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We found 9 result(s) that match your search "Teaching Moment":

I've swallowed my pride and decided to apply for disability services here at school. They can offer me a few resources that I do not have access to otherwise. Most importantly, they give me the ability to register early for class and to notify my professor's that there is a legitimate health issue that I deal with.

 

The past two semesters, I've considered doing it, but I've also thought it was too embarrassing. But finally, things have gotten to the point where I'm realizing that it's not embarrassing, it's reality. So I've taken the initial steps to go through with it.

 

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Like many in the diabetes community, my wife and I were pretty disturbed when we heard the premise of Hannah Montana's "No Sugar, Sugar" episode that was scheduled to air last night.

 

The episode tackles the issue of juvenile diabetes, but not as we know it to be. A major, recurring character on the show gets diabetes. Oliver, one of Miley's best friends, is ashamed at first and tries to hide his disease from his friends.

 

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The other day I was at the playground with the two toddlers. One of the other mothers was asking me how Olivia was doing and asked about her diabetes.

"She's going to outgrow it, right?"

Me: (silence) Blink. Blink.

Me: Um, no. Her pancreas doesn't work. It doesn't make insulin. It's not going to start making it once she's an adult."

I was trying not to rip my hair out of my head, but inside I was thinking "Good grief, do people still actually think you can outgrow diabetes??! Still?? In this day and age?" The answer is, apparently, yes.

So I did my quick, 30-second spiel on type 1 diabetes, but started getting the glazed-eye look pretty quickly. Then she proceeded to tell me that she knew all about diabetes because everyone in her family has type 2. Ugh.
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I called my endocrinologist today for my lab results. One of his nurses got on the phone to tell me that my lab results were "stable" and "a letter had been mailed on the 2nd." She also went on to say that the doctor wanted me to see the diabetes nurse educator. The moment she uttered those words, I could tell that she was done and wanted to hang up the phone. But I wasn't.

 

I asked what my A1c was, not caring about the potassium and other kidney function tests. I didn't want to wait another week to receive the envelope in the mail. She hesitantly replied that it was 7.4%. As if teaching a child, she responded that it was okay although we should be aiming for under 7%. I didn't want to say that last week, the very MD had told me that a 7.2/7.3 is FINE! Okay, I did want to say it. But I didn't.

 

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The phone rang yesterday morning and I shook The Mr. almost violently to make him wake up and answer so the rings wouldn't wake the kids. It was 6:30 a.m. Something must be wrong, I was thinking, for us to get a call this early.

 

The Mr. answered as if he hadn't just been sucking the roof tiles off. The conversation was odd and Detective Kowalski couldn't figure out who was on the phone.

 

Then I started hearing familiar instructions -- put the strip in the machine first... you have to wait until it's done with the numbers then you can let it suck the blood up... no, prick your finger first.

 

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Back in November, Christopher Thomas of Diabetic Rockstar suggested that one of the reasons diabetes doesn't get the attention it deserves is that there are so many different diabetes-related organizations which seem to be so much at odds with each other that "they can't even decide on a color". By this, he was referring to the American Diabetes Association's (ADA's) use of red as its primary color rather than World Diabetes Day Blue, which is close to the blue used by the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) and not too far off the blue used by dLife® on its Web site and in the screens on dLifeTV®.

 

 

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Back in February 2008, I started blogging for dLife. I'd written my own blogs before, but only on things like Xanga or Blogger or Facebook. It was never something that I could tally hundreds of people reading. And it certainly wasn't something visited by the very specialists themselves (by specialists, I mean each and every diabetic reading these posts).

 

When I first started, I thought I'd do fine. After all, I was a natural born writer. I loved to write. And diabetes seemed like an easy topic. But over the first months, I realized how hard it can be to put my diabetes life out there.

 

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One of the issues that many of my Type 1 compatriots are often confronted with is the idea that "juvenile diabetes" is restricted to, well, juveniles. That once you turn 18 -- or 21, in some jurisdictions -- your diabetes automatically transmogrifies into Type 2 and you can be cured by exercising three hours a day, losing 10 pounds, and avoiding any food that isn't pure protein. And maybe, taking a cinnamon pill, a bitter melon pill, or whatever the herbal cure du jour might be.

As we all know, that popular myth has about as much truth to it as, umm, the belief that Princess Anastasia is still alive and well and living in the same body she had in 1917. Let me rephrase. The probability that Rasputin is alive and well and living in the same body he had in 1917.

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My Tuesday schedule got shifted around, reshifted, bent, folded, spindled, and mutilated, leaving me the option of taking lunch at Quizno's — something I'd not done since before diagnosis. As I'm finishing up my Chicken Caesar salad, a heavyset woman walks in to chat with the girl behind the food prep counter. Either a co-worker or a regular customer, I think, by the familiarity of their conversation.

 

"Are you eating today?" the Quizno's girl asks.

 

"No, we had to taste too much today. Cakes, cookies, everything. That stuff's no good for my diabetes."

 

The conversation continues, with the customer — who I'm beginning to believe works in the bakery department of the Shop-Rite two doors down — mentioning "diabetes" at least once more.

 

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