Correct The Low.

I wake up, unaware of what time it is, where I am, or what's happening. All of my faculties are rendered obsolete with the exception of a single need: correct the low.


My hands are shaking so impossibly much as I fumble on the nightstand, turn on the lamp, and unzip the meter case. My lancet trembles in my hands. I push it onto an area of free fingertip, pressing on the button to release the needle. A single drop of blood pools onto my fingertip as I struggle to stop shaking long enough to place the blood onto the test strip. 1...2...3......4....(this new meter is really slow).... 38. Sweat is dripping down my face and back, and I am struggling for breath. I nearly fall to the floor as I fight to lift myself off the bed, walk the 2 feet to my minifridge and grab some carbs. I am so drained of energy by my trip that I stumble and fall back on the bed, laying down and trying to eat the food. I cannot sit up, and in the lack of saliva, the food tastes like cardboard as I take bite after bite. I finish eating the carbs, but I still lack any strength. I turn off the lamp and fall back asleep, a tear falling down my face as I acknowledge that Diabetes has gotten the better of me for yet another night.

Hypothetical Wall-Kicking Session

UGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Warning: This blog is purely a rant.

Today is one of those days where I just want to kick and scream, cry, and throw something at the wall, all at the same time. Because today is one of those days where, no matter what it seems that I do, Diabetes has bested me.

This morning was perfectly fanfreakingtastic. I woke up with a Blood Glucose of 76 and was happy with where I was at. I've been eating cereal for the past few breakfast's, as opposed to my usual breakfast of eggs and toast. There are no eggs here, in Statesboro with Josh, hence eating the cereal. I should probably go get some but I am stubborn. So this continuous eating of cereal was probably my first mistake. Ever since getting Diabetes I have tried to stay away from eating cereal because I like to eat copious amounts of the stuff. I love cereal. And when you have Diabetes this is a problem. If you bolus for a certain amount of cereal, then you should only eat said amount of cereal. Eating more than Bolused-for amounts of cereal leads to higher-than-intended blood sugars. I tried giving myself 3 units of what Novolog I have left to cover me, however this usually leads to mid-afternoon lows and so I switched it back down to 2. However, 2 is usually too little, and what I really need to be giving myself is 2.5. However, my Novolog pen only does insulin in whole units. My new Humalog pen does half units, however, if you know how frustrating insurance companies can be (namely Government-owned ones) then you can sympathize with me when I say that by no means do you ever want to be wasteful because there's no way of saying how much crap you'll have to put up with before you can get your next prescription refill. So I'm doing my best to make do and use what I have in order to avoid having to deal with *shudder* CVS and their God-forsaken special people any sooner than I have to. What a mess.

I've found that Diabetes is usually a good indicator of what is and isn't good for you. Special K usually leaves my blood sugar reasonably happy if I bolus and eat accordingly. On the other hand Captain Crunch Crunch Berries usually turn my Diabetes into the equivalent of a PMS'ing Bipolar woman. You can guess which cereal I had this morning when I checked 4 hours later and my BG was at 157. Perhaps it may seem like I'm being too hard on myself, 157 isn't that bad after all, but I have enjoyed near-perfect Diabetes management for the past month and had managed to bring my BG average down to 87. Now I have watched as all my past month's work has been undone in the last week and a half after a string of respective highs has sent my BG springboarding back towards an average of 108. Thanks, Diabetes.

So Josh, his roommate who's name is coincidentally also Josh, and his girlfriend Kara and I go to a Mexican Restaurant (this word brought to you by spell check -- why can't I ever spell that word right??) today for lunch and in an attempt to be good I order the taco shell-less salad instead of a burrito and chips like everyone else. Another question - why is the most healthy item on the menu always one of the most expensive? I give myself one unit of Novolog to cover whatever carbs might be in the salad and to calm down my raging blood sugar and I feel really good for the rest of the afternoon. I check my blood sugar again at 6:30 and smile to see that it is at 82 - hurrah! I've done something right! Lunch was late today so I didn't really feel like having a whole other meal for dinner. I opt instead for a 19-carb ice cream bar and decide not to give myself any insulin, seeing as, being full, I'm not planning on eating for the rest of the night, and I'd end up going to bed lower than I'd like. 1.5 hours later I feel a little funny. My heartbeat is racing a bit, I feel kind of shaky... am I low? That would make absolutely no logical sense. I go to check my BG just in case.

187.

W.T.F?!
That can't be right. I wash my hands again.

150.
Come on, One Touch, what is your problem? What kind of excuse do you have to have for a margin of error like that?

I check again.
Error 5: Not enough blood on the test strip.
So much for not being wasteful.

Take 4.
177.

I end up feeling frustrated and defeated. I have no earthly clue what the hell my Blood Sugar really is, why I feel funny, and I do not  understand why a 19-carb ice cream bar that would usually have no negative effect on my Blood Sugar sent it skyrocketing over 100 points. I just want to collapse on the floor into a ball of self pity and cry.

Diabetes is a mystery to me. Sometimes my Diabetes behaves perfectly, responding to my careful treatment with respect and good behavior. And other times, despite my best attempts, I get days like this, where it seems that no matter what I try and do, I can do nothing right. I don't know why my Blood Sugar is acting so crazy lately. Is it because I am nearing the end of my honeymoon period and need to up my basal? Is it because is is nearing a month since I started using this pen of Novolog and the insulin has now lost its potency? Is it because it's that time of the month? Is it because Diabetes is a freaking lunatic? Are the Diabetes Gods looking down on me with a magnifying glass in the full sunlight and laughing loudly amongst themselves?

I do not understand.
I could be less hard on myself but I cannot afford to. I want to be one the few to live over 50 years with Diabetes, to experience no complications. It is a near impossible task, but if I am one of the few to have gotten Type 1 Diabetes, than why on Earth can't I be one of the few to live a long and healthy, complication-free life despite of it? But it is so much easier said than done. I have to up my efforts, have to prevent myself from slipping up. I do not want to go through days like this. I do not want these highs to happen. I realize they are sometimes unavoidable but why, how, when I am trying so hard? Diabetes control isn't rocket science. But sometimes I think that it's harder. There is no set formula to figuring out Diabetes, no tried and true way to manage it, that works for everyone. Like fingerprints, everyone's Diabetes is unique. And eating low carb can work but I want to live my life, too. I can't just live my whole life eating only salad and broccoli. What kind of a life is that? I want to enjoy food like I always used to, but it is so hard to find the balance when you have to continuously try harder to count carbs, stay on top of your swinging basal rates, emotionally manage the stress of all the bad days. Watch out, Diabetes. If I have to deal with another week of this, first thing I'm doing post-Fourth of July is going to the store, buying myself a nice food scale, and counting my carbs like it's nobody's business.

I hate Diabetes.
The feeling appears to be mutual.

Diabetes: Episode at 2 AM - The Hypoglycemia Strikes Back

Yesterday was a highly productive day, as far as Summer Break days go.
I spent the morning blogging and then drove over to our moonwalk warehouse down the street to wash my truck.
And boy, did my truck need washed.
I got my truck in September of last year -
I have not washed it once.
It actually didn't look that bad, all things considered... well, so I thought, until I actually started washing it, that is.

After I got it hosed off and got a good coat of soapy cleaning solution rubbed in, I realized that my truck had been so dirty that you could hardly tell how white it really was. The difference was akin to the difference between a pothole and the Grand Canyon. I didn't even know that white could feasibly be that dirty while still managing to be white. The start of my cleaning left streaks of pearly white crisscrossing all over the tepid grey coat of dirt that had settled on my truck for far too long.

I had figured I wouldn't be out there too long, so I didn't bother with sunscreen. I just stayed out in the brilliant, blinding hot Floridian sun with my white-white pale skin.

And fried, unsuspectingly enough, as I scrubbed and windex-ed, washed out the tailbed, vacuumed, waxed and launched an all-out offensive attack against any lovebugs that dared settle on my newly-cleaned car -- err, truck.

Sure, I could have saved myself the trouble, the effort, the slight hypoglycemia, and the searing sunburn by just running my truck through an automatic car wash for $5. But there's something purely satisfying about a clean, hand-washed truck. That and I was being a total cheapskate. That and I'm clearly a masochist because I just love getting highly painful sunburns in addition to testing my blood glucose and giving myself insulin shots.
I felt a little shakey after being out in the hot sun for at least two hours, so I took a break to let my car dry before applying the waxing spray. I tested my blood sugar and it was at 67; not too bad, but I didn't want to let that 67 slip into anything worse since I planned on being out there a little longer. I munched on a small granola bar and sipped a Diet Coke that I had brought along with me in the shade.

After I was convinced that my car was clean enough to be presented to the Queen, I stood back, admired my work, and drove home. It wasn't until about an hour later that I started to notice the painful sunburn developing on my arms, shoulder, neck and upper back. My blood sugar had also dropped to 57. Don't you just love your body sometimes? So I went ahead and made myself a quick dinner; tuna sandwich and an apple.
Low corrected, I let dinner settle and then was off - I have finally been inspired to work out again. I packed my meter and strips, lancet, water, a couple of snacks, glucose tabs, and glucagon kit into a backpack and biked over to the track. 2.5 miles of running-jogging-walking later, I biked back home. I ate a rice cake to stave off any low blood sugar and relaxed for the evening.
I tested before bed: 167. Kind of spiky. Hmm. I will admit to having snacked a little more than I should have. I only had a piece of fruit for bedtime snack since my sugar was that high, then gave myself Lantus, then went to bed.

My eyes flew open.
Mmmmphhhh. I muttered. Ugh.
The AC hasn't been working and the house is literally hotter than it is outside. But I am not much of a sweater, and I had woken up drenched - seriously drenched - in sweat.I felt like I had just been swimming in a pool of it. Conscience-Lacy suggested that perhaps I should check my blood sugar, just in case - now that I'm not waking up 5 times a night to use the bathroom anymore I usually sleep soundly unless low blood sugar wakes me up, which it has done only a few times before.
I turned on my bedside light and then realized how shaky my hand was. It all started to hit me. My heart was beating in my ears. I could hardly hold the lancet steady and it was two or three times before I could get a pinprick and slip the ruby red dot onto a test strip. 35. Mmmmkay, tired Lacy thought groggily.

Waaaiiit. Wha?

35? 


I had never been that low before. I had exercised at 5:30 pm. Maybe this was delayed hypoglycemia from the exercise.

But ohmygosh.

35.

OHMYGOSH.

WTF.

My body suddenly seemed to realize, "Hey, woah, wow. 35. I'm gonna be a real pain, as I always am, and start freaking out on you now. More than usual." And I suddenly felt so weak that I didn't think I could have gotten up to get to the kitchen even if I had wanted to. It was paralyzing. I thanked God I had decided, on one of my OCD cleaning raids, to put my rice cakes in the drawer in my nightstand next to my bed. I whipped the drawer open, struggled to undo the plastic, and munched on one as fast as I could.

Then it was official. The beast had been unleashed.

NEED.FOOD.NOW.

I waited a sec to regain some strength and was off to the kitchen like a marathon runner.

FOOD!

I grabbed peanut butter, I grabbed cereal, I stuck cereal in peanut butter, I ate the cereal in the peanut butter, I grabbed graham crackers, I ate graham crackers with peanut butter and graham crackers with peanut butter and blackberry jelly, I ate scoops of peanut butter with jelly, I ate just scoops of peanut butter, I ate just scoops of jelly.

Oh, how I ate.

In actuality, I didn't actually eat all of that in such copious quantities as I made it out to be, but yeah. I still ate way too much. I over-corrected. And I knew it.

As I scooped spoons of peanut butter in my mouth, I knew that I had no business eating food anymore, I had already corrected myself more than enough.

But it was like... I didn't care.

I have divided my excuses onto two hands:

1.) On one hand, hypoglycemia makes you want to shove all food, any food, in your mouth, as soon as you can get it.

2.) On the other hand, as guilty as I feel to say it, hypoglycemia is the closest I can get to feeling like a normal person again.

To feeling like you.

To feeling like I can eat what I want, when I want, without inhibitions, without the constant carb-calculator, counting away, in my head 24 hours a day, without the nagging: "DIDYOUTAKEYOURSINULINYESITOOKTHEDAMNINSULIN" conscience of mine.

And it's a really crappy feeling.
I hate it.
I feel degraded, I feel defeated, I feel beaten.
I feel like diabetes wins in moments like that.

I HATE IT! Can you possibly understand how intolerable it is sometimes? I hate feeling guilty every time I eat something. I used to feel guilty about eating because of the amount of calories, what it would make my body look like, but that is no longer top priority! I still care, but that can no longer always come first!

Now it is because of the carbs, the blood sugar, the amount of insulin I'll need, my meal plan, what my Doctors will say, my A1C, my entire well-being. Every time I eat, it is not just the carb calculator in my head but the consequence calculator, adding up all of the consequences of my actions, what I have chosen to eat, advertising my shortcomings, blaring them in my face, on full-screen TV.

I hate that Diabetes, like an unwanted guest, has entered my life uninvited, unasked for, has taken over everything. I try my best to control it but it is times like this that I feel like Diabetes is the real boss. I hate that Diabetes makes me feel bad about doing something that I am naturally supposed to be allowed to do - but because my body has failed me - I can no longer do, well, naturally. I cannot eat a sandwich without thinking of it. I cannot mindlessly spoon peanut butter into my mouth any longer. Gone are the days when I can eat free cookies at Publix like I always used to, even though I am no longer 12. And then that makes me want to cheat, because not being able to eat normally makes me want to pretend like I can eat normally any chance I get.

And you know, Irony would have it that I would have never done those things if I hadn't gotten Diabetes. I never wanted to. But now it's not because I don't want to, it's because I can't, and I no longer have the choice.


Live or die Lacy, Live or die? Is sometimes the only option that I seem to have now; the one and only, terrible question that Diabetes will ever ask of me. What kind of a choice is that?

Now that I can't, I wish from the bottom of my heart that I had dared to live more before my diagnosis. Even if it was living in that simple way. Even if I had appreciated my good health more, my ability to eat without the hassle, the strain, the calculators, the insulin, the guilt, The Diabetes.

Yes, I over-corrected for my low. I knew that I would get a high from it. I knew better. My mind was telling me I knew better the whole time I sat there, over-correcting. I knew the consequences. I knew I would wake up and my blood sugar would be something along the lines of 229. UGH. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,

And yet I did it anyways. 
I am human, I do stupid things, I succumb to weakness.

And I don't want it to happen again, but I can't honestly tell you if it will or not.
Because I am new to this, I am full of mistakes, I am Lacy Elizabeth Ball and I hate having Diabetes but I have to suck it up and live with it anyways, because to not live with it is to die.

So yes. This time, at 2 AM, the hypoglycemia struck back.
Who knows when it will strike again? Will I be ready?

That Awkward Moment When You're Dressed as Cinderella at a Stoplight

Well, it hit me this weekend that I have been out of school for a week as of tomorrow and I have been an absolute waste of life since then.

Like seriously. Something about finally being done with high school makes me feel like a loser every time I spend the whole day sitting around in PJ's watching TV and doing semi-productive things on the computer all day. In high school it is as if you are expected to do things like that, but now my conscience seems to be telling me, "You are acting like a LOSER! STOP BEING A WASTE OF LIFE!"

For the most part, I mainly ignore my conscious and go on my merry business.

And yet - yet -- it's true.
I haven't filled out the rest of my scholarship forms, remained mainly lethargic, my truck still sits out in the driveway unwashed, and I've taken to cleaning my room in my boredom so, needless to say, it's OCD spotless.
I guess I am simply enjoying not having to take 18 credit hours, not doing any summer classes, and simply treating myself to the all-too-rare feeling of (almost - as close as I'll ever get) having absolutely nothing to do.

But this week I had it with the constant conscience-nagging and managed to arouse myself from post-high school lethargy. It started with a Cinderella job this morning, because making money is an awesome way to spend time in a productive manner.

In case you're unfamiliar with my job, allow me to clue you in. I work for my mother (it's a love boss-hate boss relationship) and we do party entertainment. I dress up as a clown, or princess, or batgirl, a number of things. I face paint, twist balloons, and do children's parties. Overall it's an awesome job, including the awkward stares you get as Cinderella when you're at a stoplight and the catcalls when you're in 7-11 in a cowgirl outfit. (I sympathize with the Elvis impersonator).

So, today I was Cinderella for a group of adorable little girls.

Enter Diabetes.

I was in the middle of painting today when it hit me.
Trying to face paint an already squirming kid with a shaking, low blood-sugary hand is, to say, difficult.
I had been cautious as I am nowadays and brought my "emergency" pack of rice cakes with me. I got one out and munched on one as subtly as I could, cringing at how unprofessional I must seem.

"Cinderella is fine." I told the girl I was face painting. "She is just fine. She just needs to eat because her fairy godmother forgot to give her time for breakfast."

Ugh.

I've been so teeter-totter, back and forth about my emotions about having Diabetes that lately the best way I can describe it is saying I have "mixed feelings". Some days I'm happy, hopeful, inspired, other days I'm sad, angry, downtrodden, discouraged, annoyed, other days I'm just plain neutral. I wonder if I'll always feel like this? Part of me thinks, yes, I just might.

Don't get me wrong, I can accept my condition, it's just the equivalent of an emotional dinosaur at times. You can't take it all at once; It's a lot to handle. But filling up my schedule helps, as does just remembering to take things slow.
Diabetes is a day-to-day experience, each day bringing new struggles and triumphs.
I can only take it one bit at a time, smile at the little things, be thankful for being alive another day, and fight my battles one by one.

My battles for this week:

- Wash the car
- (Minor) shopping trip
- Pack for GA
- Valencia Community College Graduation - Finally!
- And, best of all, a trip to GA this Sunday!

Disclaimer: No, Not Low - Just Annoyed!

Herm... lately I have been hearing a lot of debate over whether or not Type 1 Diabetes should be considered a disability.

Well, I don't know what the general consensus is, but here's my opinion:

yes.

I think that diabetes should be considered a disability, absolutely.

This might sound weird, I know. Why would I actually WANT to have an illness that is considered a disability?
Honestly, it has nothing to do with being angry about having diabetes or feeling sorry for myself. Nor is it a matter of pride.
I'm not saying it because I hope to get special treatment, or perks for having a serious - or at least potentially serious - medical condition.

It's just, what irks me is that many people would write off diabetes type 1 as a non-disability out of ignorance.
Out of this ignorance they have no idea what Type 1 diabetics have to go through on a daily basis, the complications that can inevitably arise simply for having diabetes, and the consequences of what would happen if diabetes was not treated properly. Diabetes is a lifelong condition, and it does have restrictions. I cannot enter the services, I cannot drive a public bus, and there are some careers that I would be restricted from entering or would not be suitable for me to pursue. I need to take breaks from my schedule to check my blood sugar, eat, give insulin injections, etc.

Doctors honestly don't know why a person gets Type 1 - but it is generally agreed that it is not because of lifestyle, as is usually the case with Type II. Yet Diabetics type 1 are pooled with the high-risk groups in insurance companies as if it were a punishment; as if it WERE their fault that they got Type 1. This is ridiculous! Type 1 diabetics can help becoming diabetic no more than cancer patients can help getting cancer. (Note: I'm drawing a line between getting cancer and sitting in a tanning bed every day.) I understand, yes, insurance companies are a business, and it isn't very good business sense to insure a diabetic. But charging me three times as much as a normal person? That's not even reasonable. That's more than it would cost to buy the insulin myself from Canada. Really?

Back to disabilities.

A disability is defined in the dictionary as:

a. The condition of being disabled; incapacity. Something that disables; handicap.
b. Something that hinders or incapacitates.
c. A disadvantage or deficiency, especially a physical or mental impairment that interferes with or prevents normal achievement in a particular area.
4. The condition of being unable to perform a task or function because of a physical or mental impairment

Diabetes is typically not considered a disability. This is understandable; with insulin, diabetics can pretty much function like normal.

But let's face it - Diabetic Type 1's are COMPLETELY insulin-dependent. Insulin is NOT a cure, it is only a treatment. But without it a diabetic type 1 will die. As of now there is no cure for diabetes - there may never be.

A pancreas that does not function is quite the disadvantage, isn't it? Isn't it a deficiency? A vital organ in me is not working properly, if it is even working at all any more.

When I was lying on my bed sick, throwing up every few minutes, unable to keep any food or drinks down, I felt pretty disabled. When I passed out on the floor and had no strength to get up and get back to bed, I was pretty incapacitated. When my legs were turning blue and I had lost so much weight that you could see my ribs, my elbows, my hip bones, when I looked emaciated - that wasn't normal. When I was going into a coma and dying because my blood sugar levels were through the roof, I was restricted from doing much of anything. And you know what? That could happen again, any day, if I were not to take my insulin.

Without insulin, I have a condition that renders me unable to eat without killing myself - unable to perform a task or function because of a physical impairment. A faulty pancreas is, indeed, something that disables, since it will kill you if it goes untreated.

Granted, there is no infallible test to determine disability. There is no golden standard. However, an individual is considered to have a disability if it significantly limits one or more of an individual's major life activity. People tell me diabetes doesn't limit me - well, I'm not trying to gain sympathy or pity for saying this, but it does. Diabetes does limit me - or has the potential to limit me - in several major life activities. Without insulin, I could do nothing.

Life is usually like normal for me, as long as I remember to bring my little cooler of insulin with me wherever I go, and make sure I never forget it. That little cooler with JDRF (Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation) printed on the side is like a constant reminder of what I now have to live with, telling me, "Hey, remember me? Yeah, I'm your diabetes. Don't eat too many carbs or I might have to kill you. P.S. don't forget to take your insulin injection. Have a nice day!"

Insulin is like the diabetic's version of the wheelchair, and without it we are paralyzed. I think if you are so dependent upon something that you need it to function in normal life and you need it to live, that that's quite a disability.

Perhaps what I'm asking for is simply a little more respect from people and places like insurance companies for what I have. I wish people would stop treating diabetes like it was something that deserved a punishment because it was my fault for getting it. I wish people wouldn't stereotype diabetics, I'd love it if people became more educated before opening their mouths and saying un-educated things.
For some reason lately, this subject has just seemed to rile me up. That's all.


What are your opinions? Do you think that diabetes should be considered a disability, or no? I won't be offended if you disagree or completely bash my opinions - it's expected, I am perfectly capable of agreeing to disagree. So please, feel free to leave your thoughts - simply be respectful when you do. I'd love to hear them all. Thanks!

Goodnight, Don’t Let the Hypoglycemia Bite

In case the title of this post is less than self explanatory, let me begin by saying UGH. Last night was awful, let me repeat, AWFUL.

The going out to celebrate my sister’s birthday was wonderful, fantastic, awesome and fun.

We met at Red Lobster and I greeted Jennifer, my older sister, Matt, my awesome techy brother-in-law, Caroline, and Christopher, my adorable niece and nephew. Caroline was staring in rapture at the lobsters, crying, “Lobsters! I want to eat the lobsters!” And Christopher was asking when he could play Angry Birds again on Jen’s iPhone. I just love kids. It was too funny. We made our way to the table. I had a card and a bouquet of daisies in hand for Jennifer and one humorous waiter stopped and asked, “Flowers? For me?” “Just for you,” I told him, grinning ear-to-ear.

We sat down, and a very charismatic waiter came over, gave us menus and asked us what we’d like to drink. Jen and I both ordered un-sweet tea (yay! I wasn’t alone!) And we looked over the menus. I was pretty free to eat any of the fish I wanted; turns out both of us had done our research looking over the nutrition facts on the menu online and most of the fish dishes had no more than 10 carbs. Lobster had the least, but, well, that was a little out of a poor high school/college student’s price range. Either way I was happy, though, because this even left me room for croutons in my salad and a cheddar biscuit! (Be excited. This is exciting for me.)

I decided on the broiled flounder (10 carbs) with broccoli for my side, and it came with a Caesar salad – I just had them put the dressing on the side. Everyone ordered and Matt presented Jennifer with a present (He’d given her several all day, decorated the house, and made a pancake breakfast for her too; how sweet is that!) Jennifer had wanted a new laptop for her birthday but since that wasn’t affordable at the time (Don’t worry, I will win the lottery someday and get new laptops for all of us) Matt got her a new hard drive, bigger memory and all the new components to basically re-do Jennifer’s laptop and make it better and brand new! I told Matt I needed one of him to follow me at all times, because I am completely technically un-savvy and he is probably better with computers than anyone I know.

Our food came, I gave my insulin shot no problem, and we talked lots. We had the waiter take a picture of all of us and three waiters even came over and sang to Jennifer for her birthday! Overall, it was a great night, and tonight we are celebrating some more, so with all of the tempting birthday cake and ice cream, I am going to have to exercise some serious carb-smart choices and self-control. Can you say “Practice makes perfect”, anyone? (That’s my official cover-up excuse).

However, when I got home, I remembered I had yet to take my Lantus (long-acting insulin) shot. That was no big deal; I could take it now. I prepped the insulin pen (called a “pen” because it literally looks like a pen, at least I assume that’s why) and stabbed myself in my spot-of-choice. I pressed the button. Nothing happened. Usually how the pens work is you dial in the amount of insulin (measured in units) that you want to give yourself, inject the pen into your skin, and then press the button at the top of the pen, which goes down as you press and the insulin is being injected into you. Well, the button wouldn’t go down. It was as if it was jammed.

I’d heard needles can get jammed sometimes, so I removed the needle, took it off, replaced it with a new one, and somewhat half-heartedly had to RE-inject myself. But the same problem occurred. Either I was holding it wrong or pressing the button wrong, or… I don’t know. I managed to get all of the insulin in and the button pressed down all the way, but I noticed quite a great deal of insulin left at the surface of my skin and I knew I probably hadn’t gotten all the units I needed. So I gave myself some more, just in case, but the button still seemed to be having issues and I noticed still quite a bit of insulin on the surface of my skin.

Well this isn’t really a problem when you are using Novolog, the fast-acting insulin. After all, as I have said, Novolog is completely done working after about 2 hours, so if you inject it wrong, just keep an eye on your blood sugars and two hours later you can do a virtual do-over of any mistakes you’ve made.

Lantus is a different story. Lantus lasts 24 hours and if I mess up my dose, my blood sugars could be all over the place for the entire day. This meant that I had to test my blood sugar even more than usual and keep a special eye on it for the entire 24 hours that the messed-up dose lasted. This meant that I wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight because going to bed with wacked-out blood sugars can be a very dangerous thing to do. So I set my phone alarm for 2am, 4am, and 6am and had my bedtime snack. I tested my blood sugar before bed and it was 124, not bad but a little on the low side. Diabetics are prone to extreme blood sugar lows in their sleep and usually you want a bedtime level of 130 before going to sleep at night. But I turned out the lights and tried to sleep anyways. I found I couldn’t go to sleep. I was worried I hadn’t gotten enough Lantus so my blood sugar would be too high. But I tested my blood sugar at around midnight and instead found it was only 79.

Uh-Oh. I might have given myself TOO much Lantus…

Well this was too low for me to go to bed care-free tonight. Anything below 70 is considered a true-low and can get dangerous. If your blood sugar gets too low you can die, just as if it gets too high you can die as well. So I hated to snack so late at night, but my life was more important than my waistline. I went to the kitchen, grabbed an apple (15 carbs), ate it, waited 15 minutes, and tested my blood sugar again. It was up to about 86. That was still too low for comfort. I went back to the kitchen while chomping on a glucose tablet and got a half-full glass of milk and a chocolate rice cake. My poor blood sugars would probably be too high now, but I would rather them be on the high side than the low side before bed. I tested again; 219. High, but I could go to sleep knowing I probably wouldn’t die of hypoglycemia, at least. This is a legitimate, probably over-paranoid fear of mine nowadays. But try putting yourself in the same situation and see how you react. It’s different that way.

My phone alarm went off at 2am and I shook myself awake. I tested my blood sugar again; 415. Oh goodness that was high. If it’s that high I am supposed to give myself an insulin shot. I struggled with this decision because I really wasn’t sure I wanted to bring my blood sugar levels back down again if I had given myself too much Lantus. I was still afraid it might make them too low. But 415 really was very high; in the end I gave myself the insulin shot, and went back to sleep.

I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart beating fast. I had slept through my 4 a.m. alarm and it was now 4:54 am. I was shaking. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

My blood sugar was way too low.

Test it right now, the little voice in my head told me.

I tested it: My blood sugar was only 47. I should not have given myself that insulin shot.

I took two of my remaining glucose tablets and ate those. I had left the rice cakes next to my bed just in case of low blood sugars tonight, so I didn’t have to try and walk out to the kitchen while I was low. The dietician had suggested doing that; I was glad I had taken her advice. I ate two rice cakes, but I was still feeling shaky, though well enough to walk to the kitchen. I got a glass of milk again, as well as two small pieces of candy that I still keep stashed away, partly because I can’t bear the thought of never being able to eat candy again and partly for low blood sugar emergencies. Well, this was enough of an emergency for me. There would be no dying on my watch tonight!

My waistline cried *goodbyeeeee* as I munched on my early-morning snacks. But I felt much better. My heart was no longer beating so fast, I was no longer shaking. At 5:27 a.m. I re-tested and my blood sugar was 151. Good. I fell asleep, slept through the 6 a.m. alarm and woke up at 8 a.m. to test my blood sugar for the morning. The results of last night’s hypoglycemic-binging was a very tired Senior suffering from a severe case of Senioritis, a blood sugar of 347 and a whopping 6 units of Novolog before breakfast, but hey, at least I had lived through another night. I gave myself less Novolog because I didn’t want a repeat of last night’s blood sugar, today. I took an early morning bike ride out at the park this morning to fit in my daily exercise and hopefully burn off all of those carbs I ate last night… ugh.

Let’s hope the diabetes-Gods are smiling upon me today and that my insulin pen behaves tonight; PLEASE?!

The Beginning.

Warning: This post is a very detail-heavy description of my going into diabetic ketoacidosis (then unbeknown to me.) I'm just letting you know so that you can read at your own discretion.


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This is the beginning of my new life.

My life with Type 1 Diabetes.
And I hate it.

Last Friday was prom. It was a wonderful night. I'd never felt so beautiful. I had a gorgeous red mermaid dress, my hair was curled, I did my makeup all nice, and I just felt all around lovely. We got there and it was so nice to see everyone. The Seniors went to Macaroni Grill, we took tons of pictures, laughed and smiled and the girls exclaimed how beautiful everyone was. We got to prom at the beautiful Longwood Community Center. But something felt different this year. I'd get up to dance, but... I just... wasn't feeling it. I'd go through the motions, have fun, move around, but my mind and my body seemed like two disconnected entities. And I just felt like I lacked the energy to do much of anything. It was so strange. I hate to go to dances and just sit. But I must have ended up sitting for the better half of the dance. The food looked so great; cookies, cheesecake, ice cream, fruit, punch. I would love to eat it now. But I found I had no appetite. No desire to eat, no desire to dance. And I was so thirsty... I must have downed about 10 bottles of water, and that's not an exaggeration.

I got back to my friend, Kaitlin's house afterwards, and didn't even have the energy to unpin my hair or take off my makeup. I felt ill but figured I'd be fine in the morning, if I just got some sleep. A few glasses of water later I collapsed into bed and was out like a lamp.

The next morning I woke up feeling the same; ill. But even worse so. I got up and nursed some water, then sat on the couch and just... well, sat. Staring out the window, breathing slowly, deeply. Sure I'd feel better later. I had some toast and some orange juice and convinced myself that I felt okay, so I left Kaitlin's for my own house. I had to get ready for work. I got dressed, got in the car. I was late. I felt ill again. Weak. And thirsty. Why was I so thirsty? I tried to drink water but my mouthy felt furry and fruity. Water was gross. I drank some Ginger Ale, but though it wasn't as bad as the water it did little to quench my thirst. My nerves were frazzled. I got to work and spent 2 hours face painting kids, sweating and shaking. At least I had a chair to sit in. Someone brought me water and I tried to drink it again, but that fruity taste wouldn't go away, and it felt rough on my tongue, like the equivalent of liquid sandpaper.

Then I went home, got changed, and went to go see my best friends whom I hadn't seen in years. It was supposed to be a happy day; a wonderful reunion between us. I was still feeling strange, ill, but I had an appetite at least. I was thinking some protein or something nice and solid would be good. Like a chicken sandwich. We had barbecue chicken pizza for dinner instead - not exactly my ideal choice considering the state I felt in. The sweetness made me feel a little more sickly, but I ate it. I felt better for a while, the illness alleviated. Water still felt a bit funny, but I just ignored my body and had a good time with friends. 


Then later we had these giant eclairs; yum! But suddenly, the feeling came back again. The illness. The more I ate, the worse I felt. I drank more water. It wouldn't do. Felt even funnier. I was so thirsty. Cheese. Cheese was good. And juice. That might help. I drank about half a carton of orange juice. I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up and I just knew I wasn't feeling well. You know what I'm talking about. The feeling you get when you wake up on a morning you're sick, and you're body is telling your mind, "Oh boy, you're really in for it today."


Yeah.


I knew that if I got up, one of two things was going to happen. a.) I was going to feel like I had to puke and most likely end up puking some time that morning. b.) I was going to puke my guts out immediately. I groaned inwardly. This was such an inopportune time to be sick.


My friends got up and made waffles which sounded fantastic. They tried to get me up but I pretended to still be sleepy, while in reality I just felt sick to my stomach. I stalled getting up for as long as possible, but at my friends' urging I did, slowly and painfully, emerge from my sleeping bag. 


I stumbled to the kitchen, poured some more orange juice, and a hot, delicious looking waffle was set in front of me.


I did not want that waffle.

Something wasn't right.

I got up slowly, then quickened my steps.

Right to the bathroom, where I threw up, over and over again.

I sat on Taylor, my friend's, floor. It was all I could do. She brought me club soda (disgusting) and I fell asleep with a pink snuggie over me.


Kelle had to leave to go back to North Carolina. I felt so bad I couldn't give her a better send off except for hugging her weakly and telling her I was so glad to see her, and apologizing for being sick. If apologizing for being sick sounds strange, you should know that I have always apologized a lot, for everything, even if an apology isn't necessarily due.

I woke up after napping on the floor, hoping to find some respite from the sick. Taylor was leaving, which meant I had to go to. I dragged myself to the bathroom for a shower, then got out and laid on the bathroom floor. So weak, so sick. I felt pathetic. Worthless. Helpless. 


When I drove home, I stopped at 7-11 to get drinks because I felt terrible. I stumbled into the store, grabbing a coke and a lemonade, not sure which would help, if either. I took my drinks to the front counter. "How are you?" The cashier asked. "Terrible," I said, handing her the money, grabbing my change, and running outside. I literally ran - and threw up, at least ten times, into the bushes next to my truck in the 7-11 parking lot.


A group of people passed me squatting on the sidewalk and I'm pretty sure they thought I was drunk. 

That experience was one of the most undignified moments of my life.

Through some miracle, I managed to make it home without killing myself.
I don't think I'll ever truly know how I managed to do it, either. God was really watching out for me that day.
I spent the rest of the day sick at home alone.
I lied on my bed, downing the coke, the lemonade was gross so I tossed it.
4 pm. Mom texted me angrily about not doing the dishes.
Euuuggghh. I heaved into the trashcan.
I had no strength to reply and defend my case, as to why the dishes had not been done.

I spent the whole day in bed and just hoped I would be better the next day. I had had the stomach flu two weeks ago and I honestly just thought that this must have been a relapse of it. I never for a second thought that anything else was wrong.
I never even had stopped to consider the two weeks' worth of random bouts of nausea throughout the day, the insane thirst, the having to pee literally 5 times an hour, it seemed. I didn't think about how strange it was that I got random stomach cramps, fell asleep in the middle of the day for no reason at all, that my legs kept collapsing in on me when I tried to go running on the track in the mornings, that I felt completely exhausted at even the slightest bodily exertion. That even carrying my party supplies, my face paint and games, into work was a difficult effort.
That I had lost so much weight that my bones were sticking out in all the wrong places.

It sounds stupid now, but I didn't stop to think of any of that.
Diabetes is not what you expect to grow up and find out that you have

My mother has always done a good job of supporting me and her through a brilliant work ethic and managing of finances. But we've never had a lot of spare money, not anymore, at least. We didn't go to the Doctor's, we didn't see the Dentist, we don't have healthcare. All of those things were luxuries we couldn't really afford and even if we made room for them in the budget, neither of us really felt that we needed to. We were fine, we were healthy. If we got sick we waited it out. We always got better. Hell, the last time I had been to the Doctor was when I was 8 years old. It might have even been longer.
So I figured this was the same. Just wait it out.
Like I had always done.

But the next day, I was still sick.
And not even slightly better, like you often are the second day.
Worse. Much worse.


I crawled to the kitchen in the early morning hours, convinced that the one panacea that I needed, immediately, that very second, was:
1.) Crushed ice
2.) A crushed ice Gatorade Slurpee.


I crawled on my hands and knees to get everything I needed to make it, then lost all strength by the time I got to the freezer. I threw up in the kitchen trash can and started crying. I must have woken mom up because I made it back to my room somehow. 

The whole day I couldn't eat, no fluids seemed to help. I thew it all up. Even the Gatorade. I kept vomiting, even when I was sure that there was no possible way that there was anything else left to puke - I through up over 20 times. So many times that the acid burned my mouth and throat so I could hardly speak without terrible pain. 


I texted my mom for a coke slurpie and then fell into a vomit-induced stupor, trying to sleep, drink, throw up, stumble to the bathroom, throw up, get drinks. I got my coke slurpie, my little piece of heaven, and managed to drink the whole thing. Then I began to get terrible stomach pain. I stumbled to my mother's room with my trash can. I was home alone. I couldn't find any medicine anywhere, I had no strength. I grabbed some Nyquil and took some of that; if I couldn't relieve the pain, at least perhaps I could sleep. I went back to my bed to await peaceful slumber.


But it didn't work. Because by then my stomach hurt so bad I couldn't stand it. I laid on my bed, literally begging God to make the terrible pain stop. I don't know what going through labor feels like, but if it's anything like I felt, I am in no hurry to have children. I actually remember convincing myself that people stopped by my bedside. I told them to go get me medicine that would make me feel better. Part of me knew I was imagining it, but scarily, another part of me had literally convinced myself that my neighbors had stopped by and they would shortly be returning with Maalox. 


I remember stumbling to my mom's room for some reason, but then I couldn't return to my bed. I sat there on the carpet. I remember being picked up and carried to my bed again. My legs started turning blue. I was bruising. Why was I bruising? Was this the flu? i had never had a flu like this. The stomach pain had worsened. The pain of it crushed me. Tears poured down my face. My mom had returned and I cried and cried and begged her and asked her when it would stop.

And then I remember very little.

I remember being picked up and put in the car. The world was spinning. A glimpse of sunlight, of green tree leaves, of a blue and cloud-speckled sky. We pulled out of the driveway and that's all I remember. Everything was black after that, and I must have lost consciousness. I have never lost consciousness before that day. I think I might remember making it to the CentraCare, but I simply don't know. I had strange hallucinations, dreams, memories, whatever you want to call them. I was on stretchers and there were doctors and everything was a mess, oh, everything was so tangled and messed up and nothing would ever be fixed. No one could fix this. It was impossible. What was this? That's what I actually remember thinking during that time. That something with me was so wrong that it could never be fixed.

And then there was black, then lights, and then an ambulance. I remember the dark night and a paramedic talking to me telling me I am at the hospital. I think I talked but I don't know. She asked me questions that I don't remember answering. She put an oxygen mask on my face.

And then I woke up.
Emergency Room, the sound of carts rolling through the hallways, multiple IV's hooked to my arms.
My weight, now only 99lbs, and the words "Diabetic ketoacidosis", then a foreign term to me, written on the whiteboard beside the bed.

Inches from death only hours before, with blood sugars over 900.
I had woken up, and I was alive.

Except that I had woken up into the wrong life.