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Went to the elementary school art show last night. Lots of lovely art hanging from the walls, displayed in the cafeteria and in the classrooms. Paper mache dragons. Ceramic tribal masks. Robots made from junk. Seems Charlie's series on oceanic creatures urinating in the wild didn't make the cut. Whatever. I guess the art teacher and I will agree to disagree on what is art. I didn't see one thing getting peed on.

 

Seeing Charlie interact with his little classmates is a major highlight for me. Especially on a night like this where there's a little red carpet buzz in the air. Kindergarten girls with their tiny voices, saying "hi Charlie," in unison as they pass him in the hallway, absolutely makes my day.

 

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My pump sites have just not been cooperating lately.  No matter where I put the canula - it ends up hurting.  A lot.  Enough so that I complain about it. 

 

To give you an idea of what it takes for me to complain - I am a girl who has had external fixators drilled into a bone in my arm for eight weeks and who refused pain killers (other than Tylenol) after two days.  I'm not a sissy.  Not at all.  So these sites are causing me more than a little bit of turmoil.

 

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Turns out my dinner-time debacle last night wasn't my fault.
While I blamed myself for a blood sugar reading of 500 on my afternoon candy grazing and failure to bolus, my new medical accessory was actually the culprit.
Thinking the candy was the problem, I bolused for dinner and went on with my evening. I considered that my site was the problem, but it wasn't red nor itchy nor anything else out of the ordinary. Two hours after dinner, when I was still 500, I changed my site. (READ MORE)

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For a while there, I was really starting to think Charlie was going to use his super diabetes powers to keep the flu at bay. I was hoping for some irony. Maybe the kid with D would be the only one in the household left standing.
No such luck. Charlie is on day two of what has become known as "The Great Ass Whoopin' of 2008." Or the somber yet simple, "March Sadness." I estimate that we'll see the light at the end of the tunnel by sometime in July.
Now Charlie has even more numbers surrounding him. And this has me confused.
Susanne tells me he's 102 and I think, wow! Pretty good considering he has the flu. Unfortunately she's referring to his body temperature and not his blood sugar. "Oh, blood sugar? You don't want to know that," she says. (READ MORE)

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A new study in the JAMA indicates that omega-3 fatty acid supplements may keep at-risk kids from developing type 1 diabetes. The study found that kids who did eat fish, nuts or other sources of omega-3 fatty acids had a 55% less chance of developing diabetes. (I linked to the National Review of Medicine site because JAMA charges you a $15 fee to view their articles. Ouch.)

Sometimes I'm not sure what to think about these studies. Olivia was diagnosed when she was not quite three years old, so I suppose I could have given her Omega-3 supplements. I guess I'll have to figure out how to incorporate them into the two little girls' diets - I don't know that they'll eat fish and that's an expensive food to waste if they don't like it. Plus the whole mercury thing...honestly, some days I wonder if anything is safe to eat any more.
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I think Mousie nailed it in her comment from my last post. The age of 6 really is shaping up to be a time of new understanding. And yes, Charlie is clearly dealing with diabetes on a new level.

 

These days he's showing signs of wanting more control. He now loads the test strip into the meter, though he's not ready to test himself yet. He's also started reading labels for total carbs. A tug of war over a bag of crackers usually ensues when I try to make sure he's right about the carbs before I enter it into the pump. He's getting frustrated.

 

Charlie: Can I eat now?

 

Me: (pulling) I just want to check the carbs!

 

Charlie: (pulling) I told you! 16 carbs!

 

Me: (pulling) I. Just. Want. To. See. The.

 

Me: Shit!

 

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In the life of a diabetic, blood draws are fairly common. I can remember being a little girl in my pediatric endo's office waiting for the inevitable butterfly needle after the appointment. My mom and I claimed that the nurses in the hospital were always rougher than the ones in my normal physician's office. It seemed like those quarterly blood draws hurt more and more every time.

 

But I was always used to them. Needles never have been my problem. Maybe it's because before I even begin to remember things, I can remember diabetes. Needles and those blood draws are so common to me that I know no other way. But even though I'm not scared of needles or opposed to the routine draw, I still hate the way it all happens now.

 

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I was on day four of my site. The longest I had gone with a site so far. Fasting was 275. Ouch. I checked twice just to be sure. Either three days for a site was my limit or I was super nervous about the medical tests I was to undergo later in the day. It could have also had something to do with the ice cream night cap I had the night before, but I'm more inclined to think it was nerves since my two-hour post breakfast reading was just as disgusting. (READ MORE)

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This weekend, for the fourth time, my back went out of whack. What'd I do? Simply bent over the couch to put a Christmas tree decoration into a box. The first time it happened: I was leaning over my pump supply box for new supplies; the second time, leaning over to put a new trashbag in the trash can; the third time, leaning over the grocery cart to get items for check out. Notice a pattern?

 

It was just four months ago the last time it happened. At least each time it happens the symptoms aren't as bad as the last. At least this time I had more movement than I did last time. This time I could move around enough to cook for the kids and do a few chores around the house. The injury happened on Friday and by Sunday I was out shopping with No. 2, though I was still pretty stiff and had to lie down as soon as we got home.

 

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Snapshots:

 

Fingertips that look dirty, but they're just scars.

 

Connect the dots patterns on my thighs.  Pump site marks.

 

The scoff when I pick up the cake.  And eat it too.

 

Big blue bruise on my arm from that insulin injection.  Ouch.

 

268 on the screen.  58 on the screen. 99 on the screen.  Two out of three ain't bad.

 

I told you I hate you.  My bloodsugar was low.  Guilt.

 

My back hurts.  Not kidney failure, yard work. 

 

Spot in my vision.  Nope, just something in my contact lense. 

 

Foot tingling.  It was under your butt, dummy.

 

Cure?  Nope, cinnamon and disappointment.  

 

Hope?  Always.

 

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