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We found 10 result(s) that match your search "Eyes":

While we were in the process of moving from the Midwest to the desert, my mom kept saying, "The sun is different here."

 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever," I thought. How could it really be that different from Missouri to Phoenix? From Canada to the equator I understand, but straight west and slightly south?

 

She wasn't kidding. Even when it's cool -- or cold (yes, it does happen!) -- outside, the inside of my car bakes. The brightness is insane even when it's overcast. My skin has gotten pink as if it were slightly sunburned while I had clothes over that portion of my skin.

 

For a long time I've had trouble seeing in the dark. Trying to see street signs at night is difficult, movies that are visually dark are a challenge for me to watch, even with my prescription glasses on I prefer to be close to things I'm reading or watching.

 

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I had trouble explaining to my endo at my last visit why I don't always bolus prior to eating. So much trouble that I was painfully aware that she didn't have diabetes and didn't understand some of the tiny nuances that come along with this.

 

Lately the main reason I've delayed a bolus is because I don't always know how much I'm going to eat. And it really sucks when you think you're going to eat X number of carbs and then bolus and then wind up not eating that amount.

 

Sure, there are other times when I go into a meal too low to justify bolusing up front, but for the most part it has to do with not really knowing how my stomach will react to what I'm planning to eat.

 

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When Charlie and I arrived at the Walk to Cure Diabetes on Sunday it was a little chilly. Charlie had his sweatshirt zipped up high, covering his Charlie's Angels team T-shirt.

 

I unzipped my hoodie and urged Charlie to do the same.

 

"C'mon! You gotta wear that Charlie's Angels shirt with pride!"

 

Charlie shuffled beside me, his eyes pointed toward the pavement.

 

"I'm not proud to have diabetes."

 

I think I said something dumb in response like, "What do you mean?"

 

Of course I knew what he meant. He meant exactly what he said.

 

"Diabetes is stupid," he added. "I can't eat whatever I want whenever I want to."

 

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Someone asked me a few weeks ago how my type 2 diagnosis affected my family. Honestly, I said, not very much. And I'm not sure if that's good or bad or a mix of both.
For one thing, I've always been the meal planner, grocery shopper, chef and chief bottle washer in our family. Furthermore, I always cooked fairly healthy for my family, tried to get a good mix of meats, veggies, starches and fruits. So adjusting our meal plan really didn't take much effort. (I know, you're wondering how I got to be so overweight if I cooked so healthy. Sweets have always been a big part of my life. The weight comes from not sharing, essentially. And I like to eat. A lot. And all the time.) (READ MORE)

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I knew he was high when I walked in the door;

His body was twitching, there was nary a snore.

His complexion was rosy, his hair dampened black;

I knew he was high before the pricker went "clack!"

The horrible number stayed like a tattoo,

Spitefully showcasing 392.

With insulin active, we gave it an hour

And whispered a prayer to a higher power.

I awoke from a dream that Obama had won

When Susanne said, "Carey! He's 421!"

I stumbled to his bedside, my wits on the fringe;

Susanne poured juice and loaded a syringe.

I pinched some plump flesh on the back of his arm,

Inserted the needle, then set my alarm.

2:30 am - I walked through a fog,

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Tomorrow we have Charlie's quarterly visit at Children's Hospital. I'm hoping for an early Christmas present that comes in the form of a good A1c.

 

I do expect a decent A1c but only because he's had a lot of lows. So, should I be pleased if we do, in fact, get a good number? Should I be patting myself on the back? Not so sure. The visit can't be much worse than last time when we waited more than three hours and then eventually just left after receiving an A1c of 7.9. So, 7.9 is the number to beat tomorrow.

 

Back in the early days, we would arrive at our visit with a laundry list of questions.

 

Why is he high at this time?

 

Why is he low?

 

Why can't you fix him?

 

Why are you telling me not to wake up in the middle of the night?

 

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While driving to a funeral in the Catskill Mountains yesterday, I called home and Susanne said "don't ask."

 

Charlie has been terribly high lately. I stared ahead at the cars on Route 17 and a valley of farmlands in the distance and responded sarcastically after getting the wretched numbers out of her.

 

"Fantastic."

 

The highs at school have been affecting Charlie emotionally in the last few days. With a blood sugar of 370, he had to skip the munchkins from the first of two in-class birthday parties. He had sugar-free Jell-O instead and was on the edge of losing it.

 

The kids were being rowdy and loud after the teacher had asked for quiet time.

 

"The ones who are still talking should stand up and go get a slip," Mrs. R said firmly.

 

Only one kid stood up.

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I have two eyes. 

 

I have ten fingers. 

 

I have two legs.  And two thighs. 

 

I have one insulin pump.   

 

I have about fifteen blood glucose meters.  

 

When I was a little kid, my mother used to tell my brothers and me to stop counting.  What she meant was to stop looking at how many cookies someone else got, or how many toys someone else had, or how much money someone else got in their allowance - and comparing it to what we had.  She would say "when you count what others have, and compare, it's easy to forget what YOU DO have."  

 

Sound advice.

 

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I was stuffing Charlie’s smelly hockey equipment into his big hockey bag when I heard Susanne from the other room.

 

"So you’re gonna tell the coach about Charlie’s … and she paused.

 

"Bad gas? Yeah, I’ll let him know," I said.

 

"Diabetes," Charlie mumbled while picking up a 2-7 spare in Wii Bowling.

 

"Oh, right, diabetes."

 

Ice hockey season started on Sunday. How nice it would be to just throw him on the ice and say, "have fun" like all the other kids’ parents do - the biggest worry being a potential blister. For us, there’s just so much to think about. So much "strategery," as Will Ferrell would say in impersonating George W. Bush on Saturday Night Live.

 

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