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

I pulled into the driveway and my 6-year-old Ben ran over to me excitedly with a wooden box in his hands.  "Dad!" he said. "Do you want to see my box of dreams?" He did stipulate that access to his box of dreams was limited to his best friends. Inside the box was a plastic electric fan in the shape of an ice cream cone, a small rubber bird, an art project (a crayon-colored circle outlined with gold pipe cleaners) and a squishy yellow ball. 

 

My box of dreams would have two tickets to the 1980 "Miracle on Ice" Olympic ice hockey game between the United States and the Soviet Union.

 

It would include a reserved table at the Kaiserkeller club in Hamburg to see the Beatles perform in 1960.

 

Also, the scientific knowhow to cure gastroparesis so that Susanne can once again eat food like a person and not a newborn penguin.

 

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Managing my son's diabetes is often like a game of chicken.  A blood sugar of 65 before bedtime when just two hours earlier he had French fries. That's a tough spot to be in. I'm almost certain his blood sugar will rise from those fries, but when? When will it rise? What if he goes even lower? It's like the blood sugar is bluffing, but what can I do? I'm forced to give him a slight carb boost knowing that it will ultimately make the situation worse.

 

Diabetes wins this game of chicken. Susanne sets the alarm for 2 am as we await the anticipated wrath of the fries.

 

But what happens when you sleep through the alarm? Wouldn't it be cool if a character from your dreams was there to wake you up?

 

She was not a pretty sight, this woman. She had hairy legs, several missing teeth, unkempt hair, was in her late 60s and she cruised around on roller skates. And, um ... she was topless.

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Ever since I can remember, I've been a dreamer. Not only do I get lost in vivid day dreams, but my subconscious takes over in the darkness of night with raging images. Over the years, I've come to realize that I have a history of especially strange dreams.

 

They are a mix of nightmares, unrealistic events, and practical moments. I've had some that were premonitions, predicting coming events. Others were so far out of the box that I don't expect anything to resemble them in real life.

 

But the one thing that my mind usually keeps out of my dreams is diabetes and pain. No nightmare has ever involved diabetes complications, seizures, or even diabetes moments. It's so ingrained in my daily life that my brain doesn't find the need to remind me of it in my sleep.

 

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I have had several dreams lately that have been almost completely focused on diabetes.  Of course, the focus is sort of skewed by the fact that these are dreams and dreams are strange.

 

Last night, I was sitting on a huge island.  Completely surrounded by water, I realized I was completely naked and I had nothing in the way of supplies with me. 

 

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I was at work, walking toward the cafeteria when Bert grabbed me. I play soccer with Bert. He was shaking and moving in clumsy circles and clearly disoriented. I immediately got out my testing supplies and checked his blood sugar. I snapped the pricker against his finger and blood drops spilled out continuously like a leaky faucet. When I saw the 7 on the meter screen, my heart stopped beating for a moment. I had never seen single digits. I sat Bert down in a chair and screamed for help. "I need juice! (READ MORE)

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When you see the check-mark-y swoosh, you think Nike, right? An apple gets you the computer company, golden arches make you think of cheesburgers, a peacock will have you thinking Must See TV, a red cross... you get the picture.

 

And when it comes to health there are several very recognizable symbols of support, perhaps the most popular is the pink ribbon for breast cancer. I was doing some research today on breast cancer and realized that the pink ribbon is quite possibly the only symbol synonymous with only one health condition. Even the red ribbon went from AIDS to a host of other causes.

 

You see a pink ribbon you instantly think breast cancer; you see a red, green or yellow ribbon and you have to do some thinking or asking. While many diabetes organizations and associations have their own symbols, there is not one that is universal for diabetes.

 

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I had one of those dreams last night.  The kind of dream where I'm no longer diabetic.  I both love and hate these kinds of nighttime imaginings. 

 

In the dream, I was at a table with two old friends.  We were eating from giant plates with these even more humungous forks.  There was cake and bread and stuffing.  Non-carb food too, but mostly heaping helpings of crap that will send bloodsugar into the stratosphere.  

 

I reached for my pump, only to find it wasn't there.  I pawed at my thigh looking for a site - to no avail.  When I looked down at my lap, I saw that my thighs weren't littered with pump scars.  I looked at my hands, not a callous to be found. 

 

Confused, I asked my friends "Did you guys see where I put my pump?"

 

"Pump?"  They said in unison.

 

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On such a winter's day.
I had another diabetes dream last night. It was even more horrible than the last one I had. The one where I was testing Charlie and a blue liquid spilled from his finger rather than blood.
At 2:17 am, I scrambled in the darkness and found a nubby pencil the size of a cigarette butt and scrap paper to jot it all down before it faded fast from my memory. I should have just stayed in bed and let this terrible dream disappear.
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I realize that scientists have been reporting cures in diabetic mice since the days of the Neanderthal. And yes, the numerous cures in rodents that are reported through the years most certainly dilute the excitement. I know enough to hold off on the confetti, the streamers and the Piscataway High School marching band.

 

That said, there's just something alluring and fantastic about seeing it on paper; seeing it in print. Seeing those beautifully promising words strung together:

 

"An experimental therapy that reprograms the immune system then spurs the growth of healthy insulin-producing cells reversed late-stage diabetes in mice and may lead to a cure for people, researchers said."

 

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Charlie told me about a dream he had.

 

He was told to lie down on a hospital bed.

 

He was in surgery, having his heart removed.  

 

“I don’t know,” he said, tucking his chin to his chest.

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