me, even if it means telling someone no, or doing for myself instead of for someone else. I still have my moments, but that’s what my therapist is for. (I’ve also stacked several heavy books on top of the washing machine in an effort to hold it down, and I make a serious effort to avoid the laundry room altogether after I've thrown the clothes in; I just wait until I hear the ding and enter when I know it’s safe).

I’ve taken my “All you have to do is try” signs down from around the house, except for one. I left the one hanging on the cabinet above the washer and dryer taped up. When I come downstairs in the morning, it’s the first thing I see as I hit the first floor. It’s a good reminder, a pleasant little piece of encouragement for anything I might be facing that minute, hour or day. Because no matter what’s going on, all I really have to do is try.

As always, more to come (but hopefully no panic attacks in the near future)…

I Like Them A Lot

I craved peanut butter this weekend. When I crave peanut butter, I have two choices: I can either eat peanut butter, or I can eat everything else in sight first, trying to avoid the peanut butter, then eat the peanut butter anyway. I chose to cut out the middleman (by the way, highly amusing show on ABC Family channel, The Middleman) and just go with the peanut butter right away.

I could have just had a spoonful, but that wasn’t the peanut butter I was craving. I wanted sweet peanut butter. I went with peanut butter Rice Krispie treats (yes, I made them with brand-name Rice Krispies, so I’m allowed to use the name here without fear of copyright infringement).

These are good. I like them a lot. Unfortunately, my husband is not so fond of them, so I wind up eating them all myself.

I eat them for breakfast after I exercise (it’s cereal, right?), then I eat one for lunch, then I eat a couple for dinner and go with non-carb real food for the rest of my meal. Last night I ate feta cheese and olives, then tuna mixed with Neufchatel in half a yellow pepper—and about five peanut butter Rice Krispie treats. I knew I had gone too far when I hit the third one, but just kept going, half hoping to make myself sick on them so I’d throw the rest of the container away (didn’t work). To completely avoid sugar/carb overload, I jumped on my trampoline during the commercials while I watched The Closer.

When I went to bed last night, I was 136. This is not a completely accurate number. I had just finished my last round on the trampoline, so I knew my sugar would go lower. It also hadn’t been a full two hours after my last peanut butter Rice Krispie treat, so I knew my sugar would go higher. I figured I let my body duke itself out during the night. It must’ve worked, because when I woke up, I was 86. A good number, a normal number for my morning reading.

I only have about six more peanut butter Rice Krispie treats left (I keep them in the fridge; they’re very good when they’re cold and I like them a lot. Did I mention that?), and I’m going to try to use my willpower and only eat two tonight. This may take some pro-active activity on my part; I may have to call the husband before I get home from work and have him hide the container. And, if my day goes well and is fairly annoyance and stress-free, I may just leave the container hid. If it goes badly, I may have to use the water-squirter attachment on my kitchen sink as a form of torture so he tells me where he hid the peanut butter Rice Krispie treats. (I’m still working on that whole “comfort eating” issue…).

As always, more to come (but only two more peanut butter Rice Krispie treats tonight)…

Cruise Control

I'm not ignoring my blog, diabetes, or the world in general. I'm basically on cruise control right now--sugars are good, I'm avoiding exercise by cleaning my house and my niece is due in from the 'burbs for some serious back-to-school shopping so I'm conserving and reserving my energy.

I'm sure I'll have to hit the brake or the gas soon, though, and the cruise control will shut off, so...

As always, more to come...

Graves' Disease

I’ve mentioned it here before, but just in case there are a few of you out there who don’t know what Graves’ Disease is, I thought I’d share. (Just like in first grade when I had to bring something in for show-and-tell and I completely forgot until the morning of. My mom quickly ripped out a sales flyer for kites and thus began my fear of public speaking… I digress.)

I thought I’d share because Graves’ Disease is one of those things that can go hand-in-hand with diabetes, but you don’t always hear a lot about it.

Graves’ Disease is the most common form of hyperthyroidism. It occurs “when your immune system mistakenly attacks your thyroid gland” (I quote from the MayoClinic.com Web site, because they’re so gosh-darned eloquent—and I don’t want to get any of the facts wrong).

My Graves’ Disease was discovered very shortly after my diabetes diagnosis. After the whole hospital thing and I was back living in my own life with the added bonus of insulin, I found me a regular doctor. The first thing she did was run a whole panel of bloodwork to see what else might be wrong. She noticed my levels of the hormone thyroxine were high (that’s what the thyroid gland produces) and she sent me to an endocrinologist.

Now, not only does Graves’ Disease go well with diabetes, it’s also hereditary. While no one in my immediate family has diabetes, my father does have Graves’ Disease. I was an easy mark.

The endocrinologist confirmed I was on my way to full-blown Graves’ Disease, but hadn’t arrived there yet. Before anything could be done, my thyroxine levels had to be sky-high. And this is where the fun part comes in.

I had to have blood drawn every three weeks to test what my levels were doing. This went on for five months. In the meantime, the symptoms of Graves’ Disease starting appearing. Basically, it makes your metabolism speed up like a frickin’ freight train (Footloose, anyone?). I started losing a lot of weight (even more than with the diabetes), my heartrate was going through the roof (they gave me meds to slow it down), I had an endless supply of energy and the appetite of a large Canadian moose (maybe American, I don’t know for sure).

When my levels had finally reached a place my endocrinologist declared appropriate, I drank a radiation cocktail that’s purpose was to destroy my thyroid gland. (I had to avoid babies and small animals for 24 hours because I was so radiant (note how I turned that into a positive. I was radiant, not radioactive.)) Then the fun continued.

I had to wait until my thyroxine levels dropped to nothing before they could give me meds. Again, another round of blood tests every three weeks. This time around, I was experiencing the opposite symptoms: rapid weight gain, feeling incredibly tired all of the time, no energy. I basically sat on my couch feeling crappier and crappier until about the fourth month when it was finally declared I could start on synthetic thyroxine (brand name: Synthroid). The fun continued.

They have to start you on a low dosage and gradually increase it so they can get your levels to just the right point without going too far over. Another round of blood tests, this time every four weeks. I went through three dosages before they settled on one that seemed to be working.

Now, I take a pill every single day, and will continue to take a pill every single day for the rest of my life. The thing with Synthroid (although I use the generic version, which is much, much cheaper, but I don’t happen to know its name, so I’m using “Synthroid” to make my life easier), the thing with Synthroid is that in order for it to work the most effectively, it has to be taken at the same time every day. It also has to be taken on an empty stomach, and you can’t eat for at least an hour, preferably two, after you’ve taken it. It can also mess with birth control pills.

So, given all that, and throwing diabetes into the mix, I have my alarm set for 4am in the morning. I wake up, throw back the pill, then go back to sleep. I do it this early in the morning because when I wake up, I exercise right away. If my sugar is too low, I have to eat. I can’t eat if I’ve just taken the pill, so waking up earlier allows me to eat when I’m ready to exercise. I take my birth control at night to solve that issue.

I’m down to having the thyroxine levels checked once a year, but if I’m feeling really crappy and sluggish and gaining weight without being able to lose it, then I ask for the test. It’s only happened once in the last five years and they did raise my dosage. (The dosages are color-coated and I’m now in the purple zone. It’s a pretty pill.)

So that’s my Graves’ Disease. Exciting, no? Just one of the many reasons Lora has a pharmacy permanently attached to her hip… But hey, at least I got to say I was radioactive (or radiant, depending on my mood).

As always, more to come…

Body Talk

For some reason, I couldn’t stop eating yesterday. I ate cereal right out of the box. I ate cheese sticks. I ate potato chips. I ate caramel Hershey Kisses. I ate skinny breadsticks. I ate things I don’t even remember eating—all before 1 o’clock in the afternoon.

I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I just kept gravitating toward the refrigerator and the pantry. I never ate a whole bunch of what I ate (a handful of the chips, four or five Kisses), but I just kept consistently eating.

When my husband suggested lunch at around 1, I told him I didn’t think my sugar would be anywhere near low enough to eat, given what I had already consumed. I was almost afraid to test, but I did it anyway. The result: 105.

Say what? I thought for sure I was somewhere in the 145-150 range.

I ate a few salsa chips with guacamole for lunch, about a carb’s worth. I then did a project in which I sat on the floor and sorted paper from boxes into neat little piles—not exactly hardcore aerobics, or even requiring me to lift my butt off the floor more than an inch. Two hours later: 73.

Evidently, I was running low yesterday.

Somehow, without my actually having a low reaction, or even hitting low numbers, my body knew it needed constant fueling. Only when I ignored that instinct did I actually hit bottom.

I ate dinner that night, ate a few more carbs than I might normally. Before bed: 90. Normally I like when I get to eat an extra snack before bed—it’s like a treat for me. Unfortunately, though, because I had already feasted on everything in my house that day, nothing looked appealing. I force-fed myself a granola bar and vowed to go grocery shopping.

Another lesson learned, taught by the amazing, miraculous, mysterious, sometimes-annoying human body.

As always, more to come…

Indulge Me

I'm feeling incredibly self-indulgent today, which usually happens when a) I'm out of sorts, b) I'm celebrating something only I would celebrate, c) I'm a little sad, d) I'm having a full-blown pity party, or e) any of the above, plus it's close to that time of the month (sorry, gents).

Today I'm c and e, and the gist is that whatever whim I have, feeling I'm experiencing or wish I want granted, I let it happen and let it happen to the nth degree.

For lunch, I brought something very healthy and nutritious. Instead of eating at my desk and skipping my break altogether, I took an extra-long one, read my book and ate a cookie and a bag of bbq potato chips. For dinner, I'll probably order out, instead of saving my pennies and cooking at home.

For entertainment, I'll finish the last chapter of my book as soon as I get home (it's a really good book that I really want to finish), then watch really bad TV and channel-flip while wearing my pajamas in my living room and twirling the dogs' ears. I put a load of clothes in the washer this morning, set on a timer to finish just before I get home from work (wasn't feeling quite so indulgent yet), and I'll have to put them in the dryer simply due to the mold factor, but I won't fold them when the dryer buzzes. I won't empty the dishwasher either.

I'll stay up a little too late either starting a new book or watching more bad TV from bed and adjust the alarm so it goes off an hour later tomorrow morning and I skip the exercise.

As for the diabetes, I'll check if I'm feeling low, but given what I'll probably consume for dinner, that won't be a problem. I'll be high, and for today, just for today, it will have to be okay. I'll take my insulin shot and all my other pills, because even in my most self-indulgent moods, I'm always a little bit responsible. (I want to indulge, not cause a hospital visit.)

I wish (and this is one I don't seem to be able to grant) that being indulgent meant spending an extra hour on the treadmill, or eating an extra helping of broccoli, or donating my time to a charitable organization, or some other good-for-me-good-for-you type of things, but alas, no such ambition arises from within. To indulge is to be a little bad, since the rest of my days are spent trying to be mostly good.

I've no doubt my funk will begin dwindling when I wake up tomorrow and that by tomorrow afternoon (after a purchased muffin or cinnamon roll for breakfast), I'll be in better spirits and I'll be back in the swing of things where I'm supposed to dwell, and generally don't mind dwelling. But for today, indulge me. Or, actually, I'll indulge me.

As always, more to come...

The Great Bagel Debacle (of '08)

I’ve been running low today (lots of trampoline work this morning). I ate lunch at 11:45.

Then someone brought in bagels around 1:00. I didn’t even check my sugar. I peered in the box and there was a cinnamon sugar one and I took it. And I ate it. And I haven’t had the guts to check my sugar until now.

Four hours later, and I’m still at 128. I know that’s not a terrible number, but it is if you want to eat dinner in the next hour.

Bagels just do terrible, awful, horrible things to my sugar levels. I know this. But I ate one anyway.

I refuse to feel guilty (well, maybe about 3% guilty). I accept that I ate a bagel. I enjoyed the bagel while I ate it. I accept my 128 and will scrape out the inside of my hamburger bun at dinner to lessen my carb count to the best of my ability.

Plllhhhhhh on you, diabetes.

As always, more to come…

Seeing Is Believing

Yesterday I had my annual eye exam. While I may slack off on some of my other doctor’s appointments, I’m always on top of having my eyes checked once a year like clockwork.

I wear glasses for everything except reading. If I don’t wear them, I can’t see anything clearly that’s more than about eight inches from my face—this is not an exaggeration.

About a month or so before my diabetes diagnosis, I was getting some nasty vision headaches. I figured my prescription had changed, so I made an appointment with a random doctor—I didn’t have a regular person at that point.

The doctor was a “trainee,” overworked and with too many patients to see; he was just trying to keep up with everyone and everything and, unfortunately, I wasn’t a top priority (other people yelled louder than me). The exam wound up taking me two hours, including me sitting there waiting for my eyes to dilate for at least one hour. Had he been a little more on top of his game, or had I had a regular physician, they probably would have told me my blurry vision was a sign of the looming diagnosis—a classic symptom.

So he gave me a new prescription and I got a new pair of glasses and they worked for a little while. Then came the diagnosis and the DKA. I was in the hospital for close to a week and didn’t need my glasses for the first few days, as I was pretty much passed out. When I started to stabilize and actually grew bored with sleeping, I wanted to watch TV—you know, hanging on the wall a million miles away from my bed.

I tried my glasses on and immediately entered a different universe, one I would liken to those after-school specials where they try to show you what it’s like when someone is high on drugs or alcohol. Everything was distorted, twisted and incredibly blurry. The only way I could make my glasses work was to wear them on the very far end of my nose and squint in what I’m sure was a very attractive fashion. I basically gave up, and when I drove myself home from the hospital, I didn’t even wear the glasses (I figured the other cars were big enough that I could see them—and I only live a few blocks from the hospital, so no lives were at risk).

I have a habit of keeping all my old glasses in a drawer, so when I got home, I tried on every pair until I found one that was at least tolerable—although I still had to take them on and off every few hours or the headache was enough to make me want to pass out under my desk, a rock, a couch, etc.

I also researched eye doctors in my area who knew about diabetes and that’s how I came across my current doctor. She’s fantastic! I went in for my appointment, explained my recent diabetes diagnosis and she told me that the sugar levels in my system were so high, that they were actually showing up in my eyes and causing my vision to freak out. (I’m sure there’s a more medical term for this, but this is how my understanding of it all shook down.) She said that the eyes are one of the first places you can look to see if there’s something wrong with the body; they’ll tell you everything.

So, she checked me very, very thoroughly, announced there was no damage from the diabetes, and gave me a new prescription.

I’ve gone back to her every summer, and every year she does not disappoint. She’s really thorough and keeps a close eye (ha! eye!) on my diabetes, not to mention my Graves disease (which evidently can make my eyes bulge out if things aren’t good. Nice, huh?).

Yesterday was my first day in her new office—she’s gone into practice for herself. I like the new digs, which are much, much quieter than her old place of employment. Also, there’s no doctor’s aid (or whatever you call an eye doctor’s assistant), so she does all the exams, eye-drop inserting and everything except take my credit card at the end. (Although she did give me a large and very welcome discount when she found out my insurance doesn’t include vision). In short, I wish all of my doctors were more like my eye doctor; she’s set the bar really high.

Oh—and she gave me a clean bill of health; still no sign of diabetes affecting (effecting? I never get those two right) my eyes. My vision has actually gotten better, although my astigmatism is worse. My prescription changed, but not so much that I have to rush to get new glasses. But there are some awfully cute frames out there that I’d love to try…

Wow. This got long fast. Good thing my eyes are up for it. Hope yours are, too—as my mom always said my grandma said, “You only get one pair of eyes; make sure you take care of them.”

As always, more to come…

I Hate Exercise

Did I mention I hate to exercise? I do. I really do.

However. (And isn’t there always a however when exercise is involved? So sneaky…)

However, when I exercise, it has an undeniable impact on my sugar levels—it keeps them consistently lower when I exercise regularly, and if I’m a bit high and really hungry, most times I can hit the treadmill for 30 minutes and bring my levels down low enough that I can actually eat. (I’ve also been known to imitate aerobic activity in my car on the way home from work because I know there’s pizza to be had (super-thin crust, of course, with the tomato sauce wiped off).)

The trick is getting me to exercise. I used to be a late-night person; I can stay up all night long watching old movies or bad sitcom reruns on TV, reading a book, playing Mah Jong on the computer or any other activity that mildly interests me. And I have. Somewhere along the way, I’ve had to re-train myself to be more of a morning person so I can exercise before I go to work (I get up, yes, but conversation within the first 20 minutes is useless). I learned early on that if I don’t exercise first thing in the morning, no matter how good my intentions are or how easy I make it, I simply won’t exercise when my foot steps through the door after work.

In order to keep me interested in exercise, there has to be variety. I have to have many options at my immediate disposal, and everything has to be made as easy as possible. Also? Gyms don’t work for me. They did when I was in my 20s and still thought of it as a social outing, but now that I’m older I see them as a pain in the butt to get to, overpriced and generally much smellier than I can handle. Plus, I’m almost 40. Do you really want to look at me sweating in ill-fitting capri gym pants I bought at Kohl’s and a T-shirt from 1992?

All my exercise equipment is in my home, collected over the years. First, we bought a treadmill. Then we bought a Bowflex. Then we bought a stationery bike. (I garbage-picked the Ab Machine from a very well-to-do neighborhood and sprayed it down with bleach; works great.) The machines are all in my spare office/bedroom—but we did just recently move the bike to the living room as a motivator for additional exercise. I also have hand weights that move through various rooms of the house at various periods of time, depending on when I think I might get the urge to do a few curls.

Upstairs, in my bedroom, I have a yoga mat, a giant ball that you sit on, a DVD player and about two dozen exercise DVDs. I bought a couple of them, but I get a lot of free ones from work. There’s pilates, yoga, kickboxing, weight-training, dancing, general aerobics, ball exercises—you name it.

And, just to round things out, I also have a hula-hoop, a jump rope and a mini, one-person trampoline.

Sounds excessive, no? Trust me, it’s not nearly enough to keep me constantly motivated to exercise, but it’s enough to keep me fairly consistent. I should also mention that I keep a pair of gym shoes and several pairs of socks right next to the treadmill; that’s their only purpose. Because if I have to hunt for a pair of shoes, I’m not going to exercise.

The treadmill always works for dropping my sugar levels—a simple walk drops me a few points; a hard-core walk playing with the slanty button or doing sprints drops me even further.

The bike? Doesn’t have any impact on my sugars whatsoever. I don’t know why, and it’s a damn shame, since it’s the easiest, most mind-numbing task.

The trampoline is like a shot of insulin. Five songs (that’s only as much as a I can do) on that thing and I’m sweating profusely, my heartbeat is way up and my sugars are guaranteed to run low all day long. I usually combine it with the treadmill, since my ankles kind of hurt after I use it and the treadmill seems to stretch them out.

Believe it or not, the hula hoop can actually drop me a little bit, too. I have to do it for about 30 minutes or more, though…

Any type of weight-lifting has so minor an impact that I don’t even count it. If I combine it with a little bit of aerobic activity, then yes. Same with pilates, yoga, stretching…nothing.

While not every exercise I do has an effect on my sugars, the fact that I’m keeping some sort of routine going helps me greatly. I can do the trampoline and the treadmill on Monday, the treadmill on Tuesday, the bike on Wednesday, the hula hoop and the trampoline on Thursday and some weight-lifting on Friday and I’ve managed to keep myself motivated for five days. (Although, to be honest, I usually let myself sleep in on one day during the week. I’m still me. I still hate to exercise and I have to be able to say no at least once a week or I’ll revolt.) When you’re motivated and in a routine for five days, it’s easier to keep going.

I always check my sugar before I exercise; if I’m under 100, I eat one carb unit. And I almost always drink a glass of V8 juice (one carb unit) before I exercise, not matter what my sugar is. I don’t exercise for more than 45 minutes, and I don’t check my sugar while I’m exercising, but I do pay attention to my body and I’ll stop if I feel anything weird. I haven’t been checking my sugar directly after exercising, because the first thing I do after I’m done is drink a glass of water and eat breakfast. If I’ve done a particularly sweaty workout, I do have to check my sugar starting about three hours later, because it can drop pretty fast if my breakfast wasn’t enough. I also check a little more often during the day, because the lower levels can last through to mid afternoon.

If I exercise regularly—four or five times a week, the sugar levels adjust and will stay consistently on the lower side. If I skip a few days in a row, the sugars will still be lower. However, if I skip a week, they’ll jump back up.

I also have to watch my insulin intake. I was up to 40 units of Lantus nightly, and not being as ambitious with my exercise, so the 40 was doing fine. I’ve amped up my routine again and in the past week, I’ve already dropped down to 38. I’ll keep dropping a unit every couple of nights until I see the lows even out a bit, then hold steady. I’m guessing I’ll end up somewhere around 36 in the next couple weeks—if I can maintain.

I hate exercise. I do. And I’m not one of those people who says they dread doing it, but feel marvelous afterward and have such a rush. I don’t. I don’t like it before I do it. I don’t like it while I’m doing it. I don’t like it when I’m done. The only thing I like about it is that when I’m finished, I know I won’t have to do it again for another 24 hours. But that’s the way the diabetic, sugar-free cookie crumbles. Exercise is good for me, so I do it.

As always, more to come…

Random Thoughts

My mind is being a bit flibberty-jibbity—I can't seem to stay focused on one particular topic (could be my work assignment today, which requires piecemeal thinking). Thus, therefore, so, hence, I'm just going to write ten of the thousands of random thoughts that keep floating in and out of my conscious and subconscious brain...

1. What do I buy a 2-year-old and a 4-year-old I barely know for a birthday present? The things I do to remain a member of polite society.

2. The Vodka Theory. More on this after I've had a chance to corroborate my studies. But the title is already in place and keeps weaving through my thought patterns. The Vodka Theory. It just sounds cool. (Okay, maybe I should step away from the James Bond novels...)

3. Insulin is expensive. Duh. I know this, but my insurance has been making it dirt cheap. I get three bottles at a time (a three-month supply), and the pharmacy often screws up and charges me one co-pay instead of three (I'm going to hell; I don't correct them). Which means that I've been getting each bottle of insulin for $3.33 (Lora can do math). Due to a glitch in my insurance, I had to pay the full price the other day: $270 for the three bottles. Ouch. Luckily, the insurance company is supposed to reimburse me. (Don't even get me started on the cost of the other prescriptions I picked up that day. One credit card actually denied the transaction because they thought it was stolen with such a large purchase...)

4. My feet hurt. I'm wearing very cool, very pretty purple shoes with straps going across the toes. It's only the second time I'm wearing them, though, so they're not fully broken in. It's not actually my feet that hurt so much as my big toes. Need to streeetch that strap.

5. "Oh, sure. I please me. Don't nobody love me more than me." --50 Cent. I won't go into exactly what he was referring to, but if you take the quote out of context, it's perfectly benign and quite sage.

6. Sometimes I look in the mirror, shrug my shoulders and say, "Eh. I'm going to be 40. What can I do?" But then I read which celebrities are going to be 40 this year, and I say, "You know what? Not so bad."

7. It's hot outside today. "Like Africa hot." (Anybody see Biloxi Blues?)

8. Okay, maybe I'll just stop at 8. That's a nice, round number. Journalistically pleasing to read. And, also, as well as, in addition, the rest of the thoughts running through my mind will either certify me as crazy, annoy the hell out of particular people, expose tightly kept secrets or drive me insane by adding credence to their existence. And, of course, ruin my standing as a polite member of society.

As always, more to come...

I'm Starving

Sometimes I eat when I’m depressed. Sometimes I eat when I’m bored. Sometimes I eat when I’m restless. Sometimes I eat because my blood sugar is low. These days, though, I’m eating because I’m starving.

I’ve changed my workout slightly and I’m burning more calories. That’s all I can attribute it to, because there’s no other logical explanation for it. I’m just hungry.

When I was under the weather, I upped my insulin to cover the fever and such. I had plans to drop it back down, slowly, but given the extra food I’ve been eating, I’ve only dropped it one unit and I’m still seeing some highs (always at night, dang it) that I would rather not see.

I’m trying to reconfigure my eating habits so at least I’m inhaling good carbs. One night for dinner I grilled all sorts of veggies and had a major pigout on them. (Okay, okay, so I followed it with a mini ice cream sandwich with butterscotch sauce and Cool Whip; 152, thank you.) I’m also addicted to mini fresh mozzarella balls—no carbs, but fat. Sprinkle them with a little salt and I’m in heaven (any kind of cheese, really, inspires all-around glee).

I don’t know if it’s my experiences with diabetes over the last five years, or if it’s my advancing age and therefore, advancing wisdom, but I’ve learned to listen to my body a lot more. When I was 25, I’d ignore the hunger so I could still fit into my favorite jeans. Now, when I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m tired, I sleep (yesterday I took a 15-minute catnap at lunch time in a semi-comfortable chair in the mall next door to where I work, while pretending to read Slaughterhouse Five…). When I feel like my blood sugar is going low, even if the meter doesn’t register it yet, I eat (and about 75% of the time, I’m right). It seems to be working for me.

Now, I just have to listen to what my body is telling me, then give it a really good reply (yogurt, not mini ice cream sandwiches with butterscotch sauce—at least some of the time. But not all of the time. Because life wouldn’t be life without butterscotch sauce. And mini ice cream sandwiches. Or cheese.).

As always, more to come…

Revenge

Q: What kind of shoes do mice wear?

A: Squeakers.

That's what I get for sneaking an extra piece of grape Laffy Taffy.

As always, more to come (but no more corny riddles, I promise)...

Molly's Issues

I have a dog named Molly, who I think I’ve talked about before. Molly has Addison’s disease and requires a monthly shot to keep her alive. She’s very sweet, incredibly loyal, a little on the large side (about 80 lbs), looks like a bit like a Holstein cow (hence the nickname Molly Moo) and, if truth be told, a little on the dim side occasionally. But she’s my Moo and I love her to tears. My husband says we have a special connection because we both have to shoot up.

The infamous, fabulous Molly Moo (aka Moomi, Molly Dolly, Moo-Moo, Pumpkin). For some reason, her brown ear went straight up about a year ago and has stayed that way. So picture her with her ear up...

Molly went to the doctor today to get her shot. When we were there about four weeks ago, she had a blood test done to make sure everything was okay. She’d been looking a little down lately, and had had some trouble with her back legs on a walk we took, so we were a little worried. At the vet today, he said her test results showed that a couple of numbers were a little out of range for her kidneys. Odd, ironic, crazy that my dog’s tests are the same ones I would have, and that her results are the stuff I dread will happen with my results.

In order to test further, they need a urine sample from Molly Moo. My husband has already informed me I’m in charge of this. Also odd, ironic, crazy because my mother’s dog required a urine sample about a month ago and I was incredulous. “How do you get pee from a dog?” She told me she used the drip pan from the George Foreman grill and slid it under her dog while she was relieving herself. I hope I still have my Foreman grill from ten years ago hidden in a cabinet somewhere. I can already see the circus that’s going to be my backyard later tonight…

I’m a little worried about Moo, but I know she’s in good hands with her doctor, who’s a specialist in his field. I wonder if he sees human patients…

As always, more to come…

One Thing Done

Okay, okay. I did it. I finally ordered my testing supplies this morning.

As always, more to come (including insulin, even if it is coming slowly because I can't figure out which refill prescription number is the most current and therefore valid one)...

Diabetes Freeze

I'm basically an organized person. If there's any chaos in my life, it's usually controlled to some degree, or chaotic because it's better for me that way. However, there are certain chores in my life that sometimes fall by the wayside—I'd like to say accidentally, but I'm beginning to think it's a subconscious thing.

I have a lot of prescriptions. I've managed to get most of them to the point where they only have to be filled every three months, but I have some that are monthly. I've also recently had a few doctor switches—same medication but with a new doctor and a new refill number—which means my refills are coming at different times.

As for my testing supplies (lancets, test strips and alcohol swabs), I order these online; much, much cheaper. I try to time it so I only have to order every few months.

So, I know I've been running out of strips for about two weeks now. I was hoping I still had that spare bottle in my nighttime kit under my bed that I could use if necessary, but I wasn't sure. This morning, with only three test strips left, I finally walked up the stairs and checked. By the luck of the strip gods, it was there. Because I still haven't ordered any more.

I know they need to be ordered, I know they take about a week to get here (I'm cheap and won't pay for express shipping), I know that if I have to buy them at the regular drugstore, each bottle will cost almost double what I'll pay online. But still. Yet. However. I made absolutely no move this weekend or over the past two days to log onto the site, click one "reorder" button and have it done with.

I also have to call the pharmacy and have about four prescriptions refilled. I'll be cutting it close, but I won't have any emergencies—especially if I get my butt in gear and actually call in the next day or two.

I know this has to be done. I know I have to call in refills and pick up prescriptions, that I have to order new supplies. So why do I procrastinate? Why do I, at least 25 percent of the time, let it go until the 11th hour? I used to think I was just busy. Now I'm beginning to think it's some sort of subconcious mental block. But just because I don't have a pill to take or a strip to test with doesn't mean the diabetes freezes. It just means I'm going to drive myself crazy hoping the mail delivers everything faster and racing to the pharmacy to get there before it closes. Because in the end, I always get what I need to have.

As always, more to come...

Fire Up

In Spiral City, I mentioned that my next adventure might have something to do with fire. I had something in mind and it actually came together.


As the last part of my anniversary celebration, I decided to do something I've always wanted to do. First, it should be said that I'm petrified of open heights. An airplane? Perfectly fine. A ferris wheel? Never been on one; never could muster the courage. I hyperventilate, get panic attacks, scream in a high-pitch. (My siblings have taken great glee in torturing me on swinging bridges.) While I don't think never being on a ferris wheel has had a tremendous impact on my life, there are things I do even though I'm terrified, because they're a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I did go to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the top of the Duomo in Florence, and I climbed all the steps to get to the top of La Familia Sagrada in Barcelona. (I contained my screaming, but there was some hyperventilating involved...)

Anyway, despite this fear of heights, I've always been intrigued by hot-air balloons. I've never seen one up close, and I've certainly never ridden in one. Until now.

One of the suburbs has a huge festival with a carnival, bands, foods—and hot-air balloons. They even offer rides in a tethered balloon. I decided this was my opportunity. The balloon would be secured to the ground so we wouldn't go too, too high, and it would only last a few minutes. If I freaked out, I could survive by shutting my eyes and holding on for dear life. If I decided I liked it, then I could plan something bigger, longer, untethered.

So we went on Saturday night. We watched them blow up the balloon, which didn't seem like much when it was on the ground, and even just beginning to blow up.


When it was fully blown up and standing in front of me, only a few yards away, I felt my first familiar tingle of panic. My husband was with me. We had been waiting almost an hour in line, and he said there was no way we were going back now. He knew I needed the little push. Although I knew was going to do it no matter what.



Our turn came and we climbed in the basket as the previous riders climbed out. Up, up, up we went. It was a slow, smooth ascend. I took a picture while we started going upward—it's blurry; I refused to let go of the basket to steady the camera with two hands and the one holding the camera was a little shaky. I took another couple quick shots looking up inside the balloon, then put the camera away to hold on tighter as we went higher. It only lasted about five minutes, then we began to descend. I climbed out as the new riders climbed in. I did it.


I did it, and I liked it. It was a smoother ride than I thought. It was louder than I thought—the flames shooting into the balloon. But the husband and I both decided if we got the opportunity, we would go for a full-on ride. (With a fully licensed, very nice, very capable, professional balloon company with plenty of good references and an excellent, no-fault safety record.)

Afterward, we watched them blow up about a dozen other balloons, including the Energizer bunny balloon, rumored to be the biggest one in the U.S. (it was about four times larger than all the other balloons). As a bonus, we got to listen to a Bon Jovi tribute ban in the background and drink ice-cold beer from aluminum bottles. All-in-all, a lovely day.

And guess what? I rode in a hot-air balloon.

As always, more to come...

Happy Anniversary

Today is my five-year anniversary of my diagnosis of diabetes.

While I don’t necessarily celebrate diabetes, or having it, there are several things I am celebrating…

✽That I’ve managed to survive for the past five years. When I was first diagnosed, I was scared. After I went into DKA 24 hours later, I was terrified. There were days I just sat and cried, because I didn’t think I’d be able to figure it all out. I just kept telling myself it would take time, and that five years from now, I’d be okay. And I am.

✽I’m celebrating that not only have I figured out to how to live my daily life with diabetes, but my extracurricular life has been good, too. I haven’t let the fact that I have to inject daily insulin stop me from doing what I set out to do. I’ve travelled to Tokyo, Venice, Cairo, Mallorca, Athens and beyond, all while dragging along every medical necessity and a whole lot of snacks. I’ve gone to plays, concerts, sporting events, resorts with no electricity, inside pyramids, shopping for an entire day, hiking along the beach, to work, to work functions, for walks by myself.
Some is big stuff, some is little, but they’re all accomplishments. I went from being scared to being alone (I was by myself when I went into DKA and drove myself to the emergency room), to small advances—an hour here or there, a small excursion outward—to not thinking twice about throwing a Nutrigrain bar in my bag and walking out the door at any given moment. I celebrate my freedom to do what I want, not despite having diabetes, but along with having diabetes.

✽I’m celebrating the fact that I can inject myself without hesitation. I went from being the little girl who required four nurses and her mom to hold her down so the doctor could give her a booster shot, to being the woman who uses needles daily. My first insulin shot took me 20 minutes to do—15 minutes to screw up the courage with the syringe poised above my thigh, 30 seconds for the actual injection, and another four-and-a-half minutes to stop hyperventilating.

✽I celebrate my ability to add, subtract and multiply—sometimes without having to count on my fingers. I hated math all through school and it was definitely my worst subject. I celebrate that I’ve made peace with mathematics, and I’m working on making peace with numbers, no matter how high they may be.

✽I’m celebrating that my husband, who was only my live-in boyfriend at the time of diagnosis, has managed to stick with me through all the trials and tribulations and has been open to receiving a diabetes education along with me. I celebrate my family and friends who support me, but still treat me like Lora.

In honor of my anniversary, my husband and I hit the “good” grocery store last night and bought two gorgeous steaks, giant shrimp, marinated olives, brie and fresh-baked bread. Tonight, we’ll have a nice grilled picnic on our deck and just enjoy what looks like is going to be a lovely summer evening.

Happy anniversary to me, and to everyone else who had one more great day, regardless of diabetes or because of it.

As always, more to come...