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I just got home from playing two softball games tonight and I am not very happy. The first thing on my mind is that we lost. On top of that, I just tested my sugar and I was way too high...300 to be exact. "OH MY GOD!" I was mad! I could have sworn that I took the necessary steps before the games.
Let's back up to the pre-game diabetes ritual. "Let see, I don't want to eat too much food before exercising." Tonight, I choose chips and dip and a bagel. "Ok, time for a shot of insulin." I factor in what I just ate and how many hours the games will last. "Six units should hold me over". When I get to the ballpark, I test my sugar and it's 131. I'm happy; but, just to be on the safe side, I gobble down a banana and some orange juice so I have no chance of getting low. (READ MORE)

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I just got home from playing two softball games tonight and I am not very happy. The first thing on my mind is that we lost. On top of that, I just tested my sugar and I was way too high...300 to be exact. "OH MY GOD!" I was mad! I could have sworn that I took the necessary steps before the games.
Let's back up to the pre-game diabetes ritual. "Let see, I don't want to eat too much food before exercising." Tonight, I choose chips and dip and a bagel. "Ok, time for a shot of insulin." I factor in what I just ate and how many hours the games will last. "Six units should hold me over". When I get to the ballpark, I test my sugar and it's 131. I'm happy; but, just to be on the safe side, I gobble down a banana and some orange juice so I have no chance of getting low. (READ MORE)

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I just got home from playing two softball games tonight and I am not very happy. The first thing on my mind is that we lost. On top of that, I just tested my sugar and I was way too high...300 to be exact. "OH MY GOD!" I was mad! I could have sworn that I took the necessary steps before the games.
Let's back up to the pre-game diabetes ritual. "Let see, I don't want to eat too much food before exercising." Tonight, I choose chips and dip and a bagel. "Ok, time for a shot of insulin." I factor in what I just ate and how many hours the games will last. "Six units should hold me over". When I get to the ballpark, I test my sugar and it's 131. I'm happy; but, just to be on the safe side, I gobble down a banana and some orange juice so I have no chance of getting low. (READ MORE)

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I recently solicited questions and got a taker (whoo!). katdiego asked: "Hi Julia, My daughter is almost 11, dx'd at age 6, wears a pump. I'm curious about puberty. At what age did you start noticing a monthly trend? What can I expect? I had heard that girls start showing an increase in insulin needs monthly for quite some time before they actually start to menstrate. And what about teenage rebellion? Does your daughter still take care of herself? Any advice on keeping you child engaged and conscientious about their diabetes care? Has she experienced burnout? I apologize if you have talked about these things previously. "

She also gave me some lovely compliments, so thanks, kat.
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I must admit that I do wonder how in the *&%^ing world Broncos quarterback Jay Cutler manages his sugar during what I can only assume to be an intense several hours every Sunday. I asked a friend of mine, who has type 1, how she managed her sugars when she recently ran a marathon. They were, predictably, up and down. But from a novice's standpoint, it seems like she may have had more luxury of stopping to treat a low or deal with a high. There are no TV timeouts in community marathoning, though.

 

When a professional sports team – and all that comes with it including your job, sponsorships, advertising, ad nauseum – are essentially riding on whether or not you can throw a football to a guy 50 yards down the field without getting sacked, the stakes are a little higher.

 

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Charlie will play organized baseball for the first time tonight. He's super excited. It's also the first time he will have a coach other than me. I've coached Charlie's soccer team for the past few seasons.
This doesn't make me nervous though. It actually allows me to have my eyes on him a little closer now that I won't be dodging soccer balls launched at my head or wearing 40-pound children as slippers. But it does necessitate some fair warning to the coach regarding Charlie's diabetes. Not just for safety purposes. I like the coach and I don't want to put him in an embarrassing situation. (READ MORE)

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We're constantly weighing things. Weighing grams. Weighing negatives. Weighing the lesser of two evils.
On the soccer field at halftime I weigh the effect grapes will have on Charlie when his blood sugar is 260. I weigh this against the sadness he'll have if he's the only kid unable to enjoy a halftime snack. This one's easy though. I'll never ever subject him to exclusion.
But, how many grapes? I don't like that he's 260, but he's running around like a wildebeest for two hours. He should come down. Right? Well, maybe. He may also go up higher with all that adrenaline pumping. He may just stay the same somehow and then plummet later. I can't bolus him and risk a low.
But there's that difficult decision again. The rest of his teammates are reclining on soccer ball pillows and popping grapes like Julius Caesar and I've allotted Charlie a measly three. (READ MORE)

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I have enough trouble managing my sugar when I take my daily walk, I can't imagine being a person with diabetes who is also a profressional sports player, or a body builder or even someone who decided to participate in a triathlon.

 

For some reason, the idea of someone like Doug Burns, who is Mr. Universe, managing type 1 diabetes is easier to accept than someone on a professional sports team. It seems like a professional body builder has more time to stop, test and adjust if need be. Or, maybe I just don't know that much about body building.

 

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I'm sure I would have had a huge goofy smile on my face watching Charlie play baseball even if he was free of disease. But something about watching the kid with diabetes out-hustle every other kid on the field, just made my heart burst wide open with pride.
He wasn't the fastest. He didn't hit the ball the furthest. He didn't throw the hardest. But sweet lord, that little firecracker played with passion.
Planted on the pitcher's mound, he became an instant fan favorite by throwing his body in front of sharply hit line drives destined for the deep edges of the outfield. The parents and coaches laughed as he looked like a hockey goalie under assault, flopping around on the ground, making save after save.
Before practice, I wondered what to do with the pump. (READ MORE)

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He lunges from left to right, securing his black Pumas against the goal post and suffocates the bright-orange hockey ball before the marauding yellow team can squeak it past him.

When the whistle stops play, he glances over to make sure we're watching. Happy as a clam behind his helmet's cage and bopping his head up and down like a parrot.

"Way to go, Cholly!" one of the fathers yells, slouching comfortably  in his folding chair.

"His name is Charlie," his son says, stressing the "arlie."

"Well here in Philadelphia, we say Cholly," he says proudly, adjusting his thick gold chain around his deeply tanned neck.

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