It's heeeeere...

And no, I don't mean a poltergeist.

I mean that, at long last, I'm going to see my endocrinologist. And I'm fretting about it, big-time.

Not just the standard fretting, although that's there. As usual, I'm stressing over what my A1c's gonna be, or what she's going to say about my pump download data. I mean, I *know* where I'm at. I've seen my numbers, I've been quasi-logging. I eat like crap - both in a regular person crap way, and a disordered eating kind of crap way - and my numbers are proof of that. I feel sick about it, as I always do before an appointment. But there's more to it this time.

You see, it has been a year since I've seen anyone from my endo's office, and even longer since I saw the doctor herself. A year. Sure, I had a baby. And went down to a part-time schedule at work. (Ha. Part-time in salary and butt-at-desk hours only. I'm still doing the same job, performing the same functions.) And moved to a new neighborhood. I'm still freelancing too, of course. But still. Going so long without a visit really drives home how much attention and time I've been giving to my diabetes. Hint: not a hell of a lot.

At what point do we - as diabetics, as patients, as people - prioritize our disease? I know I don't. I'd rather spend time with B or L, read a book, watch a movie, take a nap...I don't know what in the world I wouldn't rather be doing than logging or weighing food. I mean, I test. I duly bolus. I wear my Dexcom 24/7. But I have NEVER done a basal test. I'm only 50 percent confident about my carb/insulin ratio, or my sensitivity factor. This is SWAGing to the nth degree, people. Everything's kind of a guess, and then I bat cleanup when  my squint-and-shrug methods put me in the 300s or the 40s. I'm a diabetic pinball, and I know it. Pretty soon, my endo is going to know it and give me the stink eye, as she rightly should.

This is no way to take care of myself. I know this, just like I know I feel better when I'm in range, just like I know that I NEED to take better care of myself for L's sake. But good fucking grief is it incredibly hard to put what I know into practice and muster the energy to do more.

Eleven months

Oh, my sweet little child. My stubborn, pretend-laughing, big-grinning, drooly-kissing sweet pixie girl. You're eleven months old today!

The past month has been one of many changes, and it blows my mind how quickly things are moving.

You're clapping now - for yourself, for others, for no reason whatsoever - and you cheer when you've successfully (and unsuccessfully) stacked your rings, when you hear any level of enthusiasm from mom and dad (yes, you ARE the best sweet potato eater!), and whenever there's a lull in the day (best boredom-crusher ever). It's joyful and simple and pure, and I could watch you do it all day long.

You're waving! Waving to the world, from strangers on the subway to Jack and Lucy. And oh, how crushing  it is when you can't get Lucy to wave back to you - I'm sure you'll pay her back a hundredfold once you're walking, right?

You give high-fives and kisses on request, and you're working oh-so-hard on copying the sounds your parents keep saying over and over and over again. You get where the sounds come from, and that is fascinating. "Jack" is a sound, and "SSSSSSnake" is a sound, and you get that. My brain's going to melt out my ears when you start saying actual words, babycakes.

YOU ARE CRAWLING LIKE A BOSS. You've yet to get up on all fours, but you would give any Marine a run for his money on the army crawl - your tiny little arms drag you all over your room from toy to book and back again. You're as relentless as a zombie. A cute zombie, sure, but a zombie.

I want to memorize every second with you, my teense. Every perfect, ridiculous, wonderful second.

I. Love. You.
xoxo
mama

It's that time again...

I just registered for the JDRF's Manhattan 2012 Walk to Cure Diabetes - it's not until September 30th, but Team Hoffmanderson is getting ready to roll. We want to beat last year's astounding fundraising total!

Who wants to be my first donation? Every penny counts, and it counts double if you get a matching donation from your employer!

Better than popping a can of diet Pepsi...

I mean it's not a LOT better than the crack-fizz of a new soda - I'm not crazy - but hot damn is snapping that orange lid off my NovoLog satisfying.

Awwww, love you too Edgepark

I like that we're friends!

OneTouch is still a courtin'

Not content with sending mailers about how awesome OneTouch is for pumpers, it has now stepped up its game. A couple days ago, I got an email detailing their "By invite only - an exclusive offer from OneTouch": Passport for Pumpers is an exclusive new program from OneTouch designed to reward all pumpers.

And by "reward," they mean $5 copays on test strips for 6 months:

I find this fascinating. In my 18 years with diabetes, I've never felt so heavily marketed to! I swear, if it's not because of the Medtronic/Bayer development, it has to be the proliferation of new diabetes gear like the iBGStar. The Big Boys of diabetes equipment must be shakin' in their boots at the thought of losing their cash cows to a competitor.

The lesser evil

I had pizza for dinner last night. And by "pizza for dinner," I mean "I was battling blood sugars all night long." As is usually the case, I managed to slide into range just as I woke up for the day. Unfortunately, I also had another common pizza-dinner side effect - the Bonus Low.

I wake up with a normal BG, do my usual pre-shower bolus, and have all the normal levels of insulin on board. And some days, for no reason I can fathom, my blood sugar then crashes on the subway ride to work. This morning was one of those days. I felt a little floopy and dig a fingerstick on the train. This little sucker stared back at me:

Rat bastard low.

I rooched around in my bag...no glucose tabs. So I suspended my pump, and looked more thoroughly. I took items out and put them in my lap, searching high and low for my little tube of tabs. But there were no tabs - I had committed the cardinal sin of diabetes. I didn't have anything to treat a low with me.

I then had the unenviable choice of trying to problem-solve my way out of this disaster with low brain. The floopiness had settled in right as we were pulling into 34th Street. My stop was 7th Ave/57th Street. Would it be better to get off the train immediately and then negotiate my way through an unfamiliar stop and crowds to find an exit toward food OR should I gut out the low - pump suspended - and see if I could get to my stop where I knew exactly how to get to carbs as efficiently as possible?

Shaking and sweating and feeling rather dizzy, I opted to gut it out for the next few stops and just get off where I knew I could grab a banana the minute I got to street level. I closed my eyes and held very, very still so as to mask as many low feelings as I could, and tried to be patient as I waited for 7th Avenue to roll around. When it did, I made a beeline for the shop at the top of the stairs, and peeled and scarfed down a banana the second I got my hands on one.

Once I was safely seated at my desk, I became furious with myself: I didn't have tabs with me and I wasn't wearing medical ID. I had the presence of mind to suspend my pump the minute I felt weird, but that seemed to be the only thing I got right. What if the train had been delayed in the tunnel? What if I'd fainted or had a seizure? What if my blood sugar had crashed even further, rather than steadying at 50?

It's a small comfort to tell yourself that if it had gotten worse you could have asked for help - could have  begged strangers for candy from their pockets. But what if they couldn't help? What if there were no lucky LifeSavers in a backpack or spare apple in a lunchbag? What if I'd gotten off the train at 34th to find food and then collapsed on the platform?

I don't know which of my options were the lesser evil. Should I have asked for help first? Jumped off the train right away? Or was I right to try to make it to a place I knew would have what I needed? What would you have done? In the end, I'd put myself at risk and I was just incredibly lucky it didn't have a terrible outcome - carrying tabs and wearing ID is Type 1 Diabetes 101. I feel like an idiot, and like I failed myself bigtime.

Who knew?

Apple and apricot puree + oatmeal soaked in rice milk + a splash of cinnamon = a baby dinner that tastes like liquefied oatmeal cookies.

Seen in Duane Reade

I'm impressed that the iBGStar is already out in drugstore pharmacies! (aka, WHY does it take a million years for advertised products to show up on shelves in Brooklyn?)

And yes, the pharmacist seemed weirded out when I whipped out my phone for a pic.

From Very Low to Verio?

When I was canvassing Twitter for opinions on the Verio, Stacey mentioned DME:

Duh. I'm embarrassed to admit I'd completely forgotten about the magic of DME (durable medical equipment) coverage. It had been so long since I'd needed to wave that wand that it hadn't even dawned on me to try it.

I finally called Edgepark yesterday to see if the meter and its strips would be covered - true to its label of "magic," they were. I should be getting the meter and strips on July 3rd, when my next 3-month shipment of BG supplies is scheduled.

Not a moment too soon, in my opinion. This meter weirdness is getting rigoddamndiculous:

Can you read that?? "LOW GLUCOSE BELOW 20mg/dl"

But I didn't feel that awful, so I retested. 23?! But! But!

Third time's the charm. I felt 63. Not "LOW." Not "23."

Seen on 3rd Avenue in Bay Ridge: Father's day?

I would not associate this man with Father's Day OR paint-your-own pottery.

Twenty percent, my Aunt Fanny

Photo #1 was taken at 11:06pm. Photo #2 was taken at 11:07pm. I'm gonna go out on a limb and say my blood sugar didn't rocket from 21 to 77 in one minute - and I washed my hands before doing either finger stick. At least my Dexcom number (unpictured) prompted a retest that and landed result #2 before I started freaking out about hypoglycemia unawareness.

There is a huge disparity between those numbers. It's unacceptable. Twenty percent margin of error, eh OneTouch? My ass.