Running On Empty

I took a dive yesterday. Serious Dive.

I would imagine that most pre-menopausal (and some post) type 1 ladies out there can relate to this dive. A fairly common occurrence happens to me around the time of my menses. First there is the pre-mense spike followed at some point by the post-mense dive.

I took that dive. Downhill. Slippery slope. Off I go. Never-ever-again-land dive.

I spent all morning yesterday with an unresponsive high. 321. 322. 347. It is doubtful that the donuts helped with all that, but gimme a break will ya? That ten additional units of correction bolus really should have done the trick.

Then I went home to run. 147 pre-run. 20 minutes and a little over 2 miles later, 60. I inhale like 3 thousand glucose tabs (okay only 4) and keep a-rocking (running, but to the White Stripes). 6 minutes later? 38…..If I ate 3 thousand glucose tabs before, I had 8 thousand now (nah just 12). 4 minutes later? 27………..

I decided at this point (with whatever functioning brain cells I had left) that it was prudent to get off the treadmill. I don’t feel all that terrible at 27 (I’m not referring to my age here). I’m a little numb in my lips, in my hands, perhaps a little numb everywhere. But overall I’m doing alright. So I decide to wait it out. Plausible right? I just ate 12 glucose tabs four minutes earlier. I’m good.

I topped out at 139. Not bad for 16 glucose tabs within 10 minutes. I started my menses more than likely moments before I started my run, so my low-normalcy is here to stay for at least the next two days. And did I mention that I somehow gained NINE pounds OVERNIGHT? My body is so backwards.

Speaking of lows….currently 48

Before I reinvent the wheel here, I believe I may just excuse myself for that ill-regarded diabetic delicacy….

Glucose tabs.

Lost My Cool

This morning I lost my cool. A little more than lost my cool. More like completely freaked out turned into evil death mom lost my cool.

I’m tired. My sinuses are icky. I have a burn on my arm that morphed over the past few days from just a burn to a case of cellulitis. I’m wiped out.

And Gracie, oh Gracie, my peanut little Gracie would not get dressed this morning. And it seemed the more I yelled, the louder I yelled, the nastier I became….the less inclined she was to do what I wanted.

Frustration mounted, mind spinning, head screaming (me screaming), I completely lost it. Scared the death out of my precious peanut I’m sure. I’m sure a ranting/screaming/raving 28 year old at 5 something in the morning is scary in and of itself. Add to that fact that the ranter/screamer is your mum, well, the scary factor just mounted 3 thousand times.

It turns out, the one thing she responds to, after I screaming/ranting/raving get her dressed myself, is a hug. A long drawn out, teary, I’m so sorry I’m so sorry hug.

And I feel like such a lug now. Such.A.Lug.

I lost my cool this morning, and now I’m trying to find the fortitude within myself to forgive myself for being an idiot.

A Lyrical Excursion

I’m in love with the White Stripes. Totally.

Thing is, though, I’m not so in love with their new album Icky Thump. I like the song, not so much the album. It is like they managed to fit all of their worst songs, ever, into one LP.

Amazing in that respect, I suppose.

One song I have been listening to quite a bit lately is Same Boy You’ve Always Known on the White Blood Cells LP. I always liked the sound of this song, but only recently (yesterday), while running, I actually listened to the words and I found even more to like about the song. It has a few great lines that had me thinking in that introspective running style that occurs every time I run.

“Pretty tough to think about
The beginning of December”

Initially this line really made no sense, until yesterday it clicked, DUH! God’s alive! It means the beginning of the end. I am always approaching the end of something, as static happenings imply nothing really happening at all… I am a beacon of change, whether I am desirous of the change or not is besides the point. When you think about it, it is pretty hard to think about change on the horizon that will come to pass regardless of any preventative measure you take.

“Same boy you’ve always known
Well I guess I haven’t grown”

This speaks to me more of perception than anything else. External perception of ourselves rather than our own perception and natural truth. Have you ever felt that way? You work so hard, change so much, and the only recognition or acknowledgement you receive is from yourself? After all this time, and too many impertinent and wholly pertinent struggles, I still haven’t mastered the ability to control other people’s perceptions and truth. I’ll let you know the trick…When I do….If I do……

As a side note, thanks for joining me on this entirely off-topic lyrical excursion….



The video starts off with a different song but shortly reverts to the song in question.

Duplicate Key

I know. I know. My drama surrounding the duplicate key has reached ridiculous levels. But….On the bright side. I am expecting receipt of said duplicate key sometime this week.

Several hours of headache and industrious “pissed off” letter writing later, that is.

And wonders that be, I of course received no apology, but I should assume that receipt of key is apology in and of itself? Or should I assume that receipt of duplicate key is more likely the Housing Coalition making sure that they “wipe” after they use the pot?

I’m thinking more along the lines of the latter.

Regardless, I’ll be doing some sort of inward (and outward) hootin and hollerin celebration once I have this hot little key in my hand. And then? I’m gonna hand it over to our PCA and move on with life.

Until next time. (God forbid).

Hurt.My.Back.

Bad.

I was doing something nonchalantly in a way that was completely respectful of my spinal limits. And yet, my spine reacted in a way that could never be expected. It revolted in a manner that I find more than unsettling.

Bending Slightly. Pulling Lightly on the wheelbarrow of my sacral destruction.

So I went to bed, one shot of jagermeister and a few chapters of Gunslinger VII later, and woke up miserable at 3:30am. My back is not happy with me. Not in any sense of any word.

So at 3:30 am I propped myself up gingerly on pillows and read, until that time that I needed to be awake, up, and running for school and work.

It is 1pm now, and I am less than refreshed. 1pm and 1 lumbar strain later.

The doctor said that it is a lumbar strain, and I very possibly have disc involvement, but that my back is too swollen at this point to evaluate that accurately. My reflexes in my right knee are delayed (imagine reflex knock on my knee, and said knee stays limp) so he suspects something is going on there. So I am sent on my way, prescriptions in hand, to reconvene with said doctor in a week.

My delayed thinking as of right now is chanting: Vicodin is NOT a good alternative to back health. Not one bit.

Grieving a Dying Pancreas

So we have prior warning. Most families don’t get that. We sure have been lucky. And I have a whole heck of a lot to do.

Gracie’s post-prandials have been higher, so it is time to start thinking about:
1. The ins and outs of carb-counting (for a four year old)
2. Obtaining an additional glucagon pen, or three(one for my purse, one for daycare, one for home)
3. Stocking up on little juice boxes to help treat lows
4. Upping her prescription for test strips (currently at 7 per day, she’ll need up to at least 12 per day)
5. More ketone strips (Insulin with meals means her body is doing less of the work herself, putting her at higher risk for ketones and fast highs)
6. Training Day Care

Ick. Training Day Care. I barely feel comfortable managing her blood sugars, much less teaching someone else how to managethem. This is a whole new spiel, and although it hasn’t begun, it is closer than it has ever been before. For the first time, the hard truth of my daughter’s diabetes seems real. Lantus only, six blood sugar tests per day, and eating whatever without care may be something that is a part of the past one day soon. The real push and shove and “reality” of type 1 diabetes in my peanut is so close I can taste it. Ick.

Gracie’s endo outlined a plan to help prepare Gracie’s daycare for the rigors of mealtime insulin. The first is limiting her carbs to no more than 45 grams per snack or meal. The next is rigidly checking sugars before and after each meal. The carb limit should help prolong the amount of time that she has before she needs to begin mealtime insulin. That means before she starts insulin they will need to learn to:
1. Carb count
2. Carb count what the panut has actually eaten
3. Only offer up to 45 grams of carbohydrate per meal/snack
4. Have “alternative” no carb/low carb snackies to fill her up if she reaches that carb limit and is still hungry.
5. Have a “sugar free” juice alternative, or this little girl will have only juice for lunch and snack fairly easily.

I’ve scheduled in a training session for next Monday at 6:30am with her daycare, assuming that her blood sugars cooperate until that time. Gracie’s diabetes progression has been pretty slow (diagnosed in November 2006, so 8 months of basal insulin therapy only thus far) so I’m hoping that she doesn’t start running crazy high in the next week so I can get together everything I need by next Monday.

I’m not looking forward to this. And I can say, I’m most certainly NOT wearing my brave-heart today (wipes away tears). But we can do this.

I can feel a little crushed inside. And I can feel like my daughter is being diagnosed with diabetes all over again. My heart and thoughts can sink a little lower in this pressing grief. And that is okay. Because even though it seems weird to say that I am grieving the slow death of a pancreas, that pancreas is rooted pretty deeply in an incredibly beautiful and important peanut. And she is only four. I can feel struck down, and I can feel betrayed, and I can feel sad, so very sad.

And in the end, I’ll get up and do what we need to do. Because really, what other options do I have?

It's Happening....

And I'm pretty bummed.

I know I said I felt more comfortable with Gracie beginning short-acting insulin and starting up all that 4-year old carb counting madness.

But that was my brave-heart speaking, and now I'm indulging my weak-heart. (It is impossible for brave-heart to be in residence 24/7.)

Gracie has had high post prandial sugars for the past two days. 201, 184, 168......

Her post-prandials have never been this high. She is waking up in the 80's and 90's, so adjusting her lantus won't fix these sugars. I'm waiting until they are consistently in the 200's. And then I will call her endo.

I'm pretty bummed about the whole stinkin thing.

To sum it all up: I'm not ready for this. She is four and she shouldn't be sick like this. I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for this. She's only four. This isn't fair.

This isn't fair.