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

Lows come in all shapes and sizes. They come with grueling symptoms or no symptoms at all. They come with reason and purpose, and other times with no cause in sight. Sometimes they're short-lived and sometimes they linger for hours. For me, lows come in several forms:

 

The worst kind, the night low: Night lows for me come sometime between 2am and 6am. Usually it's a reading in the 50's or 40's that wakes me from a deep sleep. I wake with panic in my heart, it pounds in my chest. My body coated in sweat, the sheets damp under me. And an overwhelming weakness that leaves my knees shaking in the darkness. For me, this is the worst low because I have a history of seizures. I'm deathly afraid that one of these lows won't wake me or I won't catch it in time. Glucagon stashed by my bed does nothing to quell the fear. The only peace of mind is having someone close by listening for the sounds of a low.

 

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I’m not afraid of needles, but I must admit that I’m a little fearful of the bloodwork I’m scheduled to have in a few weeks.
 

Since I finally found an endo practice that I enjoy (yes, I know I still haven’t blogged about it yet!), they naturally want their own bloodwork. Which is great. And fine with me. It’s just the type of bloodwork that’s being done that’s leaving me a little uneasy.
 

I know it shouldn’t. And, really, I’m not uneasy I’m just kind of … I don’t know… just nervous? anxious? curious?
 

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Fear of needles. Fear of blood. Fear of hospitals or doctors. These are all normal phobias in the world. People commonly relate to one or all of these fears, whether from bad experiences, horror stories or movies/TV shows.

 

But for a diabetic, what are our fears? Of course, many diabetics deal with the fear of needles, blood or hospitals/doctors. I'm fine with the needles and the blood, but I have a strong dislike towards doctors. I wouldn't say I'm afraid of them, but I don't particularly like to hear what they have to say (this stems from every doctor's appointment in my past that I would leave crying from because my control just wasn't good enough).

 

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I've been bragging for a few months now that Mom and Dad are flying my family, my brother's family and my single brother to Catalina Island, Calif., in June to celebrate Mom's 60th birthday (which is in August). Having spent quite a bit of time at the beach as a youngster, I simply can't wait to introduce my children to the ocean.
Although the trip isn't until the first week of June, I've already done some preparing. I'm making mental lists of supplies I'll need for the kids, noting which suitcases to take, realizing I need to drop a few pounds, and even (gasp!) deciding to buy a new swim suit since it's been years since I had a new one. (I think I may need to be heavily sedated or severely drunk for that dressing room session!) (READ MORE)

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Diabetes has made me a hypochondriac. Every ache, every pain, every change is some condition, disease or syndrome. Now typically I don't truly believe I have any of the things I so often "self-diagnose," but I have to admit that I am constantly living in the shadow of my diabetes. (READ MORE)

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I am a writer. At times, I fancy myself an artist. I create things. With pen, paper, a camera, paint.
My mother says that I ate the world up as a young girl. That I couldn't get enough. I would stay up into the wee hours, watching the shadows on the wall or examining the shapes on the wallpaper from top to bottom and then bottom to top. She also says I didn't care to sleep. She felt I was afraid I'd miss something. I think she's right.
I still spend a lot of time looking at things. Feeling light, color, and texture with my eyes. Scrutinizing the world around me. I suppose some of this is the artist in me. The need to really SEE things before I can include them in the art I'm making.
And some of it is how afraid I am of losing my eyesight. (READ MORE)

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I keep saying that my new diagnosis doesn't change anything, but it does. It just does. I can't put my finger on it, and many of the things that are going through my mind as being "worse" than having type 2 are likely just unfounded fears. (READ MORE)

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I have to admit that I get buyer's remorse quite a bit. I don't know what it is. I do have a tendency to be indecisive at times, but who isn't?
So several weeks ago, you'll recall reading that I was hot to trot to get the Omnipod. I scoured the company's web site. I e-mailed my endo and asked if he had any patients on the Omnipod who I could talk to. I asked my friends at Diabetic Mommy if anyone was on it and if they could give me their experience.
The web site didn't have the type of personal experiences I was looking for (i.e. Just exactly how do you sleep with it?). My endo doesn't have any patients on it, and there were only about two mommies at DM who are on it. (READ MORE)

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"Dad, am I going to get diabetes?"
This was the part I was dreading. I knew this question was going to come up but how do I respond? Do I tell her about my fears. How I do not know how I could live with myself if you had this terrible disease? Do I mention the fear she may have to live with for the rest of her life? Should I mention how she may not but her future kids could get it? How should I respond? (READ MORE)

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Sometimes I lose sight of Charlie, the 5-year-old. I see Sir Charles the Brave, a courageous warrior whose calloused fingers have shed blood across many a battlefield. The boy who fears nothing.
Like many of our young children with diabetes, checking blood sugars is just a brief pit stop. It's no big deal. Nary a wince or a whine.
In the few times I've checked my own blood sugar, I didn't show nearly the same nonchalance as Charlie does. I jerk my finger back after the pop of the pricker like I'm pulling it from a fire. I contortion my hand oddly like I'm practicing to throw a knuckle ball. Neighboring fingers spread away from the bloody one like it's contagious. Then I nurse my finger. A couple tender kisses, a tightly compressed tissue and close inspection of the prick mark several minutes later. I'm a grown man. How is it possible that my 5-year-old handles it better than me? (READ MORE)

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