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Diabetes has had us back on our heels and off-balance since school started. Charlie has had very high blood sugars. In turn, we're doing a lot of guessing. Guessing is not a great strategy when dealing with a major disease. Such is life with diabetes.

It is during these times that diabetes likes to send a message. It likes to bring you down to size and remind you that you're not in control. Just as we were about to make changes to deal with the constant highs, the unexpected sound of panic lifts me from my chair.

"Carey! Juice box now!!! He's very low!!!"

I pop from my chair like a firefighter responding to an alarm and grab two juice boxes. I can hear Susanne's voice growing louder as I make my way upstairs.

"CHARLIE! CHARLIE! I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP!"

"CHARLIE!"

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I knew he was high when I walked in the door;

His body was twitching, there was nary a snore.

His complexion was rosy, his hair dampened black;

I knew he was high before the pricker went "clack!"

The horrible number stayed like a tattoo,

Spitefully showcasing 392.

With insulin active, we gave it an hour

And whispered a prayer to a higher power.

I awoke from a dream that Obama had won

When Susanne said, "Carey! He's 421!"

I stumbled to his bedside, my wits on the fringe;

Susanne poured juice and loaded a syringe.

I pinched some plump flesh on the back of his arm,

Inserted the needle, then set my alarm.

2:30 am - I walked through a fog,

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I watch as a girl with braces sets down a tower of pizza boxes at lanes 18 and 20. I shift my eyes to Charlie, who has just launched a bowling ball overhand onto the wood floor baseball style, scaring the children in the neighboring lanes. I watch him manipulate the air like a mime; steering the ball off the bumpers to the left then to the right before pumping his fist in victory.
"I got eight!" he yells excitedly from about 15 feet away.
I look over at the pizza again as the other kids start to filter in around the table. I look at Charlie. Charlie looks at the pizza. Charlie looks at me. I look at him. Like a dog at the dinner table, Charlie takes one more look at the kids munching on the pizza. (READ MORE)

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To the families of special-needs children all across the country, I have a message: For years, you sought to make America a more welcoming place for your sons and daughters.

I pledge to you that if we are elected, you will have a friend and advocate in the White House.

Gov. Palin, I can't tell you how much this means to me and my family. For eight long years it felt as if we didn't have a friend in the White House. Phew! Thank you for being my friend. What a relief. I have to be honest, I wasn't expecting that. I too am a parent of a special-needs child. My 6-year-old son Charlie has been living with type 1 diabetes since he was a baby. 

As my friend, I'm sure you and Senator McCain will lift the restrictions on federal funding of embryonic stem cell research the moment you take office. That's what friends do, right? Friends are there for you when you need them most.

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Type 1 isn't known as an adult disease. Until a few years ago, I didn't know anyone who called my diabetes Type 1 Diabetes. It was Juvenile Diabetes, Childhood Onset Diabetes... You get the gist. And when I was a child, I never thought about diabetes as something adults had in spite of the fact that I knew several Type 1 diabetic adults during my youth.
Anyhow, today, I was thinking, there should be some rules for being an adult with Type 1. Perhaps you'll think of some to add to the list I've come up with.
H is for How to be an adult with Type 1.
1. Test even though you're busy. Log even though you're busy. Bolus even though you're busy. Are you sensing a theme? As an adult, rule #1 is pay attention - even though you've got a lot of other things going on. It's a challenge, but diabetes needs to be a priority. (READ MORE)

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I'm often told what a wonderful mother I would make.
I'm often asked if Bob and I plan to have kids of our own.
My answer is usually something along the lines of "Who knows? Maybe someday we'll decide to adopt or foster children, but it's not likely I'll be giving birth anytime in the future."
This is around the time in the conversation that I get "the look." Sometimes, the person will express out loud what "the look" says so clearly. "It's the diabetes, isn't it?" (READ MORE)

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I am on the floor of my brother's living room. My three year old nephew in my lap. He is reading to me about elephants and tigers, complete with animal sound effects. His body presses against my insulin pump, which in turn presses against my hip. I had almost forgotten that diabetes sits with me, even in these gorgeous, irreplacable moments. An unwelcome resident of my body, my mind, and my heart.
A little later, my nephew comes out of his bedroom and stands in the middle of the kitchen. He has a block tucked into the waistband of his pants. He pulls it out and starts pushing imaginary buttons.
I ask "What are you doing, Milton?"
"Giving my medicine, like Aunty Coley," he responds. (READ MORE)

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I am not a religious person. I was raised a Quaker, which has directly influenced how I feel about religion. I understand people have faith, I respect it, I just don't.

 

But when I read about the family in WI who allowed their daughter to die due to untreated type 1 diabetes, preferring to pray for God to heal her instead, I was absolutely livid. How could you allow your child to stop talking and walking and just think that's ok? Just think that God will make it all better?

 

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I was talking recently with a friend of ours whose twelve year old daughter was just diagnosed with type 1. As much as I love my friend, her attitude toward her daughter and her daughter's diabetes scared me a little. She uses the phrase "It's that simple," quite a bit. For example, she recently informed me that she told her daughter 'Sit your butt in the chair and test your bloodsugar. You have to do it - it's that simple.' She continued by telling me that crying about diabetes is not tolerated in her house. (READ MORE)

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While waiting for Olivia to take her swim test at Clara Barton last week, I was eavesdropping on a couple of girls standing in front of me. They scared the crap out of me.
They were both talking about how they hated having to take insulin because insulin makes you fat. "It's true," one girl said, "I read it on the internet." The other girl was amazed, but believed her readily.
Then they started discussing how they both let themselves run high - so high that their meters just say HI - in order to maintain or even lose some weight. They both said that they rarely checked themselves, maybe checked a couple of times a week, lied to their parents about the frequency of their checks and made up bg readings. At this point, my eyebrows were practically at my hairline and I was trying to unobtrusively move a little closer so I could continue to listen. (READ MORE)

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