Symlin works by replacing the natural Amylin that, in non-Type 1 diabetics, is secreted by the beta cells of the pancreas.  It works by delaying stomach emptying, which helps you digest slower.  It’s also that little voice in your head that tells you when you’re full.  Since I am beta cell challenged, my body doesn’t make Amylin, which is why I often feel hungry even after a satisfying meal (= weight gain).  It’s also why my BG can easily spike to 300+ after I eat, which = more insulin, which = weight gain, which = insulin resistance, which = weight gain, which = well . . . you get the point. 

As it happened, George (a.k.a. Ninjabetic) also decided to start Symlin again.  He and I had very similar beginnings with Symlin, and we were both reluctant to try it again.  So, it’s really nice to be doing this with someone else who knows what it’s like. 

As you know, I started on Tuesday night at just 15mcg (the absolute minimum for a Type 1).  Yesterday morning, I skipped breakfast, so no Symlin.  Truthfully, I was feeling a little nauseated, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the Symlin or just general morning crappiness.  I was super-busy at work, which meant that lunch was upon me pretty quickly.  Knowing that I had a meeting at 1pm, and feeling the desperate need to get a home pregnancy test because my period is still MIA, I quickly ran to the drugstore for the test and Chick-fil-A for a salad. 

Back at the office, I peed on the stick.  Negative, which was no big surprise, considering . . .  Even still, I was disappointed and relieved at the same time.  After all, I’m taking meds that are not pregnancy safe (Lisinopril and now Symlin).  Still, it sucks to see that one lonely line on a pregnancy test time after time. 

Anyway, back at my desk, I dialed up 15mcg of Symlin and ate my lunch.  I programmed a 60-minute square wave bolus on the pod and watched Dex like a hawk.  Sadly, my BG began to spike within 30 minutes, and it went high (like mid-200s high).  Then the nausea hit.  I felt like complete shit.  It was weird because it was more severe than the night before.  As George, Scott, and I were discussing last night on Twitter, it feels like you’ve got food stuck at the very bottom of your throat.  I don’t know how else to explain it.  Whatever.  I wasn’t going to let this nausea screw with the potential benefits of using Symlin.

So, last night before dinner, I decided to up the ante.  I dialed up 30mcg on the pen and bravely took the shot (it stung, too!).  I ate my dinner (about ½ of my typical portion size) and waited for the nausea.

It didn’t come.  As soon as I finished eating, I got up and started cleaning.  Keeping busy really seemed to help.  My BG remained steady and under 150 mg/dl before dropping slightly.  I tested before going to bed and was 145 mg/dl.  Hearing Dr. S.’s voice in my head (he wants me under 100 mg/dl in the morning), I did a small correction bolus and went to sleep.

Sometime around 11pm, I heard a low BG alarm.  I grabbed Dex from my nightstand and saw that I had dipped just below 70 mg/dl.  However, a finger stick showed me at 75 mg/dl, so I didn’t treat and went back to sleep.

At 1:30am, Brian’s stupid on-call phone for work rang.  I woke up instantly.  A quick peek at Dex showed me still hovering in the low 60s.  A finger stick confirmed, so I decided to drink a very small glass of milk.  This was definitely the right thing to do.  I woke up this morning at 99 mg/dl (hey, it’s under 100, right?), and Dex showed a nice flat line all night.  I felt pretty good, although tired because of the phone call. 

I got to work, dialed a 30mcg dose of Symlin for my modest breakfast (45g of carbs).  I programmed a 30-minute square wave bolus this time to prevent any spikes. 

That was an hour and a half ago.  My current BG is 157 mg/dl, but it looks like I’m rising fast.  I’m going to keep trying different ways to get the most out of Symlin.  I am anxious to get up to the 60mcg dose, which has more weight-loss benefits.  But, as it is, I’m eating much less than I was, so that’s good.  I’ve read that some Type 1s are able to tolerate the 120mcg dose, which offers the highest weight loss benefits.  I’m going to shoot for that, but I’m prepared to stick with 60mcg if necessary.

Overall, this experience with Symlin has been significantly more positive than my last attempt.  It’s something I’m determined to stick with, so I’m not going to let a little nausea derail me.  I’m committed to losing this weight, dammit!

I admit that I rebelled a bit.  I also got lazy.  I was just so tired of the tight control and limitations.  I went a little nuts.  I have the weight gain and lousy A1c to show for it. 

All other tests were good.  BP was “excellent” according to Dr. S.  He also said that I’d *lost* two pounds since my last appointment.  This just doesn’t seem right, but I wasn’t about to argue.  He gave me a list of group meetings and events (read: support groups) for Type 1s and encourage me to attend.  I don’t know if I will – I admit that it would be nice to meet some other Type 1s in person, though. 

As I mentioned yesterday, I wanted to talk to Dr. S. about Symlin.  After looking at my A1c, Dex graphs, and logbook, his initial feeling was to further increase my basals.  Since I had decided that I was not going to let that happen, I needed to find an alternative.  See, *I* think my basals are too high as it is.  The highs I’m experiencing aren’t the result of too-low basal settings; it’s because I’ve been eating like shit for months and, more often than not, SWAG bolusing.  So, I’m high because I didn’t count carbs correctly.  Sure, I correct, but once I’m high, it’s so hard to get back down. 

Which, once again, led me to the Symlin talk.  I’d tried it once before and gave up after a few days.  I was told that it is not indicated for pregnant women, and since we were actively trying at that point (and blissfully unaware of our fertility issues), I decided that it was best to stop.  To be honest, I was not heartbroken to lose the awful nausea that accompanied it.  But, the thing is, I never really gave it a chance. 

In preparation for my appointment, I did a bunch of research.  I learned that the nausea goes away pretty quickly and that the key is to stick with it.  I learned that some people have lost huge amounts of weight thanks to it.  I learned that most decrease their boluses by at least half.  All of these facts solidified my resolve to give it another shot.

So, just before dinner last night, I dialed up the minimum 15mcg and gave myself the shot.  I ate my meal slowly (I did notice that I got fuller faster) and waited.  I carefully calculated the carbs in what I ate (49 grams total), and programmed a 60-minute extended bolus.  And I waited. 

Sure, I felt a little nauseated, but nothing too extreme (I definitely didn’t feel like I was going to puke or anything).  I wasn’t hungry either, which was nice.  I often feel hungry even after eating a decent meal.  Dex showed almost no movement in my BG for over an hour.  Since I was super exhausted yesterday, I went to bed early. 

At 11:53pm, Dex beeped.  The dreaded low alarm.  I looked at the screen: 68 mg/dl.  Not too bad, but I did a finger stick to confirm:  66 mg/dl.  Since Dex indicated a downward trend, I decided to drink a juice box.  Then, I did something really stupid.  I programmed a temp basal of 50%.  I was spooked; I admit it.  I didn’t want to have a horrible low that would be difficult to treat because of the Symlin (I’d read that this happens).  I wanted to play it safe. 

Just as any sane person would expect, a few hours later, my BG started to climb.  Nothing drastic – I was sitting at 150ish.  Then my usual Dawn Phenomenon kicked in (I have a basal rate that is more than two times greater during the hours of 5am-8am).  A temp basal of 50% was not going to make a dent in that train wreck.  After my shower, I was sitting at 180 mg/dl and climbing. 

Since the pod was due for a change, I swapped it out and canceled that stupid temp basal.  Now, as I write this at 9:16am, I am at 189 mg/dl.  This is despite two decent correction boluses.  I know the crash is coming, and I’m ready for it.  I’m just pissed off at myself for giving in to the fear.  It’s the fear of lows that gives me a 7.5% A1c.  It’s unacceptable.

Ugh, diabetes, I hate you.

**UPDATE**

As I wrote this post, I got a call from the fertility doc’s office.  They wanted to tell me that they’d received a copy of my A1c (which the nurse described as “elevated”), and that for conception, they want it to be under 6%.  As if I didn’t already feel shitty enough.

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.

************************************************************************************

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.

************************************************************************************

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.

I was shaky, dizzy, sweating, starving, and exhausted.  I still don’t know which of these was the prevailing symptom at first, but I know what quickly took over:  STARVING. 

I did my usual juice box thing (I ALWAYS correct lows with a single juice box), but then I lost control.  In the span of five minutes, I consumed:

1. The aforementioned juice box
2. 2 granola bar packages (with two in each package!)
3. A handful of Sun Chips
4. 1 glass of milk

By the time I was finished, I was so exhausted that I could barely keep my eyes open.  Brian came home from work to find me on the bed surrounded by the carnage of my eating binge.  If I hadn’t felt so shitty, it would have been really funny.

Actually, looking back, it’s pretty damn funny!

My parents divorced when I was six years old.  I remember almost nothing before the divorce, except for a few fuzzy moments inspired by photographs.    I remember a lot of what happened after the divorce.  Almost relentlessly, my father pressured my sister and me to live with him.  His reasons are, even now, a mystery because he doesn’t like children and never has.  He was a strict parent, placing more emphasis on tidiness and order than love and affection (I was once spanked pretty harshly because someone left a small piece of tissue on the floor). 

So, with every visit, he pressured us.  He would play the role of the affectionate father until we said that we didn’t want to leave our mother.  Then, he’d show his true colors.  It was an experience that we both learned to dread.  But, he is a brilliant manipulator, and with each visit, he would nurture that small seed of doubt he had planted.  He would prop himself up and make it appear as if he alone cared for me.  He would tell me how proud he was when I got good grades (after all, my mother was not really interested in my school performance).  He would encourage me to do the best I could so that I could go to college one day.  But, none of it was sincere.

Finally, after 10 years of his manipulation and brain washing, I decided that living with my mother, her husband, and four other kids was too much.  After all, if I lived with my father, I could have my own room and be the only child (he and his 2^nd wife had no children).  So, the summer before my senior year of high school, I packed up my belongings, loaded them into my car, and drove with my father from Rhode Island to Mississippi.

Almost as soon as I moved in, I noticed that things were not as rosy as I’d imagined.  My father was surly and distant, and my stepmother was downright resentful of my presence.  I was a messy teenager; a contradiction to the organized, neat person I am now.  I kept my bedroom pretty untidy, but I know few teenagers who didn’t.  For some reason, this drove my father crazy.  Actually, I know the reason.  It was all about control.  He wanted to control everything, including how I kept my room.  He also expected me to clean the entire house.  It was if he brought me to live with him so that I could be their maid.

A few weeks after I arrived, I started to get a sore throat.  I also became incredibly fatigued after doing very basic things.  After two or three days, my throat was so swollen that I couldn’t talk properly, I couldn’t eat anything, and I was in constant pain.  Rather than take me to a doctor, I was given OTC cold meds.  Finally, I called my father at work and told him that I needed to see a doctor (keep in mind that I was terrified of doctors at that time).  I told him I’d found an urgent care clinic in the phonebook and that I really had to go.  He told me that he’d “try” to meet me there.

So, I got into my car and drove myself.  After a while, my father actually showed up.  I couldn’t believe it.  The doctor said that I had a pretty bad case of Mono and that I would need bed rest for six weeks.  After that, I could only do minimal activity for another six weeks.  He wrote a prescription for Prednisone to help open up my very swollen throat.  Since I had given the clinic my insurance information (thanks to my mother), we left.  Outside of the clinic, my father tore up the prescription and told me that I had contracted Mono due to a lack of exercise.

When we got home, I went to bed.  I woke a few hours later to hear my stepmother loading every dish into the dishwasher (very loudly).  She had presoaked everything in bleach (to kill my germs), and resented every minute of it.  After all, her maid was sick – a very good reason to be angry.

After a week, the swelling in my throat started to come down (thanks to nothing more than my immune system).  I was able to speak, eat, and breath normally again.  Naturally, this caused my father and step-mother to assume that I was all better.  I still had that incredible, insatiable fatigue that comes with Mono, but they didn’t believe me.  One night, they decided to go out for the evening.  I was told to take care of the laundry while they were gone.  Before I got to it, I fell asleep.  As you can imagine, they were not pleased. 

Life continued in that way for a few months.  I started school (which I hated because I was the freak Yankee with the accent) and worked at my father’s rented office space as his secretary after school.  He was always trying to appear more important than he actually was – I can look back now and laugh at his pretentious attitude.  I actually thought I might be able to get through the year and then go off to college somewhere.  But, the worst possible thing happened – my car (that I had saved for years to buy) needed a new clutch (something my father blamed on me).  He gave me a choice:  he would get the clutch fixed or I could have my senior portrait.  I got neither.  Instead, I was subjected to constant ridicule and resentment from them both. 

In the end, I called my mother and said that I wanted to come home.  She sent a plane ticket, and I left.  I left almost all of my belongings, including that car.  My father drove me to the airport, never saying a word.  When he stopped, I got out, and he drove away.  I did not hear from him for years.

I spent the rest of my senior year in a state of depression, self loathing, and suicidal thoughts.  I don’t know how I got through it, but I did.  It was, without question, the bleakest time in my life.

After a while (i.e., after he and his 2^nd wife divorced), my father insinuated himself back into my life.  He said that he accepted full responsibility for what happened.  He apologized and asked me to forgive him.  Like an idiot, I did.  And so began a new pattern of manipulation.  There was another period of estrangement after I disagreed with him on something insignificant.  But, once again, he dragged me back in.

I included him in major events in my life, including giving him the honor of walking me down the aisle at my wedding to Brian.  I gave him a father/daughter dance.  I was a fool, but I wanted that relationship with my father.  Don’t underestimate me, though.  I didn’t have blinders on to his manipulative ways.  I recognized that almost everything he said was bullshit, and almost everything he did had some ulterior motive.  He married again; this time to a woman whom I absolutely adore.  She was the only reason I was willing to give him another chance.  But, being who he is, he’s treating her like shit now, too.

Then he got sick.  After years of abusing his body through untreated high blood pressure (something I now have to deal with), both of his kidneys had failed.  He went on dialysis and waited for a kidney.  It took two years, but he finally had the transplant and decided that he’d been given a second chance.  He claimed:

“My health issues caused me to examine my mind, heart and conscience, and in so doing, I have made a determined effort to seek forgiveness from those I’ve wronged in the past and to offer forgiveness to those who have slighted me.”

So, here we are.  This past week, he showed me his true colors once again.  He established contact with wife #2 so that he could “offer her his forgiveness to her for hurting him.”  Evidently, she cheated on him (I find this incredibly amusing because he cheated on my mother, hence their divorce), which is why he divorced her.  Until now, I had always thought that he left her because of me.  Yes, I was a naïve fool again.  Anyway, for some reason, he felt the need to tell my sister and me that he was in contact with her.  When he received admonishment from us both, he became defensive and angry.  He lashed out at me for many things including those few months when I lived with him.  He wrote:

“Keep in mind, however, that you were not entirely without blame for the problems that occurred during that time.  Apparently, you thought that since you were so miserable living with your mother and her “new” family, you could come live with me and be allowed to do as you pleased.  Hell, you couldn’t even manage to keep your room clean let alone offer to do anything around the house.  And you thought that I would allow that behavior and choose you over her, when it was I who objected most to the mess.  If I asked you to choose between me and Brian, do you really think I would expect to be the one chosen?  Even if you and I had the idyllic father/daughter relationship, I would have to be self-delusional to think that you would choose me over your husband.”

He actually thinks that it’s the same thing.  Speaking of morons . . .

Then, there was this gem:

“If you cannot accept what I’ve said without reading something into it based upon your “assumptions”, maybe you need to learn something about trust, young lady.”

I find it so ironic that the one person responsible for my lack of trust in EVERYTHING is lecturing me on the subject. 

What I’ve learned from this back and forth nonsense is that all of his apologies and pleas for forgiveness were really just bullshit.  His “determined effort to seek forgiveness” is really just an excuse to establish contact with the woman he probably still wants (I feel so sorry for my current step-mother).  He is, once again, willing to sacrifice his relationship with his children for his own selfish wants.  I have washed my hands of him and his toxicity once and for all. 

I know that some of you might think that I’ll change my mind.  Others will tell me to “honor thy father.”  Don’t waste your time.  I have spent 30 years being dragged in and out of a manipulative web so complex that I didn’t know which way was up and which was down.  I’m finally free, and I won’t be caught again. 

I wrote this post as a sort of exorcism.  It worked.

The scene

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.

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.

Roddy has had a rough few weeks.  He had a BG of 454mg/dl on February 16th during a 75-mile ambulance trip from UTMB hospital to J-3 prison.  Instead of treating the high, a prison P.A. told the EMTs  “no insulin for Pippin!”

Then his BG was 26 mg/dl on February 21st AFTER a UTMB nurse had administered numerous tubes of oral glucose.  I have no idea how low he actually got, but it was incredibly dangerous.

One of the worst things is that he’s having these highs and lows every day, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.  This situation is becoming even more dire than it already was.  These people are out for Roddy’s blood and will settle for nothing less.

Well, I guess when they say “never say never” they’re right.  No, I’m not pregnant, but if all goes well, I could be. 

Our follow-up appointment yesterday was to get the results of the genetic testing that had been performed on Brian to help determine the cause of his lack of sperm.  We also got the results of some additional hormone levels.  We were all surprised, including Dr. F. 

At our appointment last month, Dr. F. strongly suspected that Bri had a genetic abnormality that had rendered him sterile.  He gave us the information, which we interpreted to be fact.  After all, there aren’t *that* many causes for male infertility.  But, lo and behold, Bri’s genetic panel looked great.  No abnormalities and no genetic cause for infertility.

So, while this doesn’t change the fact that Bri’s shooting blanks at the moment, it does open up some possibilities for trying different things to stimulate his boys to get working.  We’re going to be spending a small fortune on fertility drugs each month, and Brian is going to know what it feels like to be a pin cushion.  There are some surgical options, as well, but Bri’s not amenable to them (it would require cutting his testicles in half – I’m completely serious).  Even if he did agree to it, the procedure has to be done in conjunction with IVF and we’re not financially ready for that.  Maybe as a last resort . . .

So, while Brian’s getting his shots, I’ll be getting a full check-up by a fertility doctor of my very own.  I’m a little nervous about what to expect, but if it means we could actually have a child of our own, I’ll do it. 

This month has been an absolute roller-coaster of emotions.  Neither of us really knows what to think at this point, but we’re cautiously optimistic. 

In other amazing news, my sister, who is battling Stage IV breast cancer, has been on a new chemo regimen.  Lisa had bone and liver mets, which were growing rapidly.  She’s tolerated the new chemo incredibly well; she lost her hair, but she’s managed to avoid the severe nausea and fatigue associated with chemo.  So, she had a PET scan last week and the results indicated that her bone mets are GONE, and her liver is almost cancer free, as well.  Her bloodwork confirmed the scan’s results.  Her tumor markers are all almost normal.  Lisa’s doctor actually used the words “near complete remission.” 

I’m so stunned by two consecutive days of good news.  Seriously, you could totally knock me over with a feather.