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By shannon, March 9, 2010 10:28 am

There are a few things I want to write about today, but they’re not really interconnected.  So, I’m going to just jump from topic to topic.  Try to keep up

Today, I see Dr. S.  I’m not looking forward to getting my A1c because I know it’s going to be higher than last time.  I just hope it’s under 7% so that the baby progress can continue.  I’m strongly considering going back on Symlin.  I took it once before and had awful nausea, but I didn’t really give it a chance.  I stopped after a few days – mostly because we decided to start “actively trying to conceive,” which meant no Symlin.  Frankly, I wasn’t sorry to see it go. 

But now, I’m really trying to lose weight.  It’s my primary goal and I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.  I’ve got HUGE genetic factors working against me.  On my father’s side, which is the side I take after, there is not a single person under 200lbs.  I’ve always had to fight my body’s natural inclination to be heavy, but now I need a little extra help. 

The other benefit of Symlin is that it will help to reduce those spikes I get after meals AND reduce my TDD.  So, if I can handle a couple of weeks of nausea, I think it would probably help me.  I’m not looking forward to a form of MDI again, but I’ll deal.

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Next, I want to talk about Roddy Pippin.  We had some good news in our fight last week.  The Warden of the Jester III prison granted Roddy a few considerations:

1. He would be allowed to attend Sunday worship services – something he’s been denied since December.
2. He would have access to a telephone.
3. He would be allowed to change channels on the television in the infirmary (this one isn’t all that big of a deal since Roddy isn’t a TV watcher).

Unfortunately, these considerations were short-lived.  The prison P.A. said No more – “No more worship service for Pippin!  And no recreation, no law library, etc.”  The P.A. also said “Pippin is NOT allowed to leave the prison solitary confinement for the next 3 years and 8 months!”  This is not a disciplinary case issue.  So, we know that the prison P.A. is in cahoots with the D.A., but the question I have is this:  Does the P.A. have more power than the Warden?  Evidently, she does. 

There was a recent AP article done on Roddy.  While I initially liked the tone of the article, I don’t like what various publications did with it.  One, in particular, was the Dallas Morning News.  They created a headline that was not at all relevant to the article.  They did this to incite anger in their readers, and they succeeded.  I spent some time trying to respond to the nasty comments that followed the article, but most people were content believing a bunch of lies and exaggerations.  I’ve learned that it’s a losing battle with the press.  Unless/until the story breaks out of Texas journalism, it will never be told truthfully.

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Last, I want to talk about the unbelievable liar my body is making me out to be.  I sat in Dr. T.’s office last week (ironically the day my period was due) and told her how “regular” I am.  Hell, I am more reliable than a calendar.  Until this month.  I am now officially one week late.  I’m not-so-patiently waiting to have all of these tests done, which are dependent on my period.  But my period is MIA.  It’s so frustrating.

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By shannon, March 4, 2010 11:50 am

The scene:  A lab

The players:  Me, Phlebotomist (herein referred to as “Moron”), and a Supervisor

The Time:  9:14am

As part of my recent fertility consultation, I was instructed to have a blood test to determine if I carried the gene for Cystic Fibrosis.  Since I am due for my regular A1c draw, I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone (I hate that expression – who actually kills a bird with a stone?).

I walked into the lab, signed in, and sat down.  I always dread having blood drawn because I know that the inevitable battle will begin. 

<digression> Since my very first blood draw (that I can remember), I’d pass out.  Faint.  Hit-the-deck.  A few years ago, I had a very nice phlebotomist tell me that I have extremely small veins and that when having my blood drawn, I should always request a butterfly.  From that moment on, I never passed out again (as long as a butterfly is used).  I know some of you will think that this is a psychological problem, but I can prove that it’s not. 

Once, I requested a butterfly, and the phlebotomist agreed to use it.  Since I never watch the actual blood draw, I assumed that the prick I felt was the agreed-upon butterfly.  After a few seconds, I started to get that feeling.  The one where you see little black dots, begin sweating, and feeling very, very tired.  The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor.  She helped me back into the chair.  I apologized for fainting and said how strange it was because I NEVER faint when a butterfly is used.  She shrugged and turned away.

That’s when I saw it.  She didn’t use a butterfly.  When I asked her about it, she claimed to have “forgotten” that I requested one.  Bitch. </digression>

Anyway, back to today.

After 15 minutes, my name was finally called.  I handed moron the lab slips and my insurance card.  She instructed me to have a seat in Room 2 across the hall.  I did.  She came into the room and began entering all of the required information into her computer.  I waited.  Finally, she spoke:

Moron:  Oh, I see it was your birthday.  Happy belated birthday.

Me:  Thanks! (thinking this draw is going to be cake!  She’s actually nice)

Me:  As you can see, I’ve got two different lab slips from two different doctors.  Is it possible to send the results of my A1c to both doctors?

Moron:  (grabbing a clipboard with a release form) Sure.  You just have to sign this release, and we can send it to anyone.

Me:  Great, thanks.  I also have one more request.  When you draw my blood, can you please use a butterfly?  Otherwise, I’ll pass out.

Moron:  (looking at me like *I’m* a moron) I’ll need to look at your arm first because we don’t use butterflies on everyone.  What’s the big deal, anyway?  A needle is a needle.

Me:  Look, I’m not afraid of needles.  I’m a type 1 diabetic, so I’m pretty used to needles.  My issue is that my veins are really small, and with the bigger needle, the blood comes out too fast and causes my blood pressure to drop until I pass out.  Every time I’ve had my blood drawn here, they’ve used a butterfly.

Moron:  Well, I’ll have to look at your arms first. (indicating that she wasn’t going to use a butterfly unless hell froze over first)

Me: (really pissed off) Fine, but don’t be surprised when I pass out.

Moron spent the next 35 minutes trying to get the paperwork straightened out.  I repeated my original instructions that Dr. T. also gets a copy of my A1c.  Moron set up the paperwork to give Dr. S. the results of the CF screen.  Hence, the moniker, moron.

Finally, she wraps the rubber band around my arm and tells me to make a fist.  She pokes my veins to find her target.  Knowing what’s coming, I look away.  I felt the needle prick, and, at first, I felt ok.  I thought that maybe she’d listened to me and used a butterfly.  But, I started to feel that all-too-familiar sensation.  The last thing I heard was her clicking off the first vial and grabbing another. 

I came to on the floor.  Moron had called for backup.  They helped me back into the chair, gave me some juice, and waited.  After 10 minutes, Moron came back into the room with Supervisor. 

Supervisor: (taking one look at my arm) Her veins are tiny.  You should have used a butterfly on her.

Me:  I asked for a butterfly, but she refused.

Supervisor:  I’ll take it from here.  Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to get both vials before you passed out, so I’m going to have to prick you again.

Me:  You can prick me all day as long as you use a butterfly.  I wasn’t being a baby – this is just how it is. 

Supervisor: (after the blood draw was done) You’re all set.  You can wait here for a few minutes if you need to. 

Me:  (having already spent over an hour in the lab) I’m fine.  I really need to get to work.  I would appreciate it if you’d have a talk with moron about listening to patients.  This entire scenario could have been avoided if she’d just listened to me.

Supervisor:  I intend to.  We don’t like it when you faint any more than you do.

Me:  Thanks.

Comments (13)

By shannon, March 2, 2010 1:06 pm

Today is my birthday.  I don’t really feel older, but I am acutely aware that I am.  Today, I am 36 years old.  When my mother was 36, she had two (almost) grown daughters.  That’s some perspective I didn’t need this morning, but there it is.

I share my birthday with Dr. Suess, Jon Bon Jovi, Mikhail Gorbechev, Chris Martin, Daniel Craig, Karen Carpenter, and Reggie Bush. 

So, Brian and I spent most of the morning meeting with our new fertility doctor.  I admit to being a little (or a lot) overwhelmed by all of the information, but I’m optimistic.  I’ve got a full battery of tests ahead of me depending on when I get my next period (yes, guys, I’m talking menstruation – deal with it).  The good news is that I’m not really considered “past my peak” until I turn 37, so I’ve got one year left to get it done!

I have to find a high-risk OB, which is a little confusing because when I called my regular OB/GYN’s office (to find out which high-risk OB she prefers to work with), I was told that she handles high-risk patients herself.  However, I was also told that I would be “sent over to the diabetes center” at the hospital.  This sent some red flags waving, so I tried to clearly communicate that I am a Type 1 diabetic who sees an endo on a regular basis. Here’s the response I got:

“Oh, well, if you’ve already seen an endo, you probably won’t have to do the diabetes education class.”

Um, you think? 

I can’t stand it when people don’t listen.  Anyway, Dr. S. and I have talked extensively about how we’ll handle pregnancy, and I’m very comfortable with that.  I don’t want to throw another doctor into the mix when I’ll likely be seeing at least four of them on a regular basis.

Of course, I’d do just about anything to have a baby, so in the end, I’ll sit through whatever bullshit education for gestational diabetics they want me to.    

On a different note, last night, I spoke with Roddy’s good friend Bob.  Things are looking extremely grim at this point.  I’m becoming more scared with each day that goes by.  Roddy is suffering torture like I can’t even begin to imagine.  Please continue to keep him in your thoughts and prayers.

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By shannon, February 23, 2010 8:14 am

So, in a couple of weeks, I have my quarterly appointment with Dr. S.  For the first time in a while, I’m dreading this appointment.  I should be focusing on things like getting my blood drawn, having an excuse to get a pedicure, and figuring out what to wear.  Instead, I’m bombarded by images of what our appointment is going to look like.

I figure it will start with the not-so-good news that my A1c has gone up since last time.  I know this is going to happen.  Then, we’ll take a look at my Dexcom reports, which will clearly show how horribly I’m slacking.  Dr. S. will ask me what’s going on.  He won’t be critical, he’ll just want to know if there’s some reason for my shitty numbers and weight gain.  He’ll talk about basals and boluses, but that’s not the problem.  The problem is that I’ve been in such a funk that I really haven’t cared as much about diabetes.  My numbers aren’t crazy; they’re just not as good as they have been.

This is when I’ll probably lose it.  I’ll have to tell him that I really don’t feel the need or desire to work so hard since there’s zero chance of me getting pregnant accidentally.  I’ll say sure, put me on whatever meds you want (Symlin, Lisinopril, etc.) because it really doesn’t matter which pregnancy category they are.  And, I’ll cry.  I know I will.  I’ll probably make him very uncomfortable – he’s an endocrinologist not a psychiatrist, after all.  He’s also got two beautiful children.  So, I’ll sit there blubbering about the unfair hand Brian and I have been dealt. 

He’ll probably attempt to get the appointment back on track by moving on to the physical exam.  I’ll sit there like a good patient, breathing in and out on cue.  He’ll declare me “healthy,” and that will be that.  We’ll go back to his office where he’ll write prescriptions, talk about what I can do to improve, and schedule our next appointment. 

So, life goes on.  On the outside, nothing has changed.  I continue to breathe in and out on cue.

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By shannon, January 6, 2010 10:24 am

Last night, during a marathon Twitter session, I was chatting with Michael Hoskins, who writes The Corner Booth.  Our topic du jour:  “misconceptions that longtime T1s are the same as adult T1s.”

Since I’m an adult T1, I was intrigued by what these so-called misconceptions might be.  I mean, we all test (all the friggin time); we all take insulin; and we all think it sucks, right?

Sure, that’s all true, but there is so much more that goes into being a diabetic.  I began to think about my own diagnosis and how it was almost like the destruction of my entire world.  For my life (until then), I’d been able to live freely, eat what I wanted, and never give a thought to carbs and insulin.  I was totally ignorant of things like A1cs and ketones.  It was nice in my old world.  I handled my needle phobia with kid gloves (i.e., I never encountered a needle unless in a life-or-death situation).  I look back on my old world with fondness and longing.

I struggled with lots of different emotions after my diagnosis.  The biggest was fear.  But, not far off was the almost overwhelming weight of responsibility.  I had to learn so much about my new life, and I had to do it mostly alone.

So, when Michael made that Twitter comment last night, I immediately felt my back go up.  Was he implying that because I didn’t get diabetes while still in the single digits, I was somehow a lesser T1?  Did he mean that my struggles weren’t as bad (if not worse) than a child’s?  

I waited a few minutes and thought it through.  Knowing Michael from the D-Community, I knew that he wasn’t an “us vs. them” type of person.  He’d always been super-supportive of my blog.  So, my initial feelings of being offended faded away quickly.  Then, I became curious.  I asked Michael what he meant and what he considered “longtime” to be.  After all, it’s been 10 years since I got my bad news.

After some additional clarification, I went so far as to write that I feel like it is MORE difficult being diagnosed as an adult.  Aside from the fact that lots of diabetics diagnosed as children never remember their former lives, there’s also the fact that they’ve got 24-hour support from their parents.  The guidance and understanding (as well as some of the blame sharing) they receive makes for a better adjusted diabetic.  IMHO.

So, I don’t want to turn this into a “who’s the sickest” contest.  What I’d really like to read are some of your thoughts on this topic.  Do you think it’s easier to be diagnosed as a child or an adult?

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By shannon, December 19, 2009 8:23 am

It’s hard to believe it’s been just a week since we met,

Before you, I thought this is as good as it gets.

But since you came along, I’ve ditched the old tubes,

And the pump at the end, in my bra with my boobs.

And oh how those tubes loved to grab onto things,

Like doorknobs and pets and even earrings.

Now you, my dear Pod, you stick to my arm,

And that’s all you need; it’s the source of your charm.

Unlike my old pump, you’re not scared of things wet,

You’re with me in the shower or the tub with the jets.

So, as we continue to learn how we fit, how we mesh,

I’m certain I’d rather none other on my flesh.

There are times when I think of my old pump and smile,

Because it gave me many years and traveled many miles.

But our time together had to come to an end,

And I feel like my A1c will soon be on the mend.

So, even though I’m not religious, I think I’ll thank God,

For you, my new friend, my dear Omnipod.

Comments (6)

By shannon, October 31, 2009 7:49 pm

Last Tuesday, I made the oh-so-fun trip to downtown Baltimore for my appointment with Dr. S.  This was the first time I’d seen him in his native environment; I’d always had my appointments at a satellite office.

When I finally found his office (in a large Baltimore hospital), I signed in and waited.  And waited.  It seemed like I was waiting forever, but it was probably just twenty minutes or so.  I am very impatient.  At last, his office door opened, he peeked his head out, found me, and gestured me inside.

At this point, “normal Shannon” disappears.  The thing is, Dr. S. intimidates me.  Not in a “you’re scary/mean/ultra smart” kind of way.  No, my problem is that he’s just so cute.  CUTE!  So, like any immature girl, I get all tongue-tied around him and say really stupid things.  Or nothing at all.  I forget simple words like “ointment;” thank God for the “low blood sugar” excuse – I pull that one out of the deck frequently.  Then, there’s the blushing.  I’m Irish, and I have very fair, freckled skin.  I blush often, but not in a pretty way.  I turn tomato red.

So, here’s what happened on Tuesday.  Dr. S. went over my labs (good!) and took me back into an exam room for the usual once over.  He did the thyroid feel, heartbeat check, lung-deep-breathing thing (why do they make you hyperventilate?).  With each touch, I’m turning redder.  He even wonders if I’m having some sort of allergic reaction (hives).  Ummm, no, I’m just a silly girl.  But, then comes the foot exam.

I like shoes.  I like pretty shoes, with high heels, and don’t even get me started on boots.  I spend a lot of money on shoes (my recent acquisition of the most amazing pair of Manolo boots is epic!).  I forgot the point of this because I’m thinking about shoes.  Damn!

Anyway, I’m lying back on the exam table when Dr. S. lifts up my foot (clad in the aforementioned Manolo boots).  He attempts to pull my boot off himself (OMG!).  I tell him that they zip up so I’ll have to do it.  He made some innocuous comment about my propensity for “nice shoes,” and the blushing starts anew.  So, I finally get the boot off, as well as my trouser sock (sort of fish-netty), and we both look at my other foot.

“Do you need me to take both off?”  I ask.

“Um, yeah.  Don’t I always?”  He responds.

“You’re so high maintenance!”  I respond.  I have no idea where that came from, but (thankfully) he laughed.

So, with my boots off, he checks the pulse on my feet (very good), and does the sensation test (also very good).  He declares my feet to be in excellent condition, but comments on the indentation that the seam of my trouser sock is causing in my toes (obviously caused by my pointy-toed boots).  He’s a little concerned, and tells me that it could be a problem.

“If you tell me that I have to wear ugly shoes, *we’re* gonna have a problem.”

Laughing, he tells me that if I had any sort of neuropathy, he’d have to pull the plug on my shoe obsession.  However, since my feet are fine, I’m spared a sentence of “ugly shoes.”

As if I needed more incentive to stay healthy.  Dr. S. is one smart endo.  Did I mention how cute he is?!?

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By shannon, October 27, 2009 11:30 am

Yep, it’s that time again.  I’m off to see Dr. S. for my three-month appointment.  This one could be a little awkward because of the recent issues (i.e., DexCom), but I’m hoping we can move past it pretty quickly.  I always liked Dr. S., and I appreciate his medical style.

Since I had my A1c done last month (along with the antibody tests), I’m not sure what we’ll talk about today.  I’m sure he’ll order more bloodwork and probably review my DexCom reports.

Tomorrow will probably be an interesting post . . .

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By shannon, October 23, 2009 10:16 am

CGM Wars: Get Ready to Rumble.

For over a year, I used Minimed’s Continuous Glucose Monitoring System.  It was a logical choice since half of its technology was already built into my pump.  For over a year, I dealt with highs and lows much better than I’d ever done before.  My A1c dropped to 6.8 – the lowest it had ever been.  I didn’t go low as often, and when I did, I knew it was coming.  Sometimes.  See, I thought the wide variations between the CGM and my meter were normal.  I knew it wasn’t 100% accurate, so I accepted the false highs and, far more often, false lows as part of CGM life.  I dealt with the painful, bloody insertions as “a small price to pay” for better overall health.  But, as time went on, I began to trust it less and less.  It was just wrong a lot.  The constant calibration errors and “Meter BG Now” demands were seriously cramping my style.  

All that changed a little over a month ago when I switched to the DexCom CGM.  Right away, I was impressed.  Not only did this company fight for me to get insurance coverage, they rectified a rocky beginning by going far above and beyone.  These folks know customer service.

When I received the box, I tore into it like it was Christmas morning.  I impatiently waited for the receiver to charge, inserted my first sensor (totally painless and NO blood), and I was off.  This thing lasts for (at least) seven days, and the readings are consistently accurate.  My current sensor has been chugging away for 12 days (restarting a sensor after the initial seven days is super easy), and until I start getting funky readings, I’m sticking with it.  (Note:  DexCom does not condone this behavior.  They say to wear the sensors for seven days.  PERIOD.  What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.)  

Unlike the Minimed sensors, I don’t have to use any kind of surgical tape to keep my DexCom sensors stuck.  Their adhesive is very similar to what is used for my pump’s infusion sets, which is (thankfully) non-irritative to my sensitive skin.  I used a little Skin Tac to help it stick better, and I’m good for the entire seven days.  For wearing the sensor longer than seven days, I will use some waterproof bandage tape, but that’s it.  You don’t have to cover the entire sensor with tape so that it stays down.  

So, there it is.  My independent assessment of the Minimed vs. DexCom CGM.  For a year, I believed that all CGMs were the same, with the same pros and cons.  They’re just not.  I’m glad I took a chance and found the one that works best for me.

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By shannon, June 13, 2009 12:06 pm

As an update to my last post, I had new bloodwork done last week. The next morning (at a really early hour), Dr. S. called.