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

Where to even start...?

 

And that is the point, you don't know where.

 

When someone is newly diagnosed with diabetes, where should their educational journey begin? Sure, there is the inevitable hospital stay, and the chat with a doctor, and possibly a self-injection tutorial (for the insulin requiring crowd), but what is the next step... after the hospital scene?

 

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I promise you, I don't go looking for bloggable moments from Charlie. I don't follow him around the house like the Verizon Wireless guy, asking, "How do feel about diabetes now? How do you feel about diabetes now? How do you feel about diabetes now?"
Take last night, for instance. I was minding my own business as I dried him off after his shower and we walked into his room, when he hits me with ,
"Dad, do you ever wish you had diabetes?"
"Well ,," I said, stalling while thinking how best to respond.
"Well, sometimes I do because I don't want you to feel alone."
"Oh," Charlie said with a thin smile. "I thought you were going to say 'no.'"
"Why?" (READ MORE)

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discouraged. No, that's not the right word.  Or maybe it's that it's not the only word.  Cocky is one, disappointed another. Defeated is too strong, but more internalized than disappointed.  Judged for sure, as it really does feel like my "grade". 

 

Following gestational diabetes, I was "diagnosed" with type 2 by an A1C result of 6.0 by an endocrinologist who shall remain nameless to protect the incompetent. It was later that I discovered that the A1C is NOT a diagnostic tool and you shouldn't be diagnosed by it. 

 

There was some debate once I changed endos as to whether I was "pre-diabetic" or actually had diabetes.  After several years on metformin, and another round of insulin-dependent gestational diabetes, with only a 0.2 improvement in my A1C, I think the debate is over.

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Walking from the kitchen in one building back to our cubes in another building this afternoon, A and I joked about how easy it would be to lose weight if we just had someone to cook for us.

 

Well, it's not so much of a joke. Between my sophomore and junior years of college I lived at home, The Mr. (who was not yet The Mr.) was in the Navy and my summer job was nearly an hour from home. Dad cooked for me every night, I walked two miles a day at a furious pace. I lost 30 lb. that summer. I was 9 lb. from my goal weight when I went back to school and started eating, well like a college student.

 

My new walking routine has resulted in a lower A1C, but no fewer pounds yet. Partly because I haven't changed my eating habits, but at least I'm seeing some sort of result from the near-daily walks.

 

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This morning I set about getting Lantus and figuring out the doctor situation from yesterday. So I followed my plan to call the new doctor's nurse first then the CDE I know at the clinic if that didn't work. I was prepared to raise a little "cane" if need be, but desperately hoped they would make it easy.

 

I called the new doctor's nurse wanting to speak to the nice one that I spoke to yesterday. Unfortunately, she wasn't in. So I ended up speaking to another nurse, who was quite rude. When she first began the phone call, she wouldn't let me speak to tell her about the issue which got the whole thing off to a rocky start.

 

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As a young twenty-something, I'm very in tune with my inner Facebook(er). So I've noticed the trend of posting 25 random things about yourself, although I haven't quite given into it yet. However, I decided after this 25 random things post to create my own 25 random diabetes things.

 

So here's my 25 Random Things About My Life With Diabetes:

 

1. Diabetes is sometimes the best thing that's happened to me.

2. It's also often the worst.

3. I rarely follow any type of diabetes diet, although I'm sure it'd help my control.

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Is there specific etiquette for thanking someone whose quick thinking and kindness kept you from falling flat on your face during a low? Are there any written, or unwritten, rules for this? Should I send flowers or a note? Maybe baked goods are appropriate, since that's what really saved me. I guess I should ask my ever proper Great Aunt Lyn for suggestions. She's better with social graces than Peggy Post and Miss Manners combined.
As a type 2 diabetic, I never had to worry about lows until I started insulin last year. Then, when they hit, it wasn't anything too bad or too low, and I always enjoyed the excuse for eating candy. Besides, they always seemed to strike in a controlled setting, like my office or living room, just steps away from a handy juice box. (READ MORE)

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Yesterday I revealed to the world that Symlin is giving me tummy trouble, to put it mildly. Just for grins, I got on the scale this morning and I'm down 4 lb. since the weekend. Most of this, we can assume, is, ahem, water weight (bwahahahaha!).
Yesterday was better than the day before, but today has been worse. I'm not nauseated and my appetite continues to diminish, but my tummy is making terrible gurggly noises and sending me to the potty more than I'd like. At least once today I thought about emailing Dr. C to tell him I can't handle it anymore and that this is no way to live or lose weight. (READ MORE)

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This is not the post I planned to write this morning.

 

Having a nearly one-hour commute (everyone flees the city in the summer, so traffic is much, much lighter) often gives me a lot of time to think. This morning I thought about what a crappy mood I had been in on Sunday and that it had carried over to this morning.

 

I tried to blame it on the kids: a four-day weekend trying to keep the kids entertained and not arguing and generally not getting on my nerves is exhausting.

 

I tried to blame it on AF: though she has left the building.

 

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By watching my wife's body language while she tests Charlie's blood sugar, I can get a good idea of what the number is before she tells me. A peppy vertical nod of her head generally means he's in range. No reaction whatsoever might indicate a number just out of range or in the low- to mid-200s. A quick shake of the head in anger is likely a number in the 300s.

 

Tight lips as if holding back the most foul word imaginable, eyes to the ceiling and a sharp gasp could mean only one thing. He had to be over 400.

 

Charlie was 480 before he went to bed last night. That would explain his complaints of stomach pain.

 

I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I mother-scratchin' hate this!

 

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