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When I was little, I spent my days playing dress up and detective and imagining that my bicycle was indeed a car. I've always had an active imagination. In one of our former houses, I consistently imagined that we remodeled my room to include an endless hallway of bookshelves so that I could store all my books and stuffed animals. I loved thinking of new stories, new things to do, just anything new.

 

A major part of that imagination was thinking of all the things that I wanted to be when I grew up. Mostly, I dreamed of being a mother. I'd carry around my dolls, and even my cats, and pretend that they were my children. I couldn't wait to be pregnant, have kids of my own, and be the best mom in the world.

 

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“Aaaaaaaaaargh!” I screamed. I practically slammed my meter down on my bedside table. The Mr., who was half asleep next to me, was startled.

 

“What?”

 

“85!” I said angrily as I stomped down to the kitchen. It was 10:30 p.m. and I was in bed and in no mood to deal with a blood sugar that was too low to go to sleep and a downward trend on Dexcom.

 

I ate a granola bar, though I didn’t want to. And drank a few sips of milk. And took inventory of dinner: steak, potatoes, green beans, birthday cake, milk.

 

I went back upstairs and watched Dex like a hawk continue to go down. I reached for the SweeTarts. And then I got cranky. I could feel it all over, but I showed it by saying “I hate Valentine’s Day” after watching a commercial for jewelry or chocolates or something equally Valentine’s Day. “It’s just so commercial.”

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There was a time I couldn't imagine taking my morning walk without a canine companion.

 

No. 2 was only a month or so old when we got Tanner from a shelter. He was timid and fearful of The Mr. but he and I got along great and he loved a walk. There were times when he'd get out of our fenced yard, but he always came back. Until the day he didn't.

 

Somehow I managed to find a rhythm without Tanner. We had a string of foster and stray dogs after Tanner left and I made sure to walk each of them. None of them as good on the leash as Tanner, though.

 

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As a long-term volunteer at Mile 20 of the New York City Marathon, I have seen many things that runners will do, or put themselves through, to get their bodies through that distance en route to the 26 miles and some odd yards of a marathon. Blisters, cramps, and bleeding are part and parcel for the course. So are dehydration, overhydration, and electrolyte depletion. At Mile 20, most runners visiting the medical station want a quick massage or some Vaseline® before heading back out on the course. While a few runners do drop out, most of those are able to wait for the "sweep bus" to carry them back to the finish line. Exceedingly few runners who require medical aid this far along the course need to be ambulanced out.

 

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Sometimes I'm forgetful. And sometimes I choose to forget. Like yesterday afternoon, I got frozen yogurt with my mom before I headed back to school. But I'd been trending south on the blood sugar line after several hours walking around the (scorching) zoo with my family. So I decided to forgo insulin after my treat.

 

Big mistake. Because the sun, the heat, and the walking didn't have anything on the 50 carbs of waffle cone and yogurt. And my blood sugar was the one that took the hit. At a lovely 351.

 

Four units of Humalog later, I stopped kicking myself for being so dumb and got on with my evening. But as I dove into studying for my first exam and chatting with friends, I completely forgot about diabetes. I didn't think to check after an hour and a half to see where I was headed. I didn't even think to assess where I thought I was headed.

 

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I disconnected my pump like normal for my nightly shower. I set it on the counter on top of some towels so the vibration wouldn't bother me. Usually this is a safe place for my pump, away from the direct steam of the shower and any immediate water sources.

 

My cat thought this was an ideal place to have a hockey game. I was halfway through my shower and suddenly I heard the pump slide into the sink. My cat made it his very own hockey puck! Visions of a cracked screen or a completely broken pump flashed through my mind as I screamed at the cat.

 

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On Thursday night, I found myself in an emergency room exam room at 2 am, waiting anxiously and staring up at a picture of a baby cocker spaniel posing cutely in a watering can.

No, don't worry. Charlie is fine. I'm fine too. Whole family is fine. This was an emergency room for pets. But wait, I don't even own a pet.  I'm not even a pet person. I had to get up for work in a few hours. What was I doing?

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I found this post recently in a diabetes forum.
Topic: Juvenile diabetes
A dear friend of mine has an 8 week old that was not thriving. She ruled out heart issues early on, but recently he became seriously ill. Upon further investigation, he was diagnosed as diabetic! Never heard of a baby with diabetes. His eight siblings are all fine. They have also tested for pancreatic insufficiency. He's just plain old diabetic. Thank goodness!
A supportive member of the forum responds:
Oh good grief! So young!
Eight siblings? Sorry, I left out one important detail. It's about a dog; an 8-week-old English Springer puppy.
I'll admit, this post was originally going to have a slightly sarcastic edge to it as it was triggered by recent FDL entries of pet owners who compared their dog or cat's diabetes to human beings living with the disease. (READ MORE)

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Olivia recently pulled a stunt that simultaneously scared the crap out of me and made me madder that a sack full of wet cats.

She, against my instructions, set up an account on My Space. I found out she had it a while ago and would check her site every few days just to make sure everything was kept above board. She mostly used it to talk to her friends and to check out celebrities like Hannah Freakin' Montana. Oy. I let her know that I knew about it and that I was checking it out and she was fine with that.

Until this weekend, however. She changed her age to read 17 (she's 13) and some random guy contacted her. They talked for a bit until he started getting graphic at which point, she told him to leave her alone. What made me angry was that she gave the guy her name, her school and her address. What sent me thru the roof was that I didn't hear this from her, but rather from the vice principal at her school. Yeah, that one went over well.
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We met because we have diabetes. Our lives became linked by pump tubing and test strip trails, by the difficulty of lows and the joy of staying stable and feeling healthy, by the words we used to describe the struggles and the victories. But we became friends because we have so much more in common. A love of words and books and strawberry tea, an appreciation for twisted or immature humor, and goofy cats that drive us crazy. We would like one another, even if we didn't share diabetes. But diabetes bonds us as tightly, if not more tightly, than any of our other commonalities. (READ MORE)

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