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

This morning I woke up to my pump alarm yelling at me. I turned over and looked at the clock. Having over an hour before I needed to wake up I grabbed my pump and pressed the ESC and ACT buttons to kill the alarm and fell quickly back to sleep. I knew this morning was going to be an infusion set change day so I was not surprised, just annoyed.
No sooner did I go back to sleep that I heard the alarm again. Not normally when you clear the low reservoir alarm you have another 10 units of insulin worth before the alarm goes off again. I reached under the blankets and cleared the alarm again. I don't think I even achieved REM state before my alarm went off and I was up for good. Bummer. (READ MORE)

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Diabetes is a very physical disease. It loves to leave behind marks to show it was there. The strange "tells," "war wounds," and "evidence" that this disease is wreaking havoc on my body both internally and externally.

 

The easiest sign of diabetes is the calluses on my fingertips. They've been my biggest complaint with this disease (physically at least) since I can remember. I hate the way they mar my fingers with their tiny spots and uneven edges. It never can be skin against skin, smooth and simple. When I run my hands over anything, I feel the tips of my fingers drop their tiny hints of this disease.

 

As if my fingertips weren't beaten enough, my body has all the signs of needles and insertions. I have bruises galore. Plus the tiny red spots from infusion sites and syringes. And every three months, there's the bruise of getting blood drawn on the crease of my arm.

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I find that dinner seems to throw my sugars off worse than anything! I guess I just can't help myself whenever it gets to be chow time. I LOVE ME SOME FOOD! It never fails; I'll go through the whole day and not have one high sugar and then BAM! Hyperglycemia CITY!

My eyes get way too big for my stomach!

Usually I'll come home after a long day, start raiding the cabinets and throwing random stuff together, next thing you know, I got a plate a nachos, some peanut butter cookies, and a Popsicle!

I know, I know, I am supposed to eat healthy all the time...or something like that. I don't want people to think that because I'm a trainer that I eat perfect every day! I'm only human!
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"Freaking the 'danes": In fandom, the deliberate exhibition of extreme fannish behavior before "mundanes" (non-fans) for the specific purpose of eliciting incomprehension and social discomfort. (See: bear-baiting.)

 

With eight separate phone numbers registered to the two members of this household, it's not surprising that -- despite those numbers' presence on the National Do Not Call Registry -- we get more than our share of telephone solicitations. Most of the time, they're phishing scams telling us we can "lower your interest rates" if we give them our banking information immediately; the rest of the time, they're split between trying to get us to change our telephone, Internet, television, gas, and electricity providers.

 

Until yesterday.

 

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On average, I test seven times a day. It can range from five to twelve, depending on activity, emotions, symptoms, and my memory.

 

Today, I've already tested four times and I'm only half way through the day. Yesterday, I tested nine times. The day before, I tested eight.

 

Obviously, I go through bottles of strips quickly. Twenty-five to a container doesn't make it very far. Sometimes two days, sometimes four.

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This past weekend has seen a lot of DOC heat over Type 2 Diabetic and former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee's analogizing signing up for medical insurance with a pre-existing condition to trying to insure a home after it has been completely burned to the ground, or a car that has been completely totaled. Our peers have been enraged at the idea that Governor Huckabee is discounting productive lives to the point that, if the analogy were allowed to be continued, we should be completely culled from society (read: euthanized) -- either at the point of diagnosis, or at the point at which we can no longer pay the cost of our medical upkeep ourselves.

 

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Charlie has gotten into a bad habit when he pees. He drops his shorts to his ankles, places the pump in his shirt, wraps it upward like a baby sling and then skillfully holds it all in place with his chin. We would prefer for him to just clip the pump onto the neckline of his shirt.
He frees his hands not so that he may use them to guide his rocket-like stream of urine into the toilet bowl. Oh, no. His hands have a greater purpose. His hands are for placing on his hips. So that he can stand back like a proud Roman general and watch his unshackled penis terrorize the innocent porcelain.
Urinatius Everywhereus.
With the slightest distraction, his chin lifts up and the shirt unravels, sending the pump into the pool of pee. He's done this twice to my knowledge. I caught him once.
I peeked in the bathroom as I walked by and saw Charlie with his line out in the water as if he was fishing - the pump floating like a bobber.
"Charlie!" I yelled. (READ MORE)

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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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I am awake, but not really.  There is a gray fog wrapped about my head, twirling in my eyes.  And my eyes are itching, watering a little.  My tongue and my teeth are absent, though I have a vague idea they're still there in my mouth.  Missing in action too, my ability to vocalize appropriately.  I test my speech and manage a breath and then "gug gug."  

 

I see the ceiling above my head, white with the one little crack, or is it a crack?  Crack?  Where did that word come from?  The ceiling sure looks bright.  I like bright.  Bride?  In white.  Like the ceiling.  Where am I?

 

"Home."  I think, and I might slur it aloud.   "Machine."  

 

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I'm an advocate for healthcare reform. I think our country desperately needs a change in how we manage both preventive and continued care. Insurance companies can often make illness much more stressful than necessary with their copays, denied coverage, and stringent rules.

 

I've been blessed with pretty decent insurance thanks to my father's previous job. I've almost always been able to see the doctors that I want to. I lucked into a no referral clinic that allows me to see any type of doctor at my own discretion. No pink referral slips to get me into the OBGYNs' or cardiologists' doors.

 

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