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

4:30 AM. Up at what seems like an ungodly hour, usual for this sort of event. What's making it harder than normal is the congestion dripping from my nasal passages into my throat that kept me tossing and turning through the all-too-short sleep period that happens when your Other Half first gets home from his work shift at midnight. On top of that, I seem to have strained my left arm so that my thumb and pinky are half numb as is a stretch along the upper arm just above the elbow. My right hand is going numb as I type -- can I trust the "99" that my Freestyle Lite just read out? Considering that for some odd reason, the scale is reading four pounds more than it did just before I turned in for the night (and I've neither eaten or drunk a thing during that interval), my skepticism does not seem unfounded. (READ MORE)

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You know the scene in It's a Wonderful Life when George goes ape shit on Uncle Billy when he loses the money?

 

"Where's the money you silly, stupid, old fool?! Where's that money? Do you realize what this means? It means bankruptcy and scandal and prison! That's what it means!"

 

That's how I feel right about now. I should be asleep right now but I can't. I'm too pissed. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why (bear with me - just a few more) why, why, WHY do we give him a big fat stromboli for dinner? Why???

 

"Why the stromboli you silly, stupid, old fool??? Do you realize what this means? It means high blood sugars and ketones and corrective needle injections and maybe no hockey for Charlie in the morning! That's what it means!"

 

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I blogged once last month. Sheesh. That's the least amount I've ever blogged since being with dLife.

 

Frankly, I'm not sure what the issue was. I know I was a little busy with the holidays, but nothing all that out of the ordinary. Actually, I think it was a mental thing. I sat around many nights thinking of wonderful things to write about, but chose fairly mindless tasks like teaching myself to crochet baby hats. Yes, it was mindless; I found the easiest patterns and watched a video and pretty much memorized what to do. I can now crank out a baby beanie in a matter of hours.

 

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Most of the teams who participate in our local JDRF Walk for a Cure are composed of friends and family walking for a child with diabetes. The child gets to be the focus of attention for a fun-filled day of raising awareness for that which normally separates him (or her) from his friends. There's also the smattering of company, corporate, and fraternal teams walking in the name of public service.

 

And then there's the third type of team: those who walk to honor the memory of a loved one killed by diabetes.

 

Memorial teams may be the fewest in number, but they serve as a poignant reminder of why we must walk - why we must continue to walk - and why insulin is not a cure.

 

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When I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes and congestive heart failure at the end of December 2008, I had the same thought that many newly diagnosed people have: why me?

 

Why me? What did I do to deserve being diagnosed with these health problems? Did I do something wrong? Did I upset the man upstairs? Why me?

 

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? After many long days and nights of self reflection and internal debates, one thought kept nagging at me.

 

Why not me?

 

Why should I be immune to diabetes and heart problems, and everything that goes with them? Why should my luck be any better than anyone else’s? Why should the deck of cards in the game of life be stacked in my favor? My answers were simple; I should not be immune; my luck should not be any better; and life's deck of cards should not be stacked in my favor.

 

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A bedtime number of 91 with 1.9 units active? Are you insane? We both know I can’t send him to bed with 1.9 units of active insulin. Am I the mouse to your cheese? The fish to your worm? You want me to give him carbs, don’t you? You leave me no choice and we both know it. This is why I hate you!

 

 "Here, Charlie. Eat this."

 

45 minutes later:

 

88 with over a unit active??? You do know it’s the season premier of Heroes tonight, right? What am I supposed to do with 88? You know I have to give him another slight boost. You’re setting me up, aren’t you? Or are you? No, you are. Damn it! This is why I hate you!

 

"Charlie, drink some of this juice."

 

Two hours later:

 

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I am a need-to-know person. You could call it curious or nosey. I'm an information junkie. All of which could explain my profession.

 

If I have high or low blood sugar, I want to know why. I want to know the reason behind it so I can adjust accordingly.

 

So, when I experienced nearly a week of pretty elevated blood sugars, I assumed it was due to my new infusion site. I have been trying (apparently unsuccessfully) to move my sites outward from the middle of my lower abdomen. After the first branch out recently, I tried to give the site some time to settle in. But after several days, I knew it was a lost cause. So I changed the site early and despite my desire to go back to where I knew I'd get good numbers, I moved outward again. Still, I got several days of unacceptable numbers.

 

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Getting dressed Monday morning I thought to myself that today was the day when my office-mates would finally ask me about diabetes. Over the weekend workers moved our entire 120ish-person workforce from one not-yet-renovated building into temporary quarters in the newly renovated building.

 

As I unpacked my box, I gingerly tacked my "cure diabetes" pin from Beth onto my cube wall near my computer screen, my bag of emergency Jelly Belly's went onto the open shelf above my computer along with popcorn, granola bars, juice boxes and sugar-free cough drops. Something is bound to tip them off, I thought.

 

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Last week, while watching "Survivor" with my husband, I blurted out how upset I was that I'd never be able to be on the show.
"Why not?" he asked. "You know, because of my diabetes," I said.
He thought that was the funniest thing ever, and if you knew me well, you'd think that was funny too. At the time, though, I was serious. My diabetes was holding me back from being a contestant on "Survivor."
Hubby patted my on the shoulder and said, "You just keep telling yourself that, honey."
The truth is, he's right. It's not my diabetes that keeps me from being on the show, although I don't recall there ever being a diabetic Survivor, and please, correct me if I'm wrong. The fact of the matter is, I'm a wuss.
For starters, there are the creature comforts that I have come to enjoy. Things like a roof over my head, my Select Comfort Bed, 500-thread count sheets, and feather pillows. I would not make it one night camping, let alone having to make my own shelter. (READ MORE)

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Olivia has a tendency to run high after exercise. I don't know why, I just know that she does. What we usually do is have her eat something light an hour before practice and bolus her a little more than usual for the carbs eaten - usually 30% more. It seems to work, although like many things with this stupid disease, what works one day might not work the next.

Last night, Olivia got home from soccer practice and said she'd taken out her site because it was hurting her when she ran. I told her that was fine, but that she should take a shower and we'd put in a new one when she was done. This was around 7:15.
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