Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...

Bathing suits: Check.

Reef sandals and sunblock: Check and check.

Suitcase filled with summer clothes I had to unearth from the storage area and there may be a spider tucked in one of those shirts but I'll be damned if I'm searching for it: Check and ew.

Carry on bag filled with enough diabetes supplies to cause the whole boat to become hypoglycemic: Check.

New, fancy black dress for Formal Cruise Night: Check. Oooh, and new, fancy black shoes. Double check.

My Pal Xanax for the flight: Thank goodness Check.

Excitement, Anticipation, Slight Nerves, Big Smile, Great Boyfriend: Check.

See you all next week!

Two Years Ago Today.

Reflections on the day my pump arrived two years ago...

The FedEx box loomed in the middle of the room.

Special overnight delivery. On a Saturday, no less. The room shrank as the box sat unopened.

I made myself a cup of tea and sat down on the floor. Peeled back the packing tape. The flaps sprang open and a few stray foam peanuts flung themselves onto the floor, falling victim to Abby's big paws. Reaching into the box, I foraged around until I found the green, white and blue box inside. "Medtronic Minimed. Paradigm 512."

It looked like a pager. Slightly bigger, maybe, weighing in a just a few ounces. Smokey gray in color and almost transparent, I could see all the gears and wires inside.

Sipping my tea, I clipped it to the top of my shorts and stood up. I felt unbalanced, as though I would tip to one side if an aggressive breeze blew through. Leaving it attached, I jumped up and down. Nothing happened. I sat on the couch to see if it I would feel its presence. I walked over to the window and looked out onto the deck, hearing the soft clink of the pump as it touched against the window sill.

The box of infusion sets was decidedly dodgier. Twenty three inches of snaky, thin white tubing. The round white patch of gauze with the bright blue lid on it. A 6 mm cannula.

Prying open the infusion set packaging, I touched the tip of the needle with my finger. It was hollow and very sharp. I lifted up my shirt and exposed my stomach, daring myself to press the needle tip against my skin. It stung a small bit, but no more than a syringe.

I was used to syringes, though. I’d used them many times a day for over seventeen years. Was I ready for this? This change? This whole new regimen?

I pressed the needle hard against my stomach, watching as my skin resisted, then that sliding pop of compliance as the needle slid in. I pulled out the blue cap and inspected the infusion set in my stomach for the first time. It looked like the cap on children’s Tylenol. Like a tiny little Superdome on my abdomen.

Standing in front of the full length mirror in my bathroom, it was bright white against my skin. I pulled my shirt tight over it and saw its outline against the fabric. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t big. It could go unnoticed. My body still looked the same. I was still the same.

The tear that slipped down my cheek was absorbed into my shirt and quickly joined by another. I was scared. But why? This small thing, clipped to my belt and the cannula under my skin, was going to help me achieve better control. It was going to assist me in lowering my otherwise plateaued A1C. The pump was going to afford me the freedom of sleeping late, conquering the dawn phenomenon, and bolusing minute increments.

I felt different, though. This pump was the first external sign of my diabetes. And that, after 17 years of quiet injections and subtle finger pricks, stirred up the oddest combination of pride and fear. I have done this for so long the only way I knew how. This new method was daunting. I had no idea that my A1C would drop within three months. Or that I would sleep late on a Saturday and not end up hypoglycemic. Or that I would feel strikingly healthier and confidently safer two years later.

I felt otherwise changed.

It was startling to look in the mirror and still see me.

Stings.

It was fifth grade and Mrs. Latz was our language arts teacher. It was the first year we had lockers and they were situated outside of her classroom. It was cool, having a locker. We cut out pictures from Tiger Beat magazine and hung them on the inside of the door. Nicole, who was my locker partner, and I cut out pictures of tropical fish and made our locker an aquarium. She even made a fake aquarium filter out of a used water bottle and some aluminum foil.

Nicole, Christie and I were walking back from the cafeteria after lunch and we stopped by our lockers to put our lunchbags away. Christie grabbed her reading book from the top shelf of her locker. Nicole didn't need anything because she already had her book. I reached into the bottom of our locker to retrieve my reading book and saw a folded up piece of paper stuck in the locker vents.

"To Kerri Only."

"A note! Kerri got a note! Oooohh..." Fifth grade immaturity gave way to giggles and blushing as the three of us crowded around the note to read.

"Dear Kerri, the Dirty Diabetic. No one likes you. We've made a whole club about how we don't like you. It's called the "We Hate Diabetics" club."

A picture of a needle encased in an accusatory red circle was scribbled beside my name. No more needles. No more insulin. No more Kerri.

Nicole and Christie stood there, not saying anything. Until I started to cry.

"That's not right. That's mean! We're taking this to Mrs. Latz. She'll find out who did this." They took the note from my shaking, 10 year old hands. They took my hands in theirs and led me into the classroom.

The note was handed to Mrs. Latz and she read it while Nicole rummaged in her pockets for a tissue for me.

"This is unacceptable." She shook her head and her soft blond hair swished from side to side. "This is simply unacceptable."

Through the miraculous methods that only 5th grade language arts teachers possess, Mrs. Latz found out who has left that note in my locker. The "We Hate Diabetics Club" consisted of one, miserable, red headed girl who sat with me at lunch, whose eyes were red rimmed as she shuffled towards me at the urging of Mrs. Latz's hands.

Red Head stopped in front of me and stared at her feet.

"I'm sorry, Kerri," she mumbled, looking to Mrs. Latz to release her.

"It's okay," I said back, looking for her to release me.

But it wasn't.

Red Head remains the only person in my life who has ever tried to make me feel bad for being diabetic. She made me cry and, when I think about the moment I opened that note, my face still flushes red with surprise. I wish I could forgive her for her childish words, but I still can't. She and I continued through middle school and high school together, attending the same parties and dances and mixing with the same group of friends, but I always held her at arm's length. And when I saw her at the beach last summer, after a 4 year absence, I didn't walk over to say hello. Twenty-six years old and still holding a grudge against a little girl who was the only member in cruel little club.

It still stings.

A Post From My Mother.

I had asked my mom to put together her first "cameo post" for Six Until Me. There are countless blogs written by the parents of diabetic children that my mother reads now, even though I'm an adult and living under my own care. Had the blogging outlet been an option when I was diagnosed, I'm certain she would have been a pioneer.

So she's getting her chance now, on her daughter's blog. It's the least I can do. My acceptance of my disease is the exquisite culmination of her teaching me to believe in myself as much as she believed in me. My daughter, Kerri, has asked me to write a cameo post for her blog. I have been putting it off for a few months now and I think that I had better get to it!

I couldn’t decide what my topic would be. After all, this was my one shot at being read by the OC. Of course, I will be relating more to the parents of children with diabetes. I guess I will write about what was the hardest part of Kerri growing up with diabetes. That would be “learning to let go”.

The initial reaction to one’s child being diagnosed with a chronic disease is traumatic to say the least. I remember the fear of knowing that I was responsible for keeping Kerri healthy and safe. That was my priority prior to diagnosis but now there was this “disease” thrown into the mix of normal childhood perils to contend with and this one wasn’t going anywhere. I thought “how am I going to do this?” I was nervous and scared. Kerri was taking it in stride, still smiling and still her happy self. That’s when I decided that diabetes wasn’t going to rob her of her childhood or all of life’s experiences. If she could still smile and carry on, so could I. (Granted, at 6, she wasn’t fully aware of all the diabetes related issues.) I just went on automatic pilot. I did what I had to do. She would go to friends houses for sleepovers, school field trips, etc. About a month after diagnosis, Kerri was invited to sleep over at a new friends house. They were new to the area and Kerri and Jill became fast friends. I knew that I was going to let her go but first I had to call her teacher and get her opinion of Jill’s parents. She gave them rave reviews. I then made arrangements with Jill’s Mom and Dad to go over in the evening to give the night time shot and again at 7:00 AM for the morning test and shot. The Mom’s became friends as well. Mission accomplished…Kerri was able to go to sleepovers and I had control.

Now it’s the “letting go” part. As she grew up it was the hardest thing not having a say or part in everything she did. It was like going from hot to cold. It was a form of withdrawal. My daughter is fiercely independent. (I think you can all tell.). It was time for her to manage the disease and prepare for a life without Mom monitoring her every move. It was soooo hard. I had many a stomach ache waiting for her to drive in the driveway. My role as guardian and nurse was about to be severely restructured. Now I was an observer or sorts. I had to let her test her wings. She wouldn’t live with me forever. Besides, I always thought that if, God forbid, anything ever happened to her, I would want to know that she really had a great life. That she was not held back from doing things out of my own fears for her. (And there were plenty.) I did this for her and for myself as well. I would have felt guilty if I had held her back... so I didn’t.

She managed just fine. It would be silly to say that all things were perfect. They are not perfect for any child growing up testing the waters. The parents are not perfect. They do the best they can. However, she developed into this lovely young woman with a zest for life and a smile that says “Hi, I’m Kerri and you will like me”.

I will always be there for her in whatever capacity she needs…that of nurse, counselor etc. It really won’t matter how old she is, she is my daughter and I am her Mother.

I love her. That’s why I let her go.

"Generation D" on dLife

So it's about the daily life of a twentysomething living with diabetes. The whole bit about dating and sex. Telling your coworkers about diabetes. Going out and enjoying a few martinis while maintaining your bloodsugars. Driving safely. Working out at the gym. Going on a cruise. Letting nothing stop you.

Living life.

It's called "Generation D" and it's a recent addition to the "Daily Living" columns on the dLife website.

And it's my column.

It would be an honor to have my much appreciated Faithful Readers take a stroll over to dLife and have a read at the new column. Let me know what you think!

Six Thoughts.

1. I tell them to protect myself. With my insulin sensitivity and fluctuating stress levels constantly affecting my bloodsugar levels, coupled with the tighter control I’ve achieved over the last three years, my levels can plummet without much notice. One minute I’m drafting a letter to send to a client with ease and the next moment has me struggling to navigate my fingers on the computer keyboard, a fog settling around my ears and that tiny flicker of unregistered panic in my stomach. It happened so fast this morning that I barely had the wherewithal to tap on the desk of the woman who sits behind me and ask for help.

“Can you please go buy me some juice? I need it in a hurry.”

No questions asked. She was gone and returned in barely a moment. She even brought me a straw.

“Do you need me to sit with you?”

I shook my head as I downed my eight. And she went back to her desk, occasionally leaning forward to check and see if I was okay.

After 15 minutes, I was safe again.

I tell people because their knowing keeps me safe.

2. I made banana cake and it was delicious. Chris’s grandmother ate a piece and agreed.

3. Once in a while, I find myself wondering what it would be like to set fire to all the insurance papers on my desk and, as the flames lick towards the ceiling and people are scattering in bewilderment, I sneak out, never to return. Obviously I would never follow through on this. But that fantasy is often replaced by the one where Chris and I are living in a terrifically posh NYC apartment, with a stainless steel freezer stocked with Hoodsie Cups and royalty checks coming in the post by the pound.

4. My father once told me that I had a gift with words and that, in the moments that people often forget about, I am able to find beauty. He wrote that on a post it note and stuck it to a college paper he had stumbled across while cleaning the house. When I’m at home and trying to find words for my book, I often think of that yellow sticky note. I hope I make him proud.

5. Chris has taken to calling the little cat “Siah Sausage.” I don’t want the cat to be called Sausage. I told him this. Yet he continues to call her Sausage. And this morning, damn it, I called her Siah Sausage.

6. The pictures on Dee’s and Kassie’s websites over the last two days brightened up my otherwise monotonous day at work.

Consider my day: made.

The Xanax Experience.

Tonight is the test run of Kerri's Xanax Experience.

Because I'm so anxious about taking an anti-anxiety pill that I have to test it before the flight. That's normal. But the questions run rampant in my mind. What will happen to my bloodsugars? Will I fall asleep? Will I be able to function at all after downing this pill? Will I become a babbling, silly fool? Will I become intolerable and prone to crying fits? Will I be so pleased that I offer to fly the plane myself? Will it make my stomach upset? Will one pill be enough to calm my fear of flying? Will ...


Oh just take the pill and shut up already.

And get ready for a happy, happy flight.


Oooh, and on another note, I am attempting to compile a "Dictionary of Diabetes Terms, Unabridged Morrone Edition 2006." I'm looking for those terms we come up with as a diabetic community, like Rage Bolusing, Panic Eating ... Wil, I'm looking for you in particular! If you have any terms that you employ in describing your diabetes or methods of treatment, offer them up. It'll be a "Sniglets" for diabetics, of sorts.

UPDATE: The Xanax is just dandy. Everything is just dandy. Seems like two will be the magic number for the flight. The plan is to dose up for the flight down there and not have to bother with any medication on the way back. But I'm here, two hours into the Xanax, feeling very calm and serene and no bloodsugar fluctuations and I'm still able to test and apparently update the blog. However, I have no desire to take something like this all the time. I feel too mellow, which is so terribly un-Kerri of me.

Mission Accomplished. Bring on the cruise!

UPDATE TWO: Jen, who had de-lurked herself today in a comment, has a new diabetes blog called "17 Going on 50?" Go on over and check her out. She's a college freshman with a very honest and no holds barred approach to her diabetes.

I Heart Insurance.

My diabetes supplies are everywhere.

Pump caps adorn every stationary surface. Sometimes the cats trot off with them in their mouth and then play versions of Cat Hockey on the kitchen floor. Stray testing strips litter the floor of my apartment, my desk at work, and my boyfriend’s car. Once he woke up with one stuck to his face from my 3 am testing.

I gently peeled it off and threw it away before he could notice.

The bathroom cabinet, purchased exclusively to house diabetes supplies, holds no less than $6,000 worth of goods. There are several boxes of infusion sets, pump reservoirs, IV prep wipes, and countless blood meter test strips. Two Quick-Serters for the infusion sets are wedged in between boxes of infusion sets. I have a One Touch Ultra Smart meter that I use everyday, but there are three back up meters stored in the cabinet. There are also back up boxes of strips, each test strip costing about a dollar. Lancets are everywhere. The crappy meter that came with my Paradigm 512 pump is thrown in there, too. A stash of AAA batteries for the pump and AA for the meter lie on the second shelf. Also, my old Humalog 1.5 pen (which I had run over twice with my old car and it survived to tell the tale) and the accompanying needle tips are hiding in the cabinet, too. And boxes upon boxes of short needle syringes are lying in wait for those moments when the pump fails me.

Oh, and lest we forget the abundance of the coveted glucose tabs.

I used to take stock of my supplies and not think about their monetary value. I was covered by my parents’ health insurance and they picked up the balance of anything owed. Then, all of a sudden, I graduated college and the burden of health insurance was mine to bear. That was 2001.

Since that May, I’ve worked in the following fields: Banking, car repair (admittedly random, yes), arbitration, and insurance.

Out of those employment opportunities, I’ve found satisfaction in: None.

What I would actually like to involve myself in doesn’t appear to be able to finance my diabetes habit. Anything in the realm of publishing, freelancing, PR, and marketing either isn’t available in my immediate area of RI or doesn’t offer medical insurance. I oftentimes find myself bored and miserable at work because the job does nothing to stimulate my synapses, but I won’t up and quit because I can’t afford my medical supplies without insurance.

Cyclical indeed.

Couple that cycle with the fact that my current insurance sports an obscene deductible before they’ll kick in and I’m working at a job I despise to pay for a disease I don’t particularly want. And since my entry into the work force four years ago, medical insurance costs more and covers less.

I sense a frightening trend that I fear could affect my ability to provide the supplies necessary for my disease.

Today's Pity Party is sponsored by Kerri's Boring Job and the daunting insurance bill waiting to be paid on her desk at home.

Good thing I have Eddie Izzard to lift my spirits.

Good Morning, Diabetic Feed!

I had the pleasure of speaking with Christel Marchand last week, host of the brilliant Diabetic Feed, about my blog, the book, and the general chaos associated with my being diabetic. Diabetic Feed broadcasts weekly installments of information regarding diabetes, proudly stating "We're dedicated to bringing you the latest news, information, and people who impact the diabetic community." Christel hosts the program while John Aprigliano produces. My interview is part of Broadcast # 24 for Diabetic Feed and marks the beginning of my contributions to their team.

So you can hear my voice, albeit altered by the popping of the audio to the point where I sound like I have a stuttering problem, if you download this week's broadcast. And yes, Faithful Readers, you should download this podcast every week. Aside from being informative and very supportive of the diabetic community, the music is pretty cool, too.

To confirm: No, I don't have a stuttering problem.

But yes, I do talk that fast.

Don't Buy a VW.

The '84 Volvo was my brother Darrell's, so it doesn't really count as my first car. It was The First Car. I stole it out from under my brother when we went to college, but upon his return every vacation, I had to give up the keys.

I remember the first time I was behind the wheel by myself. It was the day I got my license, March 17th, 1995, and I was roaming through the house searching for excuses to take the car.

"Mom, looks like you're out of hairspray," I coughed, walking away from the cloud of Vidal Sasson I had just "accidentally" created in the bathroom. "I should go get some."

"Hey Dad, don't you wish we had some brie cheese and fancy crackers to eat? I sure do."

"Darrell, don't you want to go for a drive down to Watch Hill and see if the carousel horses are up? I know it's only March, but maybe they put them up two months early this year."

"Courtney? Are you feeling okay? You look like you have a fever. Maybe you should be driven to the doctor's office, just in case you're sick."

No bites. Not even a nibble. Until ...

"Eddie, it looks like we're out of milk." And no sooner were the words out of my mother's mouth that I grabbed the keys to the car and stood in the middle of the kitchen like a Superhero - "Don't worry, guys! I'll go get the milk!"

The '84 Volvo and I had our moments of excessive speed on the highway towards the mall, the doors rattling and the tires wailing "Bad idea! Terrible idea!" With no working horn, I pulled into my friends' driveways, rolled down the window (which oftentimes remained permanently rolled down) and yelled "Beep!" I learned that the gas gauge didn't always tell the truth, the catalytic converter forced me to drive in the summer with the heat on, and the radio only picked up classic rock via the coathanger I had rigged to the trunk.

So when my parents decided to lease me the '96 Jetta GL in shiny lavender my senior year of high school, I was well beyond ecstatic. A brand new car? For me? Don't mind if I do.

The '96 and I had a bond that usually only forms between a mother and her child.

Aside the aforementioned blatant exaggeration, I really was completely obsessed with that car. I cleaned it with a toothbrush. I kept the interior spotless and smelling like Cucumber Melon body spray from Bath & Body Works. When bits broke, I fixed them myself. I changed headlight bulbs and fixtures. I rolled underneath the car and replaced the front valance. I changed tires. I changed oil. I was able to replace the battery and rearm the alarm. When it came to Do It Yourself, I did it myself. And I appreciated the fact that my spoiled brat 17 year old self had a brand new car at her disposal. I took exquisite care of that car to the point where it looked almost perfect even 9 years later.

Until I totaled it.

Faced with the destruction of my beloved lavender car, I had to channel my grief (I realize this is very dramatic) and find a new car. I felt confident that strong VW engineering played a part in my escaping the accident essentially unscathed, so I looked into a newer Jetta. And what I found was a 2002 Jetta GLS.

I wasn't completely sold on this car, but necessity fueled its purchase so I took out my first car loan and did my best to get comfortable behind the wheel of my new Jetta.

Three days after buying the car, I was on the highway and a rock hit my windshield, leaving a huge ding. Shaken but not defeated, I had the windshield repaired. On a trip to New Hampshire with Chris over the summer, the oil light came on and the dipstick revealed a drained engine, 1,000 miles before the car was due for an oil change. One night in October, the radio wouldn't turn on because the fuse for the radio unit blew out. I tossed a tire just a few weeks ago, during a snow storm on my morning commute to work. Just after Christmas, on the way to the gym one night, the engine started to buck and the car stalled out. Engine codes were thrown. The oil burned off again, leaving the car dry. And last night, the engine stalled again. Low on oil.

I continue to make these monthly car payments.

My car was towed from my home.

Kerri is in third person and Pissed Off.

Right now, I am at work, waiting for my car to be returned to me. Supposedly the engine was gaffed up by a faulty ignition coil. And supposedly the oil level is fine. I've been told the car was detailed and filled with gas as an apology for my trouble. I've been told "it's going to be okay," and "we value you as a customer."

Mark my words: This will be the last Volkswagen I purchase. This car has been trouble from the outset, borne out of the demise of my precious '96. It's possessed by wild demons, I'm certain of it. This is the last Jetta for me.

Honest.

Mark my words.

Really.

... until I buy a new one.

Update: They just dropped my car off to me at work. Bright, clean, newly waxed, filled with gas, started as soon as the keys kissed the ignition.

However, my front plate remained at the dealership, where it was attached to the front bumper of the loaner car I was offered. Am now waiting for the kid to return with my front plate.

I'm waiting patiently.

With an uzi.

Brought to you by the Letter Y.

Today's adventure is brought to you by the Letter Y and the Number 34.

That's 34 mg/dl.

Normally Alarm Clock One goes off at 6:45 am. After which I promptly hit the "snooze" button no less that three times. Fret not, for Alarm Clock Two (also known as Bad Alarm due to it's shrill cry) is set for 7 am, so that one blasts out in between all the snoozes. Once 7:30-ish rolls around, I give in. And then I turn on the lamp, grab my kit from the bedside table, and test my bloodsugar. It's routine, right down to the sticking my finger in my mouth to get rid of the blood from my fingertip ... yes, that's kind of gross but I can't be the only one who does this ... and then rolling over to Chris and grumbling, "I don't want to go to work."

A comforting arms pats me on the back and I reluctantly get out of bed and stumble grouchily towards the bathroom.

But this morning was a small bit different.

The alarms went off. A number of times. I'm sure of it because part of me remembers systematically shutting them all off and collapsing back onto my pillow. My pillow is marked with sweat at this point, but I didn't realize that. I wake up at 8:08 am with Abby's face smushed against the side of mine, meowing insistently and licking my face.

Not a good sign. This cat knows when something is up, or more importantly, when my bloodsugar is down.

So I reach over for the kit, but instead of switching on the lamp and testing from my side of the bed, I wander over to the dresser and stand there to test. In the dark. With clumsy fingers. And I'm crying but I'm not exactly sure why.

Fumble with the meter, get that strip in there. I prick about four fingers before getting one to bleed. The countdown reveals a bloodsugar of 34 mg/dl.

I'm very surprised. So I tell Chris.

"I'm 34." Calm voice. Sort of ethereal. I run my finger along the top of the dresser and notice I haven't dusted in a few days.

Chris wakes instantly from a sound sleep and looks at me disbelievingly. "You're 34? Sit down." He walks quickly to the kitchen and I can hear the fridge opening and the click of the juice bottle cap as he spins it off. I know he told me to sit down but the cat is on the bed and I don't want to disturb her.

He comes back with a glass of juice and hold it in my hands with me as he guides my wrists toward my mouth. "Drink it, baby." So I take my eight. And sit back down on the bed.

Abby is all over me, walking around my head, purring in my face, licking my forearm. Chris lies beside me and tries to keep talking to me as I wait for the juice to work. Time now is 8:38 am. I am already late for work.

The tears come fast and I'm starting to feel better but not quickly enough. "I need to call into work," I sniffle and wipe the tears from my face. "I need to talk to my boss and tell him I'm late. I'm late today..." Start crying again.

"Why don't you wait a few minutes, Kerri. Just wait until you come up a little before you call."

Time now: 8:47 am.

I can feel the low backing into a corner as the juice hits. Test again, 108 mg/dl. On the way up. Relief courses through me and I start to cry again. But I feel like I've been beat up. Arms weak, legs shaking, shoulders aching from holding in my tears. Because he knows my bloodsugar is back up to a safe range, Chris lets me lay against the pillow and he wraps the blanket around me.

The quandary is this: Do I call in and say that I'm late? That I hit traffic? I have to be honest here - I'm late all the time. Work starts at 8:30 and I consider myself early if I'm there by 8:40. Sometimes it's a flat tire. Sometimes it's the weather and the blasted traffic on 95. Sometimes I just hit "Snooze" too many times. But this time I wasn't going to be there until after 9:30. And I felt strange calling in saying I'd had a low bloodsugar. My boss, though very professional, is not very approachable and I don't feel comfortable filling him in on any diabetes issues. I don't want him thinking I am using it as an excuse for my always tardy self. And I never want anyone to think, "Well maybe we shouldn't involve Kerri on this project because what if she gets low while presenting or something?"

So I lied. And I called in sick.

And now I feel a little crummy about it.

The Place: Boston.

A discussion on Mom Wants a Diabetes Cure has spawned the Great New England D-Meet.

The synopsis is that diabetics who live within convenient traveling distance to Boston, be they children, mothers, or just plain 26 year old bloggers obsessed with Mr. L. Bird, are ready to plan to Meet. The proposed timeframe is February or Early March.

I'm looking for a headcount of who would be interested in coming, what timeframe is best, and what activity we want to enjoy. Since it's important that the kids of all ages are able to come, an event that is all ages friendly should be constructed. We could be just talking dinner here. Somewhere convenient and not fancy. But I'm looking for some feedback on this. Who would be interested?
Also, Allison over at Lemonade Life has gone live with her new website: Diabetes Teen Talk. The community is specifically geared towards teens (those in the "high school through just after graduation" range). If you are or you know someone who would be interested in touching base with other teenaged diabetics, take a skip over.

On New Blogs. And I have a question.

Today's list:

1. There's a new diabetes blogger. And his dog has gas. I'd say more, but those two sentences alone have me in a smirky mood, so I'll let his blog speak for itself. Type3. Go say hi.

2. My cruise sets sail at the end of the month. Two issues here: I've decided to wear the pump instead of leaving it at home. You all played a role in guiding me, but the main selling point was not having to revisit the whole Dawn Phenomenon irritant. I get so spikey in the wee hours of the morning that my fear of losing the pump and the vanity of my bikini obsession doesn't win out over avoiding those highs. So I'm thinking about going "Un-tethered" and bringing a bottle of Lantus for the days we spend on the beach. Any thoughts/advice/warnings on this?

Second issue is that my phobic fear of flying has lead me to call my doctor and ask for an anti-anxiety medication to take before the flight. Yes, it's all mind over matter and I should try to conquer my fears vs. sedating them, but the idea of Chris having to deal with Hysterical Girl on the flight makes me feel so silly that I opted for drugs. Xanax has been the prescribed drug of choice. I know this could be a touchy subject, but has anyone taken anything anti-anxiety before? I have never taken any drugs and I am unsure about the effects on my bloodsugars and Self in General. Feedback on this is crucial. Feel free to email me if you don't want to comment on the blog. Please. I appreciate your help!

3. Thank you guys for your inspiring comments and emails about the blog awards. While I'm wordy about everything else, I can't seem to get past a stammering "Thanks," and blushing furiously. But know that I appreciate everyone's support and I'm proud to be a part of this. (Blushing again.)

4. Larry Bird. Today he called to ask me what I thought of his instinctive genius.

Man, he is just too much.



Addendum: Kassie, my dearest, this is for you.

Thanks.

Thank you guys.

Very much.

Oh so slightly OCD.

I didn’t always count the sips.

I used to treat low bloodsugar reactions by chugging cranberry juice until it spilled down my chin and choked me just a little bit. That panicked, adrenaline fueled consumption, rendering me unable to close my eyes while I drink, but instead leaving me focused on that part where the ceiling and the wall merge. Focus. Drink the juice. Sit on the floor. Wait.

Waiting is always the worst part. “Consume 15 grams of carbohydrate, wait 15 minutes, test again, treat if necessary.” I don’t know a single diabetic who has that kind of time. A Low, one that gnashes Its teeth in your belly and keeps Its hands at your throat, doesn’t wait 15 minutes with you. You drink the juice, It turns around in your stomach. You sit on the floor and It stands up beside you, a heavy hand on your head, just enough to roll your neck forward a bit. Fifteen minutes is a terrifying lifetime while you wait for the juice to start raising your bloodsugar.

Lurch forward 20 minutes, after you’ve tagged half the bottle of juice and maybe some crackers. Bloodsugar hitting a cruising altitude of close to 250 mg/dl. That sick to your stomach feeling from a deviation of more than 200 points in 20 minutes. And there’s the guilt of No Control, when you couldn’t just consume the 15 grams of carbs and wait it out.

It’s hard to wait when you’re afraid you’re going to pass out.

It’s been after many years of treating my own reactions that I’ve come to the Eight Sips Theory. If my bloodsugar is anywhere under 55 mg/dl, I fill a glass with juice and gulp down Eight Sips. Never more. But I’ll refill the glass if there isn’t enough for eight. It’s enough to bring me back. Every time.

“One … two … three … four…” I count in my head as I swallow. Reaching “…eight,” I promptly put the glass down and sit. It’s still within reach, but it’s not lying comfortingly in my hand. Eight Sips. They calm the panic enough for me to breathe evenly. My eyes languidly scope the room, but I know that I will come up enough from whatever the low is with Eight Sips. Seven is not enough. Ten is too many.

Eight.

There’s a comfort found in this routine. It makes me feel safe. Protected.

And oh so slightly OCD.