Sunday, September 3, 2017

Thursday, July 20, 2017

They Don't Train You About This Stuff

#theydonottrainyouforthisatdiagnosis
#nightchecksdothematyourownrisk

There was no time for a thought to flicker in my thought feed, as I dropped to the floor like a 140 pound sack of potatoes.

Last week...

It was 2-ish a.m.  I had just checked Joe's blood sugar and turned off his bedside lamp and was traversing my way around and through what looked like laundry fields, hills, and mountains.  The laundry - some piles clean, some dirty, and some were possibly unknown (clean or dirty or both) is a typical scene in Joe's room these days.  He does his own laundry.  I think he has a system?

Back to me...

I was maneuvering myself through the laundry landscape and came upon a crumpled up large blanket.  I decided to walk on the blanket pile.  The pile was large; it looked soft; it looked safe.  One step onto the blanket and my right toes hooked into a metal laundry basket catapulting it up on end to impact my right shin, tripping me.   The laundry basket then falls to the ground in time for the top metal edge to absorb the impact of my anterior thigh.


Do not underestimate the impact of our day-in-the-life.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Confidence in the Desired Outcome

The title...I think that means "hope".

Where has the time gone?  He is starting high school in the fall.  He's been living with, living well with t1d for like 11 years now.  I've been typing away on this blog on and off over the course of  7 years.

Graduation from Middle School
Woodchuck (I think normal people call it a "diabetes bag") has evolved from a camouflage-murse to a gray kinda-like messenger bag to a  royal blue Nike string-strapped backpack.  This new bag, well...it's not as convenient for me to assess supply needs, as everything is just jumbled up on the bottom.  Joe prefers it though.  It looks like what many of his friends carry.

NIKE Woodchuck

He wears a medical ID now; dog tags.  It's a must as he traverses the community without me present. I expressed the importance of having some sort of identification on him...you know, in case.  It's hard to phrase things like you might need help if you go so low that you can't talk...a.k.a. you are unconscious or maybe having a seizure...So I just kinda mumble through those moments.  He knows.  He knows he may need help at some point.  The ID is worn daily; no reminders needed.

Joe.  Joe seems pretty typical to me.  He is checking his blood sugar regularly.  He boluses for snacks and meals.  He doesn't appear uncomfortable with his diabetes-ness.  His CGM and POD are on his arms.  They are visible often.  He performs his care in front of his peers.  This is where I think an early diagnosis maybe has helped us; helped Joe.  He knows no different.  Having "something" has been his norm.

Me.  I go from this elated feeling of 'WOW...he's a teenager and he's still doing pretty well with the daily grind of managing t1d.'  My life has gone from micro-managing blood glucose levels, carb counting, bolusing, pump-site inserting, CGM inserting, blood sugar boosting 24/7 x 365.  Now, I assist with CGM insertions only.  Joe does the rest.  Occasionally, I check in on his self care with a "what's your number?" or a "did you bolus?".  I am pleasantly surprised by his response to a "how many carbs are you counting that as?" and his reply is within 5 grams of my calculation.  There is a huge relief in all of this.  He can participate in sports, solo, with minor d'-sasters here and there; these are learning experiences.  Each season he becomes better and better at handling the rigors of t1d and activity.  I say all of these things and then it sneaks in; the fear.  Fear of nights, of driving, of college.  Eleven years ago, when he was 3, I couldn't imagine us here.  He is thriving.  This is what I hold onto as I look forward to the next several years.

A day-in-the-life of hope...confidence that Joe will grow up happy and healthy and live a long life.