Six Until Me.

Onward! To the Dot Com!

2006-05-05T23:59:00.000-04:00

This blog has moved!

Please visit Six Until Me at it's new location: www.sixuntilme.com.
Thanks!

Happy Birthday, Six Until Me!

2006-05-04T11:57:00.000-04:00

I existed for six year before diabetes came into my life. I don’t remember much before I was diagnosed – all of my memories have been touched in some way by this disease. I went to every birthday party as a kid with my trusted stuffed animal and my black zipper case blood testing kit by my side. I remember every day in elementary school starting with my mother waking me up and testing my bloodsugar. I remember injections in the kitchen before we had summer dinners on the back deck.

It’s not sad that things are this way. It’s just how life is.

What is sad is that for a period of time during college and just afterwards, I felt like I was the only diabetic for miles. I knew there were others out there, thanks to Clara Barton Camp, but I was ten plus years away from camp and hadn’t talked with another diabetic in as long as I could remember.

In my apartment on a sunny May afternoon, I sat at my desk next to the bedroom window. Switched on the computer. Googled “diabetes.”

The page filled with a litany of links, urging me to take fastidious care of my feet, be sure to schedule annual eye exams, and discussing the benefits of testing my bloodsugar at least four times per day. Organizations like the American Diabetes Association and the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation cropped up, along with countless medical and research articles.

I have had diabetes for most of my life. I knew the essentials and then some. It wasn’t that this information was useless to me, but it was mostly clinical and statistical and besides, who were these people writing this stuff?

Where are the people with diabetes? The ones who have it? The ones who wake up every morning and deal with the daily maintenance? The ones who have glove compartments filled with Smarties candies and caches of used test strips in the corner of every room? The ones who don’t view juice as nutritional sustenance but instead a live saving medical treatment? The ones who know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed with the daily tasks?

Elated at a bloodsugar of 112 md/gl after eating Chinese food?
Ecstatic at an A1c drop of 1 percent?

These people were writing blogs. And there were a handful of d-bloggers when I first started searching. Tek. Violet. Kathleen. Amy. Scott. I’m sure there were a few others, but these were the first that I found. Reading their experiences and feeling an instant sense of comfort and community with these wonderful people, I knew I wanted to do what they were doing. I wanted to blog, too.

A year ago today, I started “Six Until Me.” One fledgling post, perfectly blended with the hope that someone would find me and the fear that someone would find me. One post that ushered me into the blogging community. One post that confirmed for me, almost instantly, that I wasn’t alone.

In self-celebration of my one year anniversary, I’m switching over to my own dot com. Six Until Me.Com will be the link for this blog going forward. The blogspot address will remain active for the archives. If you have my site linked from your own, I would appreciate it if you would update your links!

Thank you. To each reader. To each commenter. To each quiet lurker. To each fellow d-blogger. To each person who has changed me. To each person who has emailed me and made me smile. Thank you to my wonderful family. And my boyfriend, who inspires me.

Thanks to each and every one of you.

Now when I Google “diabetes blogs,” there are so many voices out there to be heard.

We most certainly are not alone.

Define? Or explain.

2006-05-02T14:10:00.001-04:00

"Diabetes doesn't define you, it just helps explain you."

It struck me that he was right.

Darrell and I don't talk about diabetes very much. I don't remember ever talking about it when we were kids. We played with Legos and built army forts for the hamsters to live in. There weren't any big diabetes discussions and, quite frankly, we never really talked about it until I started the blog.

But during a discussion we had today, it came up.

"Diabetes doesn't define you, it just helps explain you."

Diabetes didn't make me smart, but being regimented and dedicated to achieving results on a medical level may have made me work harder in school. Diabetes didn't make me determined, but it may have contributed to my constant drive towards my ever-changing definition of success.

Such perspective is gained from a chronic condition, regardless of its complications. It doesn't define me, but the strongest parts of my personality may have been gently shaped by the perspective gained from having it.

Diabetes didn't make me love with such ease, but having tasted my own mortality makes every hug, every laugh, every kiss that much more needed and appreciated.

I hope so fiercely for a cure. I hope for a cure every time I see a press release about new research breakthroughs. I hope every time I test my bloodsugar that the numbers will always be in range. I hope every time I go to Joslin. I hope every day.

"Diabetes doesn't define you, it just helps explain you."

I didn't ask what he meant because I already knew. Diabetes isn't Me. It doesn't own me or define me or ruin me. He and I both know that.

When I wake up every morning and test my bloodsugar, when I prime the pump, when I calculate the carbohydrates in a meal, I know it doesn't define me. But when I am feeling anxious or scared about my medical future or just simply overwhelmed, I know it doesn't define me.

It just helps explain me.

A Daisy in the Sand

2006-04-30T19:42:00.000-04:00

Sometimes life moves just so damn fast.

I miss so much, rushing from one place to another, making sure I attend to every obligation. Too much coffee, not enough sleep, phone is ringing, writing to be done, meetings to attend, consulting, and a workout to squeeze in daily. How many hours are in this day? How many do I spend working? How often do I take a breath?

The sun rises, sets, and I'm still going well into the night.

But some days, some days are filled with sunshine and the promise that if I just stop for one second...
... I'll see something breathtaking.

Diabetic Dreaming?

2006-04-27T12:17:00.000-04:00

My dreams feel so real. The smells, the sounds, the way things taste. How people were dressed. If it was warm or not. Which cat was roaming around. Was I scared? Did I feel safe? What shoes was I wearing? My five senses are completely involved in every dream I have.

While I slept last night, my subconscious diabetic mind played a cruel joke on me:

The eerie lights on the clock radio read "3:42 am."

Dream Kerri woke up feeling like crap. Her eyes ached. Everything was difficult to concentrate on. Her lower back felt tender and her skin was hypersensitive to every touch.

Dream Kerri tested her bloodsugar. 585 mg/dl.

"Holy crap," Dream Kerri exclaimed, rubbing the stubborn sleep from her eyes. She washed her hands, just to make sure, and then tested again.

611 mg/dl.

(It's here that my Real Self should have clued in. My meter does read anything higher than 600 mg/dl. Yet Real Self slept on and Dream Kerri freaked out.)

Dream Kerri pulled out her pump and cued up the Bolus Wizard. Entered "600 mg/dl" and no carbs. The pump cautioned her to check for an occlusion and to consider an insulin injection. The suggested bolus was 11.1 units.

Boop beep beep. Boop beep beep. Her thigh site ached a little bit from the bolus.

No problem. Lay back down. Try and get some sleep. Relax.

Go back to sleep.

--- The alarm went off.

The eerie lights on the clock radio read "6:47 am."

I reached for my meter, performing the ritualistic morning test and ringing in at 114 mg/dl.

"Wow. It only took about three hours for me to come down from that ridiculous high. Good thing."

I scrolled back in the meter's memory to see exactly when I had been 600 mg/dl. Nothing there. The last time I had tested was at 2:01 am, before I went to bed. 182 mg/dl. I scrolled through the bolus memory on my pump. My last bolus was at 2:01 am, correcting that 182 mg/dl.

Nothing else was there. No record of that high. No record of a huge bolus.

Nothing.

Aviva Aviva, Un-Delay!

2006-04-24T22:51:00.000-04:00

Woke up late.

Not good on Important Meeting Adventure Day, so I rolled immediately out of bed and began the morning ritual: Test bloodsugar, toss the cats off my legs, kiss Chris's shoulder, stumble into the bathroom, take a hot shower, and read one of his fitness magazines while I blowdry my hair (Today I learned about the omega-3 benefits of walnuts and what the best kind of boxer briefs are).

Iron clothes. Dress in a hurry. Haphazardly toss necessary items into my purse. Recover the tube of lip gloss from Siah's meddling little paws. Throw in a bottle of juice and some emergency crackers. Grab my kit and ...

"Where is my kit?"

I knew I had my kit earlier when I tested first thing this morning. I checked under the bedside table - no kit. I looked on the bathroom cabinet, where a collection of pump caps sit in a soap dish and assorted lotions stand at rapt attention. No kit. I looked in the walk in closet, just to make sure I didn't have it in my hand when I grabbed my shoes. No kit.

Chris had already left for work so every light in the bedroom was on. Relatively clean, I couldn't see anything out of place. The closets were neat and the bed was made. Everything appeared to be in it's place.

Checked my purse, just in case I was ridiculously remiss and didn't notice my kit in there in the first place. No kit.

"Where the hell did I put that stupid thing??" Getting mad now. The time to leave was rapidly ticking closer and I knew I had to have it before I left the house. Checked the fridge, knowing that I put the remote control and my car keys in there by mistake before. Systematically trashed the entire bedroom, rummaging under the bed, opening dresser drawers and yanking out the contents,

No kit.
Throwing my hands into the air in complete frustration, I grabbed my back up kit from the closet. I received it as a demo from Roche: an Accu-Chek Aviva. Feeling kind of crummy and potentially low, I opened the box for the first time and assembled the new kit. The black zipper case was crunchy and stiff from lack of use. After coding the machine, I reached for the lancet device that came with it.

Diabetic for 19 years, I figured that I would be able to load the thing up and test my bloodsugar without much of an issue. I've used countless meters and pricking devices. Surely this one would be a snap, right?

I could not have been more wrong.

Couldn't assemble that frigging thing to save my life. I couldn't get the cap off. I couldn't fit the drum inside neatly. I actually had to bust out the instruction manual an even then, I couldn't figure it out. Nothing clicked to let me know it was in place. The barrel of the device kept rotating and my only response was to curse at it.

Then, like the cryptex from The DaVinci Code, the cylinder lined up. The barrel clicked into place. The device deployed and pricked the top of my knuckle by accident.

"[insert blasphemous curse word]!!" Flinging the blue MultiClix across the room, I grabbed a lancet from my stash and manually pricked my finger tip. The AccuChek Aviva flashed me an hourglass, then a "113 mg/dl".

"Meow?" Abby was standing on the edge of the bed, pawing at something.

I threw the Aviva into my purse and grabbed my keys.

"Meow?" A little more insistently this time. She was nudging something under the blankets with her enormous paw.

"Abby, what is the problem? What are you sniffing around at? I'm late for my meeting, I can't find my stupid kit, and now I'm having an animated conversation with my fat cat..."

I reached over and pulled back the covers of the neatly made bed to reveal my kit, lying flush against the sheets.

Mocking me.

"Meow." Smuggly purring, Abby retired to the couch.

The Other Two Behave Themselves.

2006-04-21T10:44:00.000-04:00

But this foolish Siah Sausage...

Can't

Leave

Anything

Alone.

Scene.

2006-04-18T12:21:00.000-04:00

Scene: About 11 o’clock at night. Showcase Cinemas in MA.

There aren’t too many people in the movie theater. It’s not too hot or too cold. Comfortable seats. Handsome boyfriend as my date. Feeling a little tired but content.

The movie courses on. Guy with a mask, Natalie Portman cuts off all her hair, I’m barely interested … little bit of a headache.

Not one crying out for Excedrin, but nagging enough to make me rest my head against Chris’s shoulder as we watch the movie. Sleepy. I close my eyes. About 15 minutes pass.

Still have that headache.

Unzipper the black case and set up my testing kit. Using the backlighting on my pump like a miner, I prick my finger and align the blood with the strip by the faint blue Minimed light.

27 mg/dl.

No symptoms until that moment of realization that my bloodsugar and my age are in perfect synch. Did seeing the number trigger a physiological response? Why didn’t I feel anything sooner? A bead of sweat joins my hummingbird heartbeat as I realize how I don’t have much more than adrenaline keeping me coherent. The crackers in my purse aren’t going to work nearly fast enough.

I wish I had grabbed his arm and asked for help. A bloodsugar of 27 mg/dl, he should know.

Instead, I tossed my kit into my purse and stood up abruptly. Leaning in to Chris, “I’m low. I’m going to get juice. I’m fine.”

Thinking I’m in control, he squeezed my hand and said, “Okay, baby. I’ll be here.”

Scene: I walked as confidently as I could down the dark hallway, spilling out into the fluorescently lit atrium. The snack counter was just a few feet away. “You’re fine. You’re fine. Don’t worry. Just get there.” Motivational Speaker whispered softly into my ear.

The 16 year old girl turned her head to me, the Showcase Cinemas logo on her black visor momentarily distracting.

“I’m a diabetic. I’m having a very low bloodsugar reaction. I need juice immediately.” My fist hit the counter, a five dollar bill clutched in my hand.

“We’re closed? The machines are locked up?” Young Girl looked nervous.

“I need juice now. Right now. Please hurry.” I looked nervous, too. That numbness was settling into my mouth. Warm waves of exhaustion coupled with panic rolled over me.

Her hands fumbled with the keyring as she leaned over to unlock the juice machine. My mouth formed the words “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, we’re closed.” Manager Woman came over, snapped her gum at me. Her hand came down on Young Girl’s wrist, stopping her from opening the juice machine.

“I’m diabetic. I am having a low bloodsugar reaction. I need juice right now.”

“We closed at 11. There is a convenience store across the street.”

“I am diabetic. I need juice. Now. Please just open the machine. I need you to help me.”

Precious seconds pass.

Her hand took the keys from Young Girl. “I’m sorry. We’re closed.”

Silently apologizing to my mother in my head, “Diabetic. I need sugar right now. Open the fucking machine and get me some juice. NOW.” My voice crescendos to an angry peak.

A dirty look crossed Manager Woman’s face as she throws the keys to Young Girl. “What size?”

“Small, please.”

She grabbed the largest cup from the stack. My mouth is completely numb, hands trembling. Young Girl fills the cup as fast as she can, opening a straw for me and sliding it into the enormous cup.

“A large. That will be $4.05.” Manager Woman extends her hand for my money.

I’m already halfway through the basin of red juice. I hand her the money. She takes it and hands me my change while she relocks the juice machine.

Scene: Back in the theater. Mumbling about 27 … huge thing of juice … Why didn’t you tell me? … I’m sorry … I’m glad you’re okay … 27 … Did you feel it at all? … I feel it now … Keep drinking …

Scene: In the car. Explained what happened. Chris is furious on my behalf. I am, too. Angry at Manager Woman. Angry at myself for leaving my juice in the car. Angry at my body for betraying me.

What is causing these? I’ve read that blood pressure medication can make people experience hypoglycemic episodes. I’ve also read that it can cause dulled symptoms. What do I choose?

Should I be writing a letter to Showcase Cinemas, advising them that their staff needs considerable training as to dealing with medical emergencies?

Will my appointment as Joslin in two weeks help me figure out what is going on?

Can I get a CGMS? Can I afford it?

Can I afford not to?

I : Meme.

2006-04-16T22:09:00.000-04:00

I am: tired, happy and filled with Easter Eggs.
I want: a new job. Tomorrow. Please.
I wish: that I knew, with certainty, that everything will be okay.
I hate: medical insurance. Or better: I hate having to worry about medical insurance.
I miss: my grandparents. And I worry about the Only One I Have Left.

I fear: that all this hoping for a cure will be in vain.

I hear: Siah Sausage walking around on the desk next to me.
I wonder: if I will be a good mom..
I regret: any time that I told my parents I hated them. It was never true.
I am not: without fear.
I dance: like I don’t care whose watching.
I sing: the wrong words to most songs.
I cry: when I am afraid.

I am not always: patient enough. I need to work on that.
I make with my hands: blankets, dinner, his back muscles relax, the cats purr, shadow puppets, fists, and sometimes I make obscene gestures.

I write: so I won’t forget.

I confuse: myself. Often.
I need: nothing more than I need him.
I should: stop being so hard on myself and just enjoy all the mess.
I start: thinking about how much they all mean to me and I can’t believe how lucky I am.
I finish: what I start. Even if it takes my whole life.

I tag: the lurkers. Hop to it. (End of my Easter humor.)

Six Short Points on a Pseudo-Friday

2006-04-13T15:25:00.000-04:00

1. I have been in so many listless work meetings today that my head is filled with phrases like “forward thinking,” “marketing analysis,” and “extensive research and application.” These phrases have replaced the fun ones I was thinking earlier, which included “Paas coloring kit,” “lethal Cadbury mini eggs,” and “Thank the lord for fast acting insulin.”

2. “Generation D” has been updated for April.

3. The weather outside is sunny and warmish and if my office had windows (and if I had an office) I would be pressing my face against the glass. Instead, I grabbed my markers and drew a big, yellow, smiling sunshine on an insurance report before I submitted it. The chuckle and the wry look it received were warranted.

4. My mother is auditioning for “Deal or No Deal!” and the video submission that Chris filmed for her is currently in post production. My mother, her three sisters, and I are the No Deal Team. I’m coming to realize that we may be a slightly peculiar family.

5. I am so looking forward to this long weekend that I keep bursting into a grin for no apparent reason, causing the Brits who sit near me at work to eye me suspiciously.

6. And everytime my fingers hit the keys, my Larry Bird bobbles his head in agreement.

What Came in the Mail.

2006-04-11T09:13:00.000-04:00

I hadn't checked the mail in a few days, so I wasn't surprised when I came home to a pile of envelopes on the kitchen table.

"Thanks for checking the PO Box, Chris."

"No problem. Hey, there was a big package that came in, too."

Big brown shipping box. Marked "Fragile."

I took a pair of scissors and sliced through the packing tape. Eight thousand pink Styrofoam peanuts flew out everywhere, much to the delight of Ms. Siah Sausage. I flung out all the packing peanuts and then I Saw Him.

That blonde hair. Those ridiculous socks. Half a smirk graced his plastic face as if he knew the three-point shot was nothing but net as long as he had control of the ball.

My man, Larry Bird.

This is precisely why Mr. Scott K. Johnson is one of the coolest people on the planet. So I extend my biggest THANK YOU to Scott for the vintage Larry Bird bobble head. It's tremendously cool and my cardio workout thanks you. Here's to your vast collection of test strips in your night table drawer.

Siah found him to be rather delicious, too.

Health Care Reform: Use the BatPhone.

2006-04-06T11:35:00.000-04:00

Standing at my desk and chatting up a coworker, coffee in hand, I noticed the tiniest twinge of a headache. Not overly concerned, I sat down and pulled out my meter. “Just to rule it out,” I thought, loading up the meter with a strip and clink … ringing in at an icy 39 mg/dl.

“You have to be kidding me…” muttering under my breath, grabbing a bottle of juice from the stash in my desk drawer. There were only six sips available in the bottle so I grabbed a pack of peanut butter crackers and ate two of them.

Nothing but a headache. No foggy feeling in my brain. People’s voices weren’t echoing. I could see and hear and feel everything just fine. Even the headache wasn’t bad – nothing I thought a cup of coffee couldn’t cure.

Instead: 39 mg/dl.

As I sat at my desk and waited for my bloodsugar to rise, I thought about the television show I’d watched for a few minutes the night before. It was on MSNBC or similar, discussing the health care reform being rocketed through legislative bodies and the plan was quoted as being something that will afford consumers more “control over price and quality”. Consumer driven health care. Making people more aware of how expensive health care is. As though we need to be told.

Price and quality?

“An atrocity.” I said to Chris, becoming livid. “If this legislation passes, it won’t be price and quality, but price or quality. You either chose the best care available and pay an obscene amount for it or you chose what you can afford.” I was completely pissed off at this point. “For someone like me, it could mean going back to injections, even though the pump keeps me the healthiest. Or not testing as much during the day, sacrificing my hard earned A1c for my checkbook balance.”

“I knew that one day I would be worrying about paying for medical coverage, but I thought it would be when I was sixtysomething and on the cusp of retirement. Instead, I’m 27 years old and panicking about whether or not my health will be compromised as a result of government decisions in the next six months. Absolutely ridiculous. Don’t they understand that keeping me healthy now keeps money in the insurance companies’ pockets later? Preventative measures now to ward off paying for treating a complication later? They think pump therapy is expensive – wait until they’re paying for my leg to be amputated.”

Crying now, so angry.

Fast forward to this morning, sitting at my work desk, drinking a bottle of juice as my bloodsugar teeters precariously at 39 mg/dl, wondering why people from the United States Senate offices are just reading my blog instead of contacting me directly.

Top Five Revisited. Again. Once More. Redundant.

2006-04-05T09:48:00.000-04:00

Faithful Readers, I saw a picture of John Cusack this morning on someone’s desktop. After a wistful sigh, I remembered “High Fidelity.” And the Top Five bit that I was convinced I had invented. And the fact that we haven’t played since October.

Oh, it’s on.

Six Until Me proudly presents …

Top Five.

Top Five Non-Diabetes Related Websites
Top Five Reasons You’re Grinning Today
Top Five Uses for Bacon Bits
Top Five Places You Want to Travel To
Top Five Guilty Pleasures

Bloggers, start your proverbial engines! Lurkers, de-lurk! Mom, feel free to not post about your guilty pleasures as it may make my head implode.

Game on.

Things I've Done to Torture Myself at Work : April 3rd Edition

2006-04-03T09:57:00.000-04:00

Checked the weather in LA. It’s 70 degrees and sunny, just so you know.

Overheard a conversation between two managers, which included the following phrases: “flow chart conversions,” “leaning out processes,” and “restructures.” Uh oh.

Saw a small pile of what appeared to be Bacon Bits on the countertop of the bathroom. (It turned out to be the shavings of someone’s eyebrow pencil.) Sudden urge for Bacon Bits now.

In recognition of Daylight Savings Time, changed the finger prick lancet. Realized that I may be slightly gross.

Watched a manager take two coffee breaks within an hour, then proceed to chastise an employee for leaving their desk to go to the copier.

Caught a glimpse of the sunshine outside. Filled with jealous rage towards trees based on the fact that no one expects them to sit at a desk for nine hours.

Listened to the man who sits in front of me talk about the upcoming Yankees game. “Love them Yankees!” Realize that he doesn’t sit close enough to actually hit, so I just threw a pen at him and then blamed it on someone else.

Checked the weather in LA again. Still sunny.

(Redeeming moment: In Googling the word "Sunny" in search of a picture, I came across a book series called "Sunny."

Description: Sunny wakes up on a bright, summer morning to the familiar sounds of his wonderful world. Inspired by what they hear, he and his friends decide to invent their own playful brand of music. Before long, the happy children get down to a hootennanny time."

My mood has significantly improved just from reading the work "hootennanny.")

s. 1955 - TAKE ACTION NOW.

2006-03-31T10:13:00.000-05:00

Sitting on my desk at home, right now, is a bill for $2,390.00, covering test strips, pump supplies, and three doctor’s visits. I am paying this bill responsibly. I work a full time job. While I may despise my current employment, I stick with it in order to retain medical insurance.

Let’s cut to the chase here: I wear an expensive insulin pump. I test my bloodsugar very often. I see the doctor at least every four months. I take blood pressure medication. I do these things to prolong and improve the quality of my life. I cost my medical insurance company a pretty penny, but I do these things in order to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible. Preventative measures. Following this regimen will keep me from having serious complications in the future, thus keeping me from costing my insurance company more money for expensive surgeries and additional medication.

So explain to me why the government wants to make it more difficult for me to remain healthy? It will only cost them more money down the road if I become very ill and require federal assistance. Why would S. 1955 even be considered?

According to a press release from the American Diabetes Association, “Under the proposed legislation, all people with diabetes covered under state-regulated health insurance plans would be in jeopardy of losing their diabetes coverage protections. Insurers will be able to offer a low-cost health plan to employers or individuals that exclude one or more state health care requirements, such as coverage for diabetes supplies, education, and training.” Essentially, employers choosing insurance that covers my test strips and pump supplies would be left to whims. Such an act may render me unable to financially support my own disease.

To make such efforts to prevent alarming and expensive complications, only to have those efforts undermined by health care reforms? Why would a legislative body want to keep me from maintaining good health?

If it were their child with this disease, I’m sure this bill wouldn’t have made it so far.

But for some of you, it is your child. And for others, it’s you.

Invest in the health and well-being of yourself and those you know who are affected by diabetes.

Take action now.

Part Three: In which Kerri sees Dinosaurs and Comes Home.

2006-03-29T08:52:00.000-05:00

I saw the Ferris Wheel before anything else. Looming as large as the sun from where I stood, I wiggled my toes in the Santa Monica sand and breathed in the ocean air.

“This is nice, you know.” I turned my face up to the sun.

He grinned. “I know.”

I stuck my feet in the Pacific Ocean for the first time and wondered if there was more home to be found in California than there was in New York. The ocean waves laughed up the shore towards Chris’s feet.

Could this be home?

Shaking off thousands of questions from our minds and the sand from our feet, we left behind the serenity of the ocean for … dinosaurs.

Universal Studios proved to be worth every penny of admission. There are dinosaurs. And while I’m aware that they’re pretend, those suckers are huge and they roar and they’re quite intimidating from the confines of the Jurassic Park ride. As the enormous Tyrannosaurus Rex head tried to eat us, the 8 year old girl sitting next to me clutched my arm frantically and hid her face in my elbow. Which didn’t matter much because my head was ducked into Chris’s shoulder.

The Universal Studios Tour was pretty decent as well, taking us from studio lots to an up-close experience with both Jaws and King Kong. One of the most amazing sets I’ve ever seen (because I’ve seen so many?) was the War of the Worlds set with the plane crash. Unbelievable. The plane used was an actual Boeing 747. A hush fell over the crowd as the tram pulled in view of the set.

After exploring the park extensively, eating Pizza Hut pizza, and then continuously bolusing to correct the ensuing high bloodsugar (oops), Chris and I ventured off to Fancy Dinner with friends.

After dinner, we checked out a club in Venice Beach.

"Lady, this is the fakest license I have ever seen," the bouncer said, picking at the corner of my laminated Rhode Island license with his fingernail. "Laminated?? Come on."

"It's legit. I swear."

Raised eyebrow. Conferenced with the other doorman. He reached over to open the heavy brass doors and we slipped inside to the Buffalo Club for a night cap.

Hours later, never sleeping, we drove our little Hybrid Car to LAX. Eyes heavy with exhaustion, we boarded the plane at 5:30 in the morning.

"Did you have a good time? Do you like it here?" Chris asked, yawning and stretching one arm across my shoulder.

I looked out the plane window. The sun was rising.

"How could I not?"

Part Two: In which Kerri solves the Gomez Quandry and remembers Reading Rainbow

2006-03-28T22:33:00.000-05:00

Exploring the Sunset Strip, Chris and I sat at a stop light in our little hybrid.

“Listen, Kerri.” Chris paused, spreading his hands dramatically over the steering wheel. “Not a sound.”

The car seemed like it turned off when we were at stoplights. The motor made no sound. No clicks, no whirrs, no noises whatsoever. An odd sound to my ears accustomed to VW German performance engines.

Looking over to my right, there was a big black Escalade, windows opened. A handsome man dressed to the hilt, complete with enormous watch and crisply pressed shirt, stared straight ahead.

“Chris, it’s the guy from Reading Rainbow!” I tried to exclaim without moving my mouth. The Escalade started to pull away in anticipation of the light changing.

“He was in Roots. Did he play Kunta Kinte? I can’t remember,” Chris said.

“He played Kunta.” I said. The Escalade pulled ahead of us.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It says ‘Kunta’ on his license plate.”

Later on, we were walking down Hollywood Blvd. Passing the famous Chinese Theater, we stopped to take a few pictures. The boulevard was teeming with street performers dressed as Jack Sparrow, Hellraiser, Yoda, and Hagrid. People were stopping to have their picture taken.

“This is so fun!” exclaimed a young college girl to her friends, wrapping her arm around Shrek.

“Lady, we don’t work for free. Remember that,” responded Shrek with a growl.

Chris and I wandered down the street towards the Virgin Megastore. Bright red letters scrambled around the edge of the building like the New York stock exchange ticker. “In-Store Performance! Live! Gomez!!! 7 p.m.!!! March 24th!!!”

“Oh my god Gomez is coming here?! We have to see them! We have to!” Trying not to jump up and down but hardly able to control my excitement, I dug my fingers into Chris’s arm and danced around a little bit.

There’s a history with this band.

Back in 2003, I had tickets to see Gomez play at the Avalon in Boston. Drove up to Boston with my buddy from Ireland, talking about how excited we were to see the show. Tickets in hand, we ran to the club. No line outside. Weird.

“We’re here for the Gomez show.” My friend told the six foot four bouncer with biceps like freight trains. Bouncer flexed and traced the outline of his muscle with a lazy finger. “Sorry. Show was last night. You missed it.”

So I’ve been this close to seeing Gomez before, only to have my own inability to check the date on the ticket keep me from indulging. I wasn’t going to miss them a second time.

And I didn’t.

Brilliant performance. Such a cool band. And I can't believe that the sources of those incredible voices were just a few feet away from me. Their new record is being released on May 2nd. Do yourself a favor and pick it up.

Tomorrow: Santa Monica beach. Universal Studios. And the plane ride home.

Part One: In Which Kerri Becomes a Seasoned Traveler

2006-03-26T22:06:00.000-05:00

Working a nine hour day on Wednesday and promptly jumping on a plane to Chicago caused me make the following, bleary eyed statement: “I can’t wait to get on the plane.”

Chris’s eyebrows went up. “What?”

“I can’t wait to get on the pla…” Big smile crept onto my face. “I can’t wait to get on the plane!”

I am officially a seasoned traveler, after a fashion. We flew from Providence to Chicago, then Chicago to LAX. Hours upon hours of travel. I checked luggage. I ate expensive airport food. I sighed about flight delays. I cranked back the time on my pump as we crossed the time zones. Chris bought himself a neck pillow and bought me this:

I traveled just fine.

Arriving at LAX (at 4 am to my East Coast exhaustion), we grabbed our luggage and traipsed off to the car rental place. We passed a black man wearing a blue warm up suit and a matching hat. He was surrounded by his luggage. A scruffy beard framed his familiar face.

Chris reached down to adjust the strap on his carryon bag. “So yeah, that was definitely Mr. T.”

Ah, I pity the fool who wasn’t there to see him. Quality celebrity sighting.

We rented a Honda Civic Hybrid for our travels, based on the clogged highways that Chris remembered from when he lived in LA. That car was phenomenal. Aside from the fact that it was reluctant to climb hills with any vigor, Chris and I drove that little Civic for four days and barely used half a tank of gas. Considering all the traffic we constantly sat in and the miles we put on the car as we explored, I am now completely sold on purchasing a hybrid car.

Note to VW: Why don’t you make a hybrid? I would buy it. And love it. Promise.

Staying in Valley Village, we were minutes from Industry Giants like Universal, Disney and NBC. Sunshine streamed in the windows of our eco-friendly rental as Chris took me on a tour of his former town. And while he was at his business meetings, his friend Joe and I ventured up a mountainside and picked coconuts (as Joe effectively illustrates here.)

Does this city have anything for a Country Mouse like me? How exactly does the Santa Monica pier compare to my little Napatree Point Beach? Did an 8 year old girl and I end up clutching each other’s arms in fear on the Jurassic Park ride at Universal Studios? Was that Lavar Burton I saw on the Sunset Strip? Did I really catch the Gomez in-store appearance at the Virgin Megastore on Hollywood Blvd?

Tune in tomorrow.

Same Six Until Me time.

Same Six Until Me channel.

Homage to Roberta Sparrow*

2006-03-22T10:29:00.000-05:00

I’ve been at work since 6:45 this morning.

Not a big deal, but I didn’t fall asleep until after 2 o’clock in the morning.

Working off three cups of coffee, L-Glutamin, and these really nice tea biscuits that the British guys at work brought in. Being this tired has caused my mind to roam about unsupervised. As follows:

In about eight hours, I will have my first time travel experience. Flying from Rhode Island to California will send me back in time three hours. Completely blows my mind. Fly out at 8 from Chicago, arrive in LA at 10 … but it’s a 5 hour flight? I can’t even conceptualize that on the amount of sleep that I have(n’t) had.

I fully expect to see the vortex from Donnie Darko*. Maybe a fibonacci spiral or two.

And then I will be on the Pacific Coast for the first time in my life. Having always been locked to the eastern seaboard, I’ve heard the tales of the Hollywood Walk of Fame and the laid back demeanor of the West Coast but have never seen it for myself. I am pretty damn excited to check out all the sights. Scope out some employment opportunities. And some apartments?

Never hurts to look.

(Mom, please don't freak out yet.)

Bags are packed: Pump supplies, countless test strip bottles, two books to read, the iPod, my coveted Xanax for the flight, and the new digital camera I bought last night in a fit of Where the Hell is my Old Camera.

“And of course my LA Gear sneakers,” asserts Kerri, keeping her voice cool and sans sarcasm.

This girl is ready for the West Coast.

Lost in Boston. (Again.)

2006-03-21T16:29:00.000-05:00

We were late arriving because I managed to get us lost. It’s what I do. Convinced I knew exactly where it was but in reality not having the faintest notion, I dragged Chris around Boston in hot pursuit of the ADA Diabetes Expo.

Bright Boston sunshine reflected off the buildings as we strolled towards the Seaport World Trade Center.

“There it is!” The relief in my voice was unmistakable. We had been walking for over ½ an hour. (I get lost everywhere I go. Everywhere.)

Walking in to the building, we were greeted by friendly, smiling volunteers clad in red shirts. The red and white balloon archways framed the dozens of exhibition tables set up in the convention center.

Interesting things that I saw:

Medtronic was there and I made a beeline for their table. (As illustrated) Spoke with a nice guy named Ed Rose Jr. Turns out that Ed Rose Sr. and the rest of the Rose clan are all diabetics of varying degrees. Ed Jr. is the only one who isn’t. He and I spoke at length about the Insulin Pump/CGMS hybrids that are slated for release this fall, his father’s reservations about pump therapy, and the diabetes blogging community. Solid pump company, Medtronic. I’m proud to claim myself as a Minimed Paradigm Pumper.

Splenda had a terrific booth set up as well, with a column of yellow and white balloons marking their territory. A young girl and her associate handed out Splenda recipes and free product samples. Splenda has been a new addition to the household, slowly phasing out my old standy: Equal.

The ADA people were everywhere. Ed Garcia from the RI office came and greeted me warmly, confirming that the day had been a great success. “Did you get here a while ago?” he asked. I murmured something about “half an hour ago” and “lost in Boston” and “have no sense of direction.” But it was nice to see some RI Representation in that huge convention center.

After a brief meeting with my former pediatrician, Dr. Alyne Ricker (who has been listed as one of Boston Magazine’s “Top Docs”! Check out the link!) , Chris and I made one last round. It was overwhelming, really. All those people affected by diabetes in one way or another. Older people, little kids, all races and shapes and sizes … a veritable potluck of patients. Those who live with the disease. Those who love someone with the disease. And those trying to cure the disease.

There’s something about a room full of people who are dedicated to bettering the lives of diabetics that makes you feel like you’re part of something tremendous.

Sidenote: Next time I’ll try not to lose my digital camera and all the Expo pictures that I intended to download onto Blogger. For now, the Excel Stick People Montage was the best I could manage.

Second Sidenote: Today is Chris’s birthday. Happy Birthday !!!

Preferring Crayons.

2006-03-20T09:52:00.000-05:00

A Haiku for this Morning at Work.

Computer on. The
Papers shuffle without sound.
I'd rather color.

Sometimes I wonder if people from work will stumble upon this blog, read about how much I loathe my job, and then pink slip me, a la Dooce. If that ends up being the case, how awful (read: liberating) would that be?

Post re: the ADA Diabetes Expo in Boston coming soon. I left my digital camera in Boston and am waiting for the Person Who May Have It to get back to me so I can post up the pictures from the event. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to resort to crayon etchings and stick figure interpretations of the afternoon.

Which I may do, anyway.

Happy Monday, fellow bloggers.

Writer's Block.

2006-03-15T22:51:00.000-05:00

All these thoughts and I can't even concentrate long enough to string a sentence together that doesn't start "I want some more black raspberry ice cream." I've been trying to work on some writing projects for a few hours now and so far I have accomplished the following:

Ate some delicious black raspberry ice cream.
Thought about how long it will take for Siah to run off with the pump cap that is resting on my keyboard.
Listened to the Snow Patrol album twice.
Considered lifting arm weights while I was trying to write.
Laughed at myself for having a meathead thought.
Thought about Meathead from Meatballs II. ("Me, Ted." "Meathead.")
Mused about the upcoming trip to LA and wondered if I'd like the West Coast.
Wished briefly that I had a tan.
Spent 15 minutes hating my stupid insurance job.
Got a cup of green tea.
Coughed a few times (remnants of the Plague I had for a few days).
Went back to thinking about my stupid job.
Had a quick "Kerri in NYC" fantasy involving a fancy pencil skirt, excellent brown flats, and a Mary Tyler Moore moment with a hat being thrown in the air.
Admitted to self that I don't wear hats very much.
Thought about some more ice cream.
Started a blog post.

I perused through Kieran's blog and found this link, which will most likely entertain me for the next fifteen minutes or so.

Then maybe I'll have some more ice cream.

I held hands with Superman.

2006-03-12T23:30:00.000-05:00

I held hands with Superman.

It's true.

He was six years old and missing a front tooth and melted my heart by comparing pumps and trying not to step on any cracks as we walked along the sidewalk towards the Children's Museum.

"Can't step on the cracks," I warned, tipping my foot sideways to avoid a fissure.

"Got it. I won't step on a single one." Superman (aka Shannon's son) hopped on one foot to dodge the same fracture.

Not since Clara Barton camp have I had so much interaction with other diabetics. Last week when I met Amy and E. for the first time, it was so comforting to sit down to a nice dinner and watch everyone order dinner and then absently reach for their meters; stored in fancy Kate Spade bags, travel cases, or the trusty black zipper case. No qualms about testing at the table. No issue with dosing up insulin, either via pen or pump. There's a certain odd comfort to someone else sharing the same programs of preservation.

I had the same feelings sitting down for lunch with Shannon and her beautiful family, Julia and her blue eyed daughter, Nicole and Lyrehca. Kids bouncing all over the place, lunches being unpacked or purchased, and a handful of distracting indoor pigeons. Meters gauging glucose levels, pumps brought out from pockets and carbohydrates calculated. As the adults bolused, I saw Superman eyeing the pumps on our hips, similar to the one on his.

We tore through that Children's Museum like we were all kids. Exploring all the floors, we played in puppet show kiosks, the Arthur Exhibit, construction sites, the Hall of Toys, and the golf ball racetracks. The kids played in the "Supermercado" while Nicole and I tried to put back all the toy food items before the kids could take them all out again (slightly OCD, anyone?). Superman Brendon sold me a $100 plastic pineapple. I learned what a Baby Sling was. I wore a blue plastic bib and played in the soapy bubble exhibit. We discussed how big the cow was that filled the huge Hood milk station in the courtyard. I watched moms integrate testing bloodsugars throughout the day and I wondered if that's what my mom used to do.

We played all afternoon long. Everyone was diabetic but I forgot I was diabetic for a while.

Such a strange thing, to meet people in person who you've only interacted with online. Especially for this group of diabetes bloggers, who know the deepest fears and proudest moments of people who they've never seen smile in person. But there was that instant comfort upon meeting these people, into whose lives I've had the pleasure of glimpsing, that made an afternoon at the museum feel long overdue.

Thanks to everyone who came out to Boston on Saturday!

Note to Nicole: Please buy a cellphone. Please??

Six Things on Friday.

2006-03-10T13:41:00.000-05:00

1. Tomorrow it is supposed to be almost 60 degrees in Boston. Perfect weather for a PreUnion. (Someone called it “The Sucrose Social.” I laughed and begged for rights to reprint their quip.) Starts at High Noon. Meet in the lobby? I have to be at a real estate appointment at 4 o’clock, so I can stay until about 3:40-ish. But I am very excited…

The tallied total looks like this: Nicole, Lyrehca, Julia, Shannon, me, and The Maybes include Heidi and Jen? Caren, are you coming? Who am I missing? I tried to go back through the comments and realized that I can’t keep track of things to save my life. It’s a miracle that I haven’t accidentally filled my pump with shampoo yet.

2. The Ricola Cherry Herb Throat Drops are both delicious and making considerable strides against the plague that has settled into my throat. I recommend them to everyone. And I would also like to invite the guys from the Ricola commercials to come play at the PreUnion tomorrow.

3. The arch nemesis of my diabetes this week? Girl Scouts and their obscenely expensive yet highly addictive cookie arsenal. Those Lemon Pastry cookies are great. One unit per cookie. Touchdown.

4. When it comes to jobs, mine gets awards for being The Most Crummy. Today’s adventures have my boss timing people’s lunch breaks and issuing mandates on the amount of breaks people can take per day. I am eagerly awaiting the assignment of my cubby and nap time. I am currently using my college diploma as a placemat.

5. New “Generation D” column is up at dLife. Also, Megan at This is my Life has written a terrific post called “The Classroom.” Recommend a read.

6. Private (after a fashion) Message for The Dishwasher Coalition of the Yellow Bench Café: You are right. Waitressing at The Yellow Bench Café was one of the greatest jobs I’ve ever had because it threw your daughter and me into the most Instant Friendship Ever. Your recent diagnosis as a Type 2 diabetic may give us something in common, but I want you and The Wife as healthy as possible. Get healthy!! If you do not comply with my requests, I may resort to telling Leo to attack you while you sleep. He’s about 15 pounds of Fat Cat. Best be careful.

See you tomorrow for the PreUnion!

High noon.

How low can I go?

2006-03-08T09:49:00.000-05:00

Over the last week and a half, I’ve been low about 6 times. None of this “Ooh, I’m almost 80 mg/dl, better have a nice, safe snack and patiently wait for the rise,” but a complete crash and burn low that renders me helpless and 31 mg/dl while I sleep.

I used to wake up on my own when I was dropping. A bloodsugar tumble to 54 mg/dl would either have the cat meowing insistently and pacing around my head or my own adrenaline would rouse me sleepily, sending my arm on autopilot as it reaches for the black zipper case that houses my kit. Test myself, roll my eyes at the number and stumble into the kitchen for a glass of cranberry juice. Still getting sweaty during that low, still feeling lost in that fog, but coherent enough to treat my own reactions.

Something has happened in the last few weeks.

I’m not waking up on my own.

Chris wakes up in the middle of the night to me, sweating profusely as my body searches its cells for glucose, blankets tossed off and hands wrapped up in my t-shirt in panic. Grabbing my shoulders, it takes more than two fierce shakes to wake me enough to prick my finger.

The numbers are Officially Scary. 44 mg/dl. 37 mg/dl. 31 mg/dl. 27 mg/dl. He runs to the kitchen and pours a glass of juice, holding me up as I drink it. He stays awake until I've tested that second time, letting me sleep again once I'm up to 80 mg/dl.

I don’t even know I’ve had a reaction until I wake up for work the next morning and see the glass on my bedside table, ringed with the red residue of the last sip of juice. Then I check the memory on my meter and see the number from 3:11 a.m. A text message from Chris while I’m at works comes in around 9 in the morning: “You had a rough low last night.” Now the messages read: “You had another one.”

What scares me the most is that I’m not able to help myself anymore. It could be that my bloodsugars are running so close to almost, maybe normal that I don’t feel the lows until they’re frightful. Or it could be that unexplained hypoglycemia unawareness. I feel like my body is betraying me. And my stupid cat is leaving me in the proverbial lurch, too.

But it’s happening at work now, too. I had to excuse myself from a meeting to grab a bottle of juice, my heels clacking against the tile floor as I’m almost running to the cafeteria. I’ve cut my basal down. I’m monitoring my levels as often as is financially feasible. I’m trying to keep track of what I’m doing that could be causing these lows.

And I’m still experiencing a 221 mg/dl or two, confirming that I do still need this pump thing hiding in my pocket. I’m really looking forward to the CGMS/pump hybrid, because if the last few weeks are any indication of my sensitivity to insulin and insensitivity to lows, I’m going to be a prime candidate for this machine.

Prime… like priming the pump.

A good pun goes a long way for me.

Diabetes Terms of Endearment

2006-03-03T11:23:00.000-05:00

The Diabetes Terms of Endearment Dictionary: First Edition

Preface

These are our terms. Ours, as the bunch of people with diabetes who flop around on the internet and use these terms in our posts, in our frustration, in our lives. Amassed from the comments and emails from some of my favorite bloggers and anonymous lurkers, this is our compilation of Diabetes Terms of Endearment, aka Sniglets for Diabetics.

Keep in mind: These are just for fun. Anything to make us smile in the face of diabetes chaos.

Special thanks to Nicole, Laura, Ellen, Zazzy, Allison, Val, Jamie, Megan, the Anonymous Lurker Moms, and good o’ Wil. The entries received were so well written and funny that I didn’t make many changes. All contributors should take full credit for this post!

Bear Fingers - When a finger has been tested to the point of exhaustion and it needs to be rested or "hibernated"

Bouncing – When your bloodsugar drops so low overnight that your living kicks in some glucagons, causing you to bounce from low to high

Born Again Diabetic – When a diabetic fosters a new found interest in taking care of their health after years of negligence and denial

Carbonese - The ability to determine the number of carbs in a given food based on the total carbs and the serving size (coined by a 6 year old child with diabetes who is fluent in Carbonese and can eyeball the carbs without her mother’s input)

Cheap Shot- Inferior insulin brand, probably distributed/sold by Undisclosed Huge Discount Stores Whose Names May Rhyme With Tall-Fart

Clocking In – Another term for “bloodsugar reading.” Synonyms include “ringing in” and “reading at.”

Daylight Savings Time – See also “Time to Change the Lancet”

Dead Strips - Used blood glucose meter strips found in random spots, i.e. under the seat of your car, on the floor at the gym, in a shoe, in a small gray kitten named Siah’s mouth.

Diabetic PMS - When the blood sugar rockets up for no apparent reason for the 2-3 days prior to the start of a woman’s cycle. Men may also experience this in a sympathetic mode.

Dotties – When you prick your finger, squeeze, and about five holes show up with blood. See also Bloody Constellation.

Gusher – When you prick your finger, squeeze, and end up assaulted by your own bloodstream. May also be found when you remove an infusion set.

Hooking - When your pump tubing snags the doorknob and almost rips out

Interstate BG Checks - Where upon the diabetic (while barreling down the interstate above the speed limit) juggles the steering wheel, BG meter, test strip, lancet and a target finger. Commonly occurs in the dark.

I didn’t feel when I was driving home from my interview, so I performed an interstate BG check and almost hit a moose.

Larry Bird – Boston Celtic’s basketball legend, jersey no. 33. Serves as cardio workout goal time inspiration for many diabetics. Often found at the punchline of many of my sad little quips.

Working out at the gym, I made sure to do Larry Bird on the treadmill.

Low Bowl - The bowl in the kitchen of a diabetic filled to the rim with 5-15g fast acting carb treats. Miniature versions are often found in diaper bags for "On The Go" lows.

Nabs – Crackers with peanut butter spread between them. Typically used to follow up glucose tabs in the treatment of a low bloodsugar. Names derived from the Latin “Nabisco”, the maker of the most popular peanut butter crackers. Most diabetics learn about nabs at diabetes camp.

Officially Scary – Applies to situations, numbers, etc. Defined as any statistic that stretches the perimeters of safety.

While at the gym, I checked at the 33 Larry Bird minute mark and noted that I was at the Officially Scary Number of 37 mg/dl!

Panicky Diabetic Syndrome - The use of more than five test strips in a 55 minute period because you aren’t confident that your bloodsugar is coming up or down.. Often accompanied by a Rage or Serial Bolus.

Random Bolus - The method of bolusing at random and mildly calculated intervals, i.e. realizing that you may have under-bolused for a meal and opt to course in a unit or two to cover bases.

Rage Bolus - The act of suffering from a high bloodsugar for an extended period of time or for an unknown reason and the retaliatory insulin dose. Oftentimes results in a low bloodsugar.

Real People Sick – The differentiation between bloodsugar issues and the common cold. Phrase slips out most often when the diabetic admits to not feeling well and must specify that it is not bloodsugar related.

Regan-Rage - Coined by Nicole’s boyfriend; Term comes from the little girl in the Exorcist. Describes the behavior some diabetics exhibit when having a low bloodsugar. Regan-rage behaviors include swearing, screaming, spitting of juice, and stretching body parts in unnatural ways. Does not include levitating. If your diabetic friend/partner/child should levitate, it is probably not caused by low bloodsugar.

Nicole was in a Regan-rage, spitting the juice all over our bedroom walls and cussing like a sailor.

Serial Bolus – Administering bolus upon bolus to bring a bloodsugar down. Often likened to a Rage Bolus, but usually follows the course of multiple hours vs. one huge crank up.

Sleep-Eating – The act of rising from a sound sleep, proceeding to the kitchen and eating anything you can find. A diabetic often wakes up while in the process of sleep-eating without being able to figure out how they got to the kitchen or why there is ice cream all over their fingers and face.

Last night, my boyfriend found me sleep-eating again; when he was able to rouse me, I was mortified to find I had eaten a ½ gallon of chocolate ice cream.

Sugar Reaper - A night time hypo that nearly kills you.

I had a visit from the Sugar Reaper last night, which explains the bags under my eyes and the juice stains around my mouth.

S.W.A.G. Bolus – Scientific, Wild Assed Guess bolus. This is where you use more instinct than data to bolus an unexpected or uncalculated meal.

Time to Change the Lancet – Defined as any time when you change the batteries in your smoke detector, reset your clocks, or when the lancet starts to rust

Third Nipple - the little protusion from an infusion set when a shirt is pressed around the site

Note: Every sentence I tried to write for this one was borderline inappropriate and was making me laugh too hard. If you can come up with a “clean” one, let me know. I, apparently, am too immature.

Twilight Zone High - A high with no rational cause.

Despite the fact that I had not eaten anything sweet or missed any insulin, I clocked in at a Twilight Zone High of 430 mg/dl.

... And my personal favorite response to the call for entries comes from Jamie:

The fast acting insulin we use on Danielle is called Novo-rapid or Aspart. We use the term Aspart mostly because that is what our endo calls it. We have gotten into the bad habit of calling it "ass".

i.e. Hmmm, Danielle's sugars are too high - should I give her some ass?

Chronic Babe

2006-03-02T15:05:00.000-05:00

Chronic Babe has done me the honor of republishing “A Bottle of Juice in the Shower” on her site.

Jenni over at Chronic Babe is running the premiere site for women with chronic illness who are looking to live it up. Her site says “If you’re living with a chronic illness and trying to balance healthy living and—whoa—fun, then you're DEFINITELY in the right place. If you're sick of reading depressing, clinical dissertations on disease, then you're going to feel right at home. If you're hunting for creative approaches to life, come on in. This online community is for babes (who just happen to be chronic).”

Thanks for the opportunity to let my voice be heard from Chronic Babe, Jenni!

First Annual Boston Blogger's Pre-Union

2006-02-28T11:15:00.000-05:00

The Date: March 11th

The Time: High Noon

The Place: Boston Children's Museum

The First Annual Boston Blogger’s Pre-Union!!

(to be followed next year by the Second Annual Blogger’s Reunion)

The invitation is extended to everyone who would like to make the drive to Boston and enjoy an afternoon with the bloggers. Meet at noon, stay until you feel like going home. The afternoon is extremely informal and could take whatever shape the attendees choose! (I, personally, chose the shape of a carousel pony, but I’m open to options.)

The Boston Children’s Museum is open from 10 am – 5 pm and admission is $9.00 for adults and $7.00 for children ages 2 – 15 yrs. Directions are linked here. There are a number of exhibits at the museum that look pretty cool (The Hall of Toys? I’m all for that!) but be advised that there is no food facility within the museum itself. There’s an indoor picnic area that could work out well … any objections to brown bagging lunches and eating at the museum? Otherwise, there are many nearby food options. What does everyone think? Any suggestions?

Is Boston ready for us?

Hey Mom, are you coming with me?

Country Mouse.

2006-02-27T10:30:00.000-05:00

I can’t claim to be well traveled. Being a bit of a country mouse myself, I’d never explored New York before. Safely cocooned in Rhode Island, the most city action I’d seen was a plethora of Providence and various explorations into Boston. My scene is more the beach, the calming oceanside town, and drinks with friends at the local Irish pubs.

So when we found ourselves in Downtown Brooklyn yesterday afternoon, to say "startled" barely scratches the surface.

In pursuit of what may be our new haunt, Chris and I explored Brooklyn and Manhattan yesterday. Driving in from RI, we spent three hours talking animatedly, the radio never being switched on. Too excited. Too apprehensive. We’d heard so much about places like Brooklyn Heights and Park Slope from our friends that we couldn’t wait to see for ourselves.

After driving through what looked like Beirut to get to our destination, we rolled safely into Brooklyn Heights and parked the car. Beautiful brick buildings lined quiet city street. Despite the biting cold, the sun broke through and touched the windows gently, reflecting back our hope that this could be our New Home. Across the way from the Brooklyn Heights Promenade was the city.

Staring out at the Manhattan skyline, I couldn’t help but feel excited. And swallowed up. Maybe a hybrid of both.

Over the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan, traversing the grid that is New York City. Blazing billboards. Scrolling advertisements. A girl like me could get used to this shopping. Restaurants. Bars. City streets teeming with people.

Chris and I, like goldfish in a bowl, peering out the car windows and taking it all in.

“What kind of timeframe are we looking at? Are you nervous? Do you like Park Slope, too? How do you feel about this?” My questions were only slightly muffled by the delicious slice of pizza from Grimaldi’s that I was devouring.

“Where am I going to work? Is there a pharmacy nearby? Does Joslin have a location here? Where the hell am I going to stash the Jetta? Can I …” Tears are threatening to well up against my will, nervous about making such a big move.

Warm brown eyes. Reassuring hand across the table reaches and takes mine, pizza slice and all.

“We’re going to figure it all out. This is going to be incredible. I promise.” He smiled. My heart stops for a minute.

Smile back.

“You’re right.”

Grab a napkin and wipe the pizza off both of our hands.

I could Heart NY.

Rhode Island ADA Annoucements

2006-02-22T13:16:00.000-05:00

The following is a press release from the RI Chapter of the American Diabetes Association:

Celebrate Oscar Night in Style

at an Award-Winning Fundraiser
Oscar Night® America in Providence

to Support the Fight Against Diabetes

PROVIDENCE, RI. -- Oscar Night® America will be celebrated at a “dress to impress” event on Sunday, March 5 at Rhode Island’s hottest new night spot, Chiazza. All proceeds from the event will support the mission of the American Diabetes Association.

This will be the only 78th Annual Academy Awards® party in Providence officially sanctioned by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. “This is our second year for this event,” said Jack Hillman, chair of the organizing committee. “And our goal is to make this an annual fundraising event for the ADA.”

Providence’s Oscar Night America Party guests will arrive at Chiazza, 308 County Road in Barrington., beginning at 6 p.m. and celebrate until the last “and the Oscar goes to” envelope is opened. Academy Awards® for outstanding film achievements of 2005 will be broadcast locally by ABC-6. Those attending will be entertained by a live broadcast of the Academy Awards and entertainment from B101. ABC-6 news anchor April O’Dell will serve as mistress of ceremonies for the event. A “Predict the Winners” contest and silent auction are planned.

The Oscar Night America/Providence committee is Jack Hillman (Chair), Roseanne O'Rourke, Rick Dyer, Katie Carlson, Judy Maynard, Diane Gendreau, Barbara Hillman, Melissa Schmitt, Rebecca Tung, Deanna Law, David Mellor and Jim Metivier.

Tickets are available for $50 each. For more information and tickets, please visit the www.diabetes.org/oscar or contact the American Diabetes Association at (401) 351-0498 ext. 3500.

The American Diabetes Association’s mission is to prevent and cure diabetes and to improve the lives of all people affected by diabetes. More than 20 million people in the United States have diabetes, including 1 million in New England. For more information about the American Diabetes Association and diabetes, visit www.diabetes.org or call 800-DIABETES.

For more information please contact Ed Garcia at 401-351-0498 or egarcia@diabetes.org

And the following is a blurb from Kerri (hello.) :

March 11th appears to be the best "Pre-Union" date for Boston. Can I get a headcount?

Fitzcarraldo and Los Angeles.

2006-02-20T22:36:00.000-05:00

"Fitzcarraldo" is a movie from 1982 about a man, Brian Fitzgerald, so enchanted with opera and the singer Enrico Caruso that he takes it upon himself to build an opera house right where he lives.

In the middle of the Peruvian jungle.

Push coming to a literal shove, the movie reaches a pinnacle point when Brian finds himself without a river, without a crew, and without a hope pushing his steamship up a mountainside. In his darkest hour, the powerful enchantment of the jungle natives aids him in bringing his enormous steamship up the face of the mountain.

Long way about it, thank you to this entire online community for being my jungle natives, so to speak. Sometimes it's like moving a ship up a mountain, this disease. Every hand helps when my own falter. So thank you.
Oh, I booked a plane ticket to Los Angeles today. And called in a refill for my Xanax prescription, because Chris and I are off to California at the end of March for a business trip/exploration of the West Coast trip/just a fun time trip. Time to make a literal O.C. of this blogger.

More details to come on that.

And as for the early March Boston Blogger Event, what is the schedule for the East Coast bloggers on the weekend of March 4th? Does that weekend look like a feasible timeframe for those interested in attending? It seemed as though the most accessible place would be the Boston Children's Museum. Meet at noon at the museum?

Who's in?

UPDATE: Looks like March 4th is an issue for a number of people. How fares March 11th?

The minutiae of the moment.

2006-02-16T01:17:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I examine the minutiae of a moment until an ache forms in both my head and my heart.

Waking up in the morning has my hand lazily grazing the black zipper case of my kit instinctively, making sure the second thing I do is test, only after upsetting the cat from sleeping on my head. Disconnect the pump and scrounge up a loose pump cap in efforts to stumble, bleary-eyed, towards the shower. Clothes for work are chosen, discarded, re-chosen, and the pump is integrated into my ensemble so that its slim outline and snaky tubing won't be seen.

First cup of coffee at work is greeted by the beeping of my pump as I bolus a unit for the much needed caffeine. Insurance papers spill from every file on my desk as I review policies, popping the 5 mg of l-Glutamin. Work for another hour, reach for that black zipper case. Feeling achy in the eyes. High? Or staring at the computer too long? Will I ever be able to distinguish without checking?

Sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing. Sometimes it shows. Sometimes I remember that I'm now twenty-seven years old and I have not yet made my mark.

Sometimes I'm scared.

Tonight I read a blog online about a man whose wife underwent a pancreas transplant a year ago. She's been cured of diabetes for almost a year. But in a cruel twist of irony, her kidney transplant has started to fail her, urging her towards dialysis and potentially another kidney transplant.

And I'm human. I felt swallowed by sadness when I read that. That woman, cured of her diabetes after such a long struggle, only to still be faced with the consequences of complications. I wanted to read that she was okay. That they went out dancing for Valentine's Day, instead of quietly acknowledging her failing body. My sleeve is damp from wiping my eyes and I don't even know these people. My ache is purely selfish. And I feel guilty for that.

I want to write something eloquent and inspiring but I'm not feeling that tonight. I'm mildly mired with misery. Most days, I don't think too much about diabetes. Or at least I don't notice that I'm thinking about it. The testing and bolusing and all the other maintenance becomes so seamlessly integrated that I don't realize I'm doing it.

But then there are days when the pump swells to the size of a grapefruit and the zipper on the black case seems to always stick. The counted carbs like dust in my mouth. The beeps of my machines echo off my heart.

If I were feeling more articulate, I would tell the story of the low that caught me in its net last night. How I tangibly felt my mind ebbing away from me. How nothing but his words kept me docked in this consciousness.

I would tell you about how his palm gently brushes my forehead at night to see if my forehead is clammy from a low, even when he thinks I've been fast asleep for hours. How he didn't think I knew and I wish I'd kept his secret. How he still does it, and I smile in my sleepiness.

Tonight is a night of feeling tangled in my words.

Tomorrow will make more sense to me.

What I'm Enjoying at Work Today...

2006-02-14T10:09:00.000-05:00

Thank you, Christopher.

And Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

And the snow is still falling.

2006-02-12T16:21:00.000-05:00

My poor Jetta.

My poor street.

And my poor boyfriend, who refuses to let me help shovel.

DLife Update.

2006-02-11T11:53:00.000-05:00

Quick post before the entire New England area gets smacked by a Nor'Easter and blanketed in the forecasted sixteen inches of snow:

"Generation D" on dLife has been updated with my new column: "I pump, not iPod."

Now I'm off to the grocery store to get bread and milk so I can make ... Bread & Milk Soup, I guess.

Another Rousing Round of Tag.

2006-02-09T09:33:00.000-05:00

Four Jobs I've Had in my Life:

Breakfast waitress at the Italian Village Restaurant while I was in college
Banker and account manager at Citizens Bank
Service Writer at Acura of Newport
Insurance Agent for "Undisclosed Service Center"

Four movies I can watch over and over:

Dead Poet's Society
Braveheart
An Uzi at the Alamo
Millions

Four places I have lived:

Watch Hill, RI
Coventry, RI
Wakefield, RI
N. Providence, RI ... is anyone noticing a distressing theme here?

Four TV shows I love to watch:

Nip/Tuck
Law & Order of any kind
The Office
Crossing Jordan

Four places I have been on vacation:

Birmingham, AL
Augusta, ME
Orlando, FL
A Cruise to Key West and Cozumel!

Four of my favorite foods:

Cool whip
Chai tea
Green beans
Raspberries

Four websites I visit daily:

Google
McSweeney's
Herman's Head
Pandora (thanks, Tek!)

Four places I would rather be right now:

Napatree Point
In bed under the down comforter
On the moon ("Oooh, it's all sticky!")
Anywhere but here.

I tag Batman and George! (By the way, George has a new d-blog called "The Slimmons Blog" and he's on a crusade to get fitter and healthier. If you have a minute, drop by and give him a hello.)

Anyone who gets the "moon" reference gets extra tickets from the Skeetball Machine, to be exchanged at the ticket counter for a small plush animal and a paddleball set.

Part Three: Mayhem in Mexico

2006-02-07T23:57:00.000-05:00

There were about 20 of us on this excursion, including Chris and myself. Our guide, Miguel, rode up front and the Other Guy followed the back of the crew in a red Jeep Wrangler.

"Stick with me, okay! You keep up, okay," Miguel's voice carried back on the wind.

But I was just in front of the Jeep, riding as leisurely as I could on my bicycle with the broken seat, my bloodsugar at a crispy 384 mg/dl and the insulin pump tucked safely in a plastic bag in our stateroom on the cruiseship.

The theory was this: Since we'd be riding bikes for a few miles and then snorkeling for an hour or two in a cavern in the middle of Mexico, I figured I'd disconnect the pump for the afternoon so I wouldn't have a Low of Epic Proportions. I couldn't think of anything that made me more nervous than being in a dimly lit cavern and on the verge of convulsions, with no medical facility closer than a helicopter ride. And possible losing my pump.

Apparently I forgot about the potential for an Enormous High.

That morning, Chris and I woke up early and went to have breakfast. It was the last day on my infusion set/reservoir combo and I planned on wearing the set right up until I disconnected for the excursion. We sat down on the deck of the ship with our breakfast plates and a hot cup of coffee and chatted as we enjoyed the view of the aquamarine waters of Mexico.

Nice big breakfast. Nice big bolus.

I had no idea that, since I was at the end of the reservoir, the heat had caused a few bubbles to crop up in my reservoir, which siphoned out into the tubing, which crept into me instead of my insulin when I bolused for breakfast.

Oh shit.

I disconnect and leave the pump in the room. Chris grabs the bookbag, which is loaded with a Humalog pen, five bottles of juice, two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (thank you, room service), my testing kit, a syringe, and a spare bottle of Humalog -- in addition to everything else.

We trot down the gangplank in a terrifically pirate-esque manner, and join our group for the cavern excursion. Before I get on the bike, I test.

284 mg/dl.

"Chris, I need the insulin pen. I'm all cranked up from breakfast." He hands it to me, I take 4 units and we start to ride.

20 minutes into the ride, the group takes a break. Chris shields me as I test again.

328 mg/dl.

"Chris, I'm going up, not down." Panic, like a warm blanket, covers me as I contemplate the potential for ketones and DKA on this many mile bikeride through 90 degree Mexican heat.

"It's okay. Drink this water while we ride. And we'll test again in a few."

I down the water. Another 20 minutes passes. We break, shortly before we reach the caverns. I unzip the little black bag that holds my kit.

384 mg/dl.

"I need the pen again. It's still going up." I can feel the twinge of a backache. The sweaters on my teeth. That cinderblock that is settling in between my eyes, pressing against them with its sharp corners. That panic. Am I going to have my first DKA episode in Mexico? Fear wins over rationale as I uncap the insulin pen with my teeth, instead of waiting for the first dose to catch.

Another 3 units of Humalog hits my system. We ride just a bit more and then we start changing for the cavern dive.

And the heat becomes more intense. I'm hot and sticky from the hot sun and long bike ride, but now the sweat is clammy and insistent. I look up and the leaves on the trees are throwing patterns on the rocky steps leading to the cavern. My mouth feels tingly. Chris is talking to me but I can only focus on half of his words. Every sound I hear bounces from the tip of my ear, spirals into my eardrum like a marble in a funnel, and waits a few minutes before registering in my brain.

He's saying something but I can't reach through the fog enough to hear him.

Three bottles of juice, half of a melted peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a moment where he wipes away my frantic tears later, 104 mg/dl.

And two moments after that, we're peering down into 30 feet of dimly lit water, armed with nothing more than a snorkel, a mask and a flashlight to illuminate the depth. The crystalline water reveals a forgotten Myan burial ground, snow white sand, and fish that shine blue when my flashlight beam grazes them. Stalagmites and stalactites jut out from every surface.

Panic and fear are left on the edge of the water as Chris and I explore the cavern, occasionally finding each others' hand in the deep.

Part Two: The ship.

2006-02-06T15:11:00.000-05:00

Palm trees? In January?

My humble Rhode Island self could barely conceptualize the idea.

We rounded the bend after passing Star Island and saw the massive cruise ship docked in the Miami harbor: The Fascination.

“Oh my goodness, Chris! That ship is huge! We’re going on that? We’re really going on it? For a whole week??”

Kenny, who lives in Miami and is a friend of Chris’s, laughed as he drove us closer towards the ship.

“I take it you’ve never been on a cruise before.”

For those of you who have had the luxury of cruising before, forgive me for sounding so excited about it but that ship was the most incredible thing I had ever seen. Ten decks, two pools, a waterslide, bars, dance clubs, hot tubs, a gym, dining rooms, and countless state rooms! I was amazed at the most trivial of things: the super magnets that held the bathroom door opened when the ship tossed a bit, the fact that room service really would show up at four in the morning with a Portobello mushroom sandwich if you asked them to, and the towel animals.

Ah, the towel animals. Chris told me that the housekeeping services would make animals out of the towels, but I wasn’t sure. Sounded complicated. And kind of messy. But the first afternoon, upon our return from dinner, I opened the door to see a dog crafted entirely out of white bath towels, sitting on the bed.

“Chris! Look at that!”

I think he got more out of watching me enjoy everything than he did out of the actual cruise itself.

Every time I went back into the stateroom, I would open the door oh so slowly, just in case there was a towel animal peeking at me from the bed. I definitely bought the book on how to make the little buggers. I plan on making every towel in the apartment into an elephant, a dog, a hanging monkey, or maybe even Voltron.

The food was incredible. Wearing my pump was truly the best course of action, as bolusing for some of these meals was tricky. A two hour dinner of stuffed mushrooms, filet, fresh fruit, escargot, stuffed chicken, vegetables smothered in butter sauce, and decadent desserts would not have fared as well were it not for the grace of the Extended Bolus.

And my diabetes remained quiet, for the most part. The insulin flowed freely and my sugars didn’t crest above 230 mg/dl or below 60 mg/dl (not bad for excessive eating and drinking).

Except for Wednesday. When we were snorkeling in a cavern in Cozumel, Mexico, miles from the ship and my insulin pump.

But that’s a story for tomorrow.

Until then, enjoy a picture of Chris and I at the first dinner night, with our mariachi pal.

Tomorrow --> Part Three: Mayhem in Mexico

Part One: The plane ride.

2006-02-04T21:39:00.000-05:00

Sitting in the terminal, it occurred to me how angry I was at whoever named the waiting area. Terminal ... cruel joke of a name. How can I combat this rising anxiety as I sit in a place called "terminal?"

Damn it. Thirty minutes until we board the plane.

Bags are checked at this point. My enormous Nine West upright clocked in at over 50 pounds due to the cache of juice bottles snuggled up against my dresses and sandals. Twenty-five dollars extra to check that bag. The people at the security checkpoints barely noticed the insulin pump peeking out of the front pocket of my jeans, except one security woman who put her hands out to stop me.

"Got to get rid of that iPod, lady. No iPods."

Nerves raw. Anticipatory tears in my eyes.

"Not an iPod. It's an insulin pump. I'm diabetic."

Pause.

"Thought it was a fancy lookin' iPod. Go ahead."

No mention of the carry on bag, housing a full bag of syringes, two insulin pens filled with Humalog, seven bottles of test strips, my meter, back up pump supplies, and the ubiquitous Glucagon kit. I guess they really have seen all this stuff before. I had a letter from Joslin stating that "Kerri is a diabetic and will be carrying supplies necessary for traveling, namely ..." and so forth, but it remained crisply folded in my handbag.

Barely time to blink before we're through security, down that long corridor towards the plane, bags stowed in overhead compartments, and I'm nestled against the window, right over the engine.

I need to quell this rising panic. Second alloted Xanax pill is taken with shaking hands and a sip of water. Breathing deeply. Chris reaches over and wipes the tear from my face, leaning in and fixing his warm brown eyes on me. "It's going to be okay. I promise. Just try to relax."

Gripping his hand tightly, we taxi out onto the runway. Gaining speed, the nose of the plane raises up and I feel the ascent into the sky. A single tear escapes from my eye and I can't wipe it away because I'm too scared. Engine roaring. Cabin pressurizing. The late afternoon sky painted pale pink by the setting sun and I closed my eyes as the plane took off.

"Baby, open your eyes."

Lashes part and I see a blanket of clouds stretching as far as I could see, all the way to the horizon. Beautiful. The beat of my heart is suddenly no longer visible through my shirt. A deep sigh eases from my lips and I see Chris smiling out of the corner of my eye.

"You're doing great, Kerri. You are doing a great job."

Why did I wait this long to enjoy this view? Here, on top of the world. On top of the very clouds I've tried to find shapes in at baseball games.

The hum of the engines causes my eyes to close again, and I rest my head against Chris's shoulder. A smile tugs up the corners of my mouth against the weight of my fear, and I drift off to sleep, thinking of the cruise ship that waits docked in Miami.

Tomorrow --> Part Two: The ship.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted...

2006-01-29T09:32:00.000-05:00

Bathing suits: Check.

Reef sandals and sunblock: Check and check.

Suitcase filled with summer clothes I had to unearth from the storage area and there may be a spider tucked in one of those shirts but I'll be damned if I'm searching for it: Check and ew.

Carry on bag filled with enough diabetes supplies to cause the whole boat to become hypoglycemic: Check.

New, fancy black dress for Formal Cruise Night: Check. Oooh, and new, fancy black shoes. Double check.

My Pal Xanax for the flight: Thank goodness Check.

Excitement, Anticipation, Slight Nerves, Big Smile, Great Boyfriend: Check.

See you all next week!

Two Years Ago Today.

2006-01-26T23:49:00.000-05:00

Reflections on the day my pump arrived two years ago...

The FedEx box loomed in the middle of the room.

Special overnight delivery. On a Saturday, no less. The room shrank as the box sat unopened.

I made myself a cup of tea and sat down on the floor. Peeled back the packing tape. The flaps sprang open and a few stray foam peanuts flung themselves onto the floor, falling victim to Abby's big paws. Reaching into the box, I foraged around until I found the green, white and blue box inside. "Medtronic Minimed. Paradigm 512."

It looked like a pager. Slightly bigger, maybe, weighing in a just a few ounces. Smokey gray in color and almost transparent, I could see all the gears and wires inside.

Sipping my tea, I clipped it to the top of my shorts and stood up. I felt unbalanced, as though I would tip to one side if an aggressive breeze blew through. Leaving it attached, I jumped up and down. Nothing happened. I sat on the couch to see if it I would feel its presence. I walked over to the window and looked out onto the deck, hearing the soft clink of the pump as it touched against the window sill.

The box of infusion sets was decidedly dodgier. Twenty three inches of snaky, thin white tubing. The round white patch of gauze with the bright blue lid on it. A 6 mm cannula.

Prying open the infusion set packaging, I touched the tip of the needle with my finger. It was hollow and very sharp. I lifted up my shirt and exposed my stomach, daring myself to press the needle tip against my skin. It stung a small bit, but no more than a syringe.

I was used to syringes, though. I’d used them many times a day for over seventeen years. Was I ready for this? This change? This whole new regimen?

I pressed the needle hard against my stomach, watching as my skin resisted, then that sliding pop of compliance as the needle slid in. I pulled out the blue cap and inspected the infusion set in my stomach for the first time. It looked like the cap on children’s Tylenol. Like a tiny little Superdome on my abdomen.

Standing in front of the full length mirror in my bathroom, it was bright white against my skin. I pulled my shirt tight over it and saw its outline against the fabric. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t big. It could go unnoticed. My body still looked the same. I was still the same.

The tear that slipped down my cheek was absorbed into my shirt and quickly joined by another. I was scared. But why? This small thing, clipped to my belt and the cannula under my skin, was going to help me achieve better control. It was going to assist me in lowering my otherwise plateaued A1C. The pump was going to afford me the freedom of sleeping late, conquering the dawn phenomenon, and bolusing minute increments.

I felt different, though. This pump was the first external sign of my diabetes. And that, after 17 years of quiet injections and subtle finger pricks, stirred up the oddest combination of pride and fear. I have done this for so long the only way I knew how. This new method was daunting. I had no idea that my A1C would drop within three months. Or that I would sleep late on a Saturday and not end up hypoglycemic. Or that I would feel strikingly healthier and confidently safer two years later.

I felt otherwise changed.

It was startling to look in the mirror and still see me.

Stings.

2006-01-26T15:28:00.000-05:00

It was fifth grade and Mrs. Latz was our language arts teacher. It was the first year we had lockers and they were situated outside of her classroom. It was cool, having a locker. We cut out pictures from Tiger Beat magazine and hung them on the inside of the door. Nicole, who was my locker partner, and I cut out pictures of tropical fish and made our locker an aquarium. She even made a fake aquarium filter out of a used water bottle and some aluminum foil.

Nicole, Christie and I were walking back from the cafeteria after lunch and we stopped by our lockers to put our lunchbags away. Christie grabbed her reading book from the top shelf of her locker. Nicole didn't need anything because she already had her book. I reached into the bottom of our locker to retrieve my reading book and saw a folded up piece of paper stuck in the locker vents.

"To Kerri Only."

"A note! Kerri got a note! Oooohh..." Fifth grade immaturity gave way to giggles and blushing as the three of us crowded around the note to read.

"Dear Kerri, the Dirty Diabetic. No one likes you. We've made a whole club about how we don't like you. It's called the "We Hate Diabetics" club."

A picture of a needle encased in an accusatory red circle was scribbled beside my name. No more needles. No more insulin. No more Kerri.

Nicole and Christie stood there, not saying anything. Until I started to cry.

"That's not right. That's mean! We're taking this to Mrs. Latz. She'll find out who did this." They took the note from my shaking, 10 year old hands. They took my hands in theirs and led me into the classroom.

The note was handed to Mrs. Latz and she read it while Nicole rummaged in her pockets for a tissue for me.

"This is unacceptable." She shook her head and her soft blond hair swished from side to side. "This is simply unacceptable."

Through the miraculous methods that only 5th grade language arts teachers possess, Mrs. Latz found out who has left that note in my locker. The "We Hate Diabetics Club" consisted of one, miserable, red headed girl who sat with me at lunch, whose eyes were red rimmed as she shuffled towards me at the urging of Mrs. Latz's hands.

Red Head stopped in front of me and stared at her feet.

"I'm sorry, Kerri," she mumbled, looking to Mrs. Latz to release her.

"It's okay," I said back, looking for her to release me.

But it wasn't.

Red Head remains the only person in my life who has ever tried to make me feel bad for being diabetic. She made me cry and, when I think about the moment I opened that note, my face still flushes red with surprise. I wish I could forgive her for her childish words, but I still can't. She and I continued through middle school and high school together, attending the same parties and dances and mixing with the same group of friends, but I always held her at arm's length. And when I saw her at the beach last summer, after a 4 year absence, I didn't walk over to say hello. Twenty-six years old and still holding a grudge against a little girl who was the only member in cruel little club.

It still stings.

A Post From My Mother.

2006-01-25T09:06:00.000-05:00

I had asked my mom to put together her first "cameo post" for Six Until Me. There are countless blogs written by the parents of diabetic children that my mother reads now, even though I'm an adult and living under my own care. Had the blogging outlet been an option when I was diagnosed, I'm certain she would have been a pioneer.

So she's getting her chance now, on her daughter's blog. It's the least I can do. My acceptance of my disease is the exquisite culmination of her teaching me to believe in myself as much as she believed in me. My daughter, Kerri, has asked me to write a cameo post for her blog. I have been putting it off for a few months now and I think that I had better get to it!

I couldn’t decide what my topic would be. After all, this was my one shot at being read by the OC. Of course, I will be relating more to the parents of children with diabetes. I guess I will write about what was the hardest part of Kerri growing up with diabetes. That would be “learning to let go”.

The initial reaction to one’s child being diagnosed with a chronic disease is traumatic to say the least. I remember the fear of knowing that I was responsible for keeping Kerri healthy and safe. That was my priority prior to diagnosis but now there was this “disease” thrown into the mix of normal childhood perils to contend with and this one wasn’t going anywhere. I thought “how am I going to do this?” I was nervous and scared. Kerri was taking it in stride, still smiling and still her happy self. That’s when I decided that diabetes wasn’t going to rob her of her childhood or all of life’s experiences. If she could still smile and carry on, so could I. (Granted, at 6, she wasn’t fully aware of all the diabetes related issues.) I just went on automatic pilot. I did what I had to do. She would go to friends houses for sleepovers, school field trips, etc. About a month after diagnosis, Kerri was invited to sleep over at a new friends house. They were new to the area and Kerri and Jill became fast friends. I knew that I was going to let her go but first I had to call her teacher and get her opinion of Jill’s parents. She gave them rave reviews. I then made arrangements with Jill’s Mom and Dad to go over in the evening to give the night time shot and again at 7:00 AM for the morning test and shot. The Mom’s became friends as well. Mission accomplished…Kerri was able to go to sleepovers and I had control.

Now it’s the “letting go” part. As she grew up it was the hardest thing not having a say or part in everything she did. It was like going from hot to cold. It was a form of withdrawal. My daughter is fiercely independent. (I think you can all tell.). It was time for her to manage the disease and prepare for a life without Mom monitoring her every move. It was soooo hard. I had many a stomach ache waiting for her to drive in the driveway. My role as guardian and nurse was about to be severely restructured. Now I was an observer or sorts. I had to let her test her wings. She wouldn’t live with me forever. Besides, I always thought that if, God forbid, anything ever happened to her, I would want to know that she really had a great life. That she was not held back from doing things out of my own fears for her. (And there were plenty.) I did this for her and for myself as well. I would have felt guilty if I had held her back... so I didn’t.

She managed just fine. It would be silly to say that all things were perfect. They are not perfect for any child growing up testing the waters. The parents are not perfect. They do the best they can. However, she developed into this lovely young woman with a zest for life and a smile that says “Hi, I’m Kerri and you will like me”.

I will always be there for her in whatever capacity she needs…that of nurse, counselor etc. It really won’t matter how old she is, she is my daughter and I am her Mother.

I love her. That’s why I let her go.

"Generation D" on dLife

2006-01-23T22:08:00.000-05:00

So it's about the daily life of a twentysomething living with diabetes. The whole bit about dating and sex. Telling your coworkers about diabetes. Going out and enjoying a few martinis while maintaining your bloodsugars. Driving safely. Working out at the gym. Going on a cruise. Letting nothing stop you.

Living life.

It's called "Generation D" and it's a recent addition to the "Daily Living" columns on the dLife website.

And it's my column.

It would be an honor to have my much appreciated Faithful Readers take a stroll over to dLife and have a read at the new column. Let me know what you think!

Six Thoughts.

2006-01-20T14:27:00.000-05:00

1. I tell them to protect myself. With my insulin sensitivity and fluctuating stress levels constantly affecting my bloodsugar levels, coupled with the tighter control I’ve achieved over the last three years, my levels can plummet without much notice. One minute I’m drafting a letter to send to a client with ease and the next moment has me struggling to navigate my fingers on the computer keyboard, a fog settling around my ears and that tiny flicker of unregistered panic in my stomach. It happened so fast this morning that I barely had the wherewithal to tap on the desk of the woman who sits behind me and ask for help.

“Can you please go buy me some juice? I need it in a hurry.”

No questions asked. She was gone and returned in barely a moment. She even brought me a straw.

“Do you need me to sit with you?”

I shook my head as I downed my eight. And she went back to her desk, occasionally leaning forward to check and see if I was okay.

After 15 minutes, I was safe again.

I tell people because their knowing keeps me safe.

2. I made banana cake and it was delicious. Chris’s grandmother ate a piece and agreed.

3. Once in a while, I find myself wondering what it would be like to set fire to all the insurance papers on my desk and, as the flames lick towards the ceiling and people are scattering in bewilderment, I sneak out, never to return. Obviously I would never follow through on this. But that fantasy is often replaced by the one where Chris and I are living in a terrifically posh NYC apartment, with a stainless steel freezer stocked with Hoodsie Cups and royalty checks coming in the post by the pound.

4. My father once told me that I had a gift with words and that, in the moments that people often forget about, I am able to find beauty. He wrote that on a post it note and stuck it to a college paper he had stumbled across while cleaning the house. When I’m at home and trying to find words for my book, I often think of that yellow sticky note. I hope I make him proud.

5. Chris has taken to calling the little cat “Siah Sausage.” I don’t want the cat to be called Sausage. I told him this. Yet he continues to call her Sausage. And this morning, damn it, I called her Siah Sausage.

6. The pictures on Dee’s and Kassie’s websites over the last two days brightened up my otherwise monotonous day at work.

Consider my day: made.

The Xanax Experience.

2006-01-18T13:59:00.000-05:00

Tonight is the test run of Kerri's Xanax Experience.

Because I'm so anxious about taking an anti-anxiety pill that I have to test it before the flight. That's normal. But the questions run rampant in my mind. What will happen to my bloodsugars? Will I fall asleep? Will I be able to function at all after downing this pill? Will I become a babbling, silly fool? Will I become intolerable and prone to crying fits? Will I be so pleased that I offer to fly the plane myself? Will it make my stomach upset? Will one pill be enough to calm my fear of flying? Will ...

Oh just take the pill and shut up already.

And get ready for a happy, happy flight.

Oooh, and on another note, I am attempting to compile a "Dictionary of Diabetes Terms, Unabridged Morrone Edition 2006." I'm looking for those terms we come up with as a diabetic community, like Rage Bolusing, Panic Eating ... Wil, I'm looking for you in particular! If you have any terms that you employ in describing your diabetes or methods of treatment, offer them up. It'll be a "Sniglets" for diabetics, of sorts.

UPDATE: The Xanax is just dandy. Everything is just dandy. Seems like two will be the magic number for the flight. The plan is to dose up for the flight down there and not have to bother with any medication on the way back. But I'm here, two hours into the Xanax, feeling very calm and serene and no bloodsugar fluctuations and I'm still able to test and apparently update the blog. However, I have no desire to take something like this all the time. I feel too mellow, which is so terribly un-Kerri of me.

Mission Accomplished. Bring on the cruise!

UPDATE TWO: Jen, who had de-lurked herself today in a comment, has a new diabetes blog called "17 Going on 50?" Go on over and check her out. She's a college freshman with a very honest and no holds barred approach to her diabetes.

I Heart Insurance.

2006-01-17T12:21:00.000-05:00

My diabetes supplies are everywhere.

Pump caps adorn every stationary surface. Sometimes the cats trot off with them in their mouth and then play versions of Cat Hockey on the kitchen floor. Stray testing strips litter the floor of my apartment, my desk at work, and my boyfriend’s car. Once he woke up with one stuck to his face from my 3 am testing.

I gently peeled it off and threw it away before he could notice.

The bathroom cabinet, purchased exclusively to house diabetes supplies, holds no less than $6,000 worth of goods. There are several boxes of infusion sets, pump reservoirs, IV prep wipes, and countless blood meter test strips. Two Quick-Serters for the infusion sets are wedged in between boxes of infusion sets. I have a One Touch Ultra Smart meter that I use everyday, but there are three back up meters stored in the cabinet. There are also back up boxes of strips, each test strip costing about a dollar. Lancets are everywhere. The crappy meter that came with my Paradigm 512 pump is thrown in there, too. A stash of AAA batteries for the pump and AA for the meter lie on the second shelf. Also, my old Humalog 1.5 pen (which I had run over twice with my old car and it survived to tell the tale) and the accompanying needle tips are hiding in the cabinet, too. And boxes upon boxes of short needle syringes are lying in wait for those moments when the pump fails me.

Oh, and lest we forget the abundance of the coveted glucose tabs.

I used to take stock of my supplies and not think about their monetary value. I was covered by my parents’ health insurance and they picked up the balance of anything owed. Then, all of a sudden, I graduated college and the burden of health insurance was mine to bear. That was 2001.

Since that May, I’ve worked in the following fields: Banking, car repair (admittedly random, yes), arbitration, and insurance.

Out of those employment opportunities, I’ve found satisfaction in: None.

What I would actually like to involve myself in doesn’t appear to be able to finance my diabetes habit. Anything in the realm of publishing, freelancing, PR, and marketing either isn’t available in my immediate area of RI or doesn’t offer medical insurance. I oftentimes find myself bored and miserable at work because the job does nothing to stimulate my synapses, but I won’t up and quit because I can’t afford my medical supplies without insurance.

Cyclical indeed.

Couple that cycle with the fact that my current insurance sports an obscene deductible before they’ll kick in and I’m working at a job I despise to pay for a disease I don’t particularly want. And since my entry into the work force four years ago, medical insurance costs more and covers less.

I sense a frightening trend that I fear could affect my ability to provide the supplies necessary for my disease.

Today's Pity Party is sponsored by Kerri's Boring Job and the daunting insurance bill waiting to be paid on her desk at home.

Good thing I have Eddie Izzard to lift my spirits.

Good Morning, Diabetic Feed!

2006-01-15T21:48:00.000-05:00

I had the pleasure of speaking with Christel Marchand last week, host of the brilliant Diabetic Feed, about my blog, the book, and the general chaos associated with my being diabetic. Diabetic Feed broadcasts weekly installments of information regarding diabetes, proudly stating "We're dedicated to bringing you the latest news, information, and people who impact the diabetic community." Christel hosts the program while John Aprigliano produces. My interview is part of Broadcast # 24 for Diabetic Feed and marks the beginning of my contributions to their team.

So you can hear my voice, albeit altered by the popping of the audio to the point where I sound like I have a stuttering problem, if you download this week's broadcast. And yes, Faithful Readers, you should download this podcast every week. Aside from being informative and very supportive of the diabetic community, the music is pretty cool, too.

To confirm: No, I don't have a stuttering problem.

But yes, I do talk that fast.

Don't Buy a VW.

2006-01-12T13:03:00.000-05:00

The '84 Volvo was my brother Darrell's, so it doesn't really count as my first car. It was The First Car. I stole it out from under my brother when we went to college, but upon his return every vacation, I had to give up the keys.

I remember the first time I was behind the wheel by myself. It was the day I got my license, March 17th, 1995, and I was roaming through the house searching for excuses to take the car.

"Mom, looks like you're out of hairspray," I coughed, walking away from the cloud of Vidal Sasson I had just "accidentally" created in the bathroom. "I should go get some."

"Hey Dad, don't you wish we had some brie cheese and fancy crackers to eat? I sure do."

"Darrell, don't you want to go for a drive down to Watch Hill and see if the carousel horses are up? I know it's only March, but maybe they put them up two months early this year."

"Courtney? Are you feeling okay? You look like you have a fever. Maybe you should be driven to the doctor's office, just in case you're sick."

No bites. Not even a nibble. Until ...

"Eddie, it looks like we're out of milk." And no sooner were the words out of my mother's mouth that I grabbed the keys to the car and stood in the middle of the kitchen like a Superhero - "Don't worry, guys! I'll go get the milk!"

The '84 Volvo and I had our moments of excessive speed on the highway towards the mall, the doors rattling and the tires wailing "Bad idea! Terrible idea!" With no working horn, I pulled into my friends' driveways, rolled down the window (which oftentimes remained permanently rolled down) and yelled "Beep!" I learned that the gas gauge didn't always tell the truth, the catalytic converter forced me to drive in the summer with the heat on, and the radio only picked up classic rock via the coathanger I had rigged to the trunk.

So when my parents decided to lease me the '96 Jetta GL in shiny lavender my senior year of high school, I was well beyond ecstatic. A brand new car? For me? Don't mind if I do.

The '96 and I had a bond that usually only forms between a mother and her child.

Aside the aforementioned blatant exaggeration, I really was completely obsessed with that car. I cleaned it with a toothbrush. I kept the interior spotless and smelling like Cucumber Melon body spray from Bath & Body Works. When bits broke, I fixed them myself. I changed headlight bulbs and fixtures. I rolled underneath the car and replaced the front valance. I changed tires. I changed oil. I was able to replace the battery and rearm the alarm. When it came to Do It Yourself, I did it myself. And I appreciated the fact that my spoiled brat 17 year old self had a brand new car at her disposal. I took exquisite care of that car to the point where it looked almost perfect even 9 years later.

Until I totaled it.

Faced with the destruction of my beloved lavender car, I had to channel my grief (I realize this is very dramatic) and find a new car. I felt confident that strong VW engineering played a part in my escaping the accident essentially unscathed, so I looked into a newer Jetta. And what I found was a 2002 Jetta GLS.

I wasn't completely sold on this car, but necessity fueled its purchase so I took out my first car loan and did my best to get comfortable behind the wheel of my new Jetta.

Three days after buying the car, I was on the highway and a rock hit my windshield, leaving a huge ding. Shaken but not defeated, I had the windshield repaired. On a trip to New Hampshire with Chris over the summer, the oil light came on and the dipstick revealed a drained engine, 1,000 miles before the car was due for an oil change. One night in October, the radio wouldn't turn on because the fuse for the radio unit blew out. I tossed a tire just a few weeks ago, during a snow storm on my morning commute to work. Just after Christmas, on the way to the gym one night, the engine started to buck and the car stalled out. Engine codes were thrown. The oil burned off again, leaving the car dry. And last night, the engine stalled again. Low on oil.

I continue to make these monthly car payments.

My car was towed from my home.

Kerri is in third person and Pissed Off.

Right now, I am at work, waiting for my car to be returned to me. Supposedly the engine was gaffed up by a faulty ignition coil. And supposedly the oil level is fine. I've been told the car was detailed and filled with gas as an apology for my trouble. I've been told "it's going to be okay," and "we value you as a customer."

Mark my words: This will be the last Volkswagen I purchase. This car has been trouble from the outset, borne out of the demise of my precious '96. It's possessed by wild demons, I'm certain of it. This is the last Jetta for me.

Honest.

Mark my words.

Really.

... until I buy a new one.

Update: They just dropped my car off to me at work. Bright, clean, newly waxed, filled with gas, started as soon as the keys kissed the ignition.

However, my front plate remained at the dealership, where it was attached to the front bumper of the loaner car I was offered. Am now waiting for the kid to return with my front plate.

I'm waiting patiently.

With an uzi.

Brought to you by the Letter Y.

2006-01-10T12:00:00.000-05:00

Today's adventure is brought to you by the Letter Y and the Number 34.

That's 34 mg/dl.

Normally Alarm Clock One goes off at 6:45 am. After which I promptly hit the "snooze" button no less that three times. Fret not, for Alarm Clock Two (also known as Bad Alarm due to it's shrill cry) is set for 7 am, so that one blasts out in between all the snoozes. Once 7:30-ish rolls around, I give in. And then I turn on the lamp, grab my kit from the bedside table, and test my bloodsugar. It's routine, right down to the sticking my finger in my mouth to get rid of the blood from my fingertip ... yes, that's kind of gross but I can't be the only one who does this ... and then rolling over to Chris and grumbling, "I don't want to go to work."

A comforting arms pats me on the back and I reluctantly get out of bed and stumble grouchily towards the bathroom.

But this morning was a small bit different.

The alarms went off. A number of times. I'm sure of it because part of me remembers systematically shutting them all off and collapsing back onto my pillow. My pillow is marked with sweat at this point, but I didn't realize that. I wake up at 8:08 am with Abby's face smushed against the side of mine, meowing insistently and licking my face.

Not a good sign. This cat knows when something is up, or more importantly, when my bloodsugar is down.

So I reach over for the kit, but instead of switching on the lamp and testing from my side of the bed, I wander over to the dresser and stand there to test. In the dark. With clumsy fingers. And I'm crying but I'm not exactly sure why.

Fumble with the meter, get that strip in there. I prick about four fingers before getting one to bleed. The countdown reveals a bloodsugar of 34 mg/dl.

I'm very surprised. So I tell Chris.

"I'm 34." Calm voice. Sort of ethereal. I run my finger along the top of the dresser and notice I haven't dusted in a few days.

Chris wakes instantly from a sound sleep and looks at me disbelievingly. "You're 34? Sit down." He walks quickly to the kitchen and I can hear the fridge opening and the click of the juice bottle cap as he spins it off. I know he told me to sit down but the cat is on the bed and I don't want to disturb her.

He comes back with a glass of juice and hold it in my hands with me as he guides my wrists toward my mouth. "Drink it, baby." So I take my eight. And sit back down on the bed.

Abby is all over me, walking around my head, purring in my face, licking my forearm. Chris lies beside me and tries to keep talking to me as I wait for the juice to work. Time now is 8:38 am. I am already late for work.

The tears come fast and I'm starting to feel better but not quickly enough. "I need to call into work," I sniffle and wipe the tears from my face. "I need to talk to my boss and tell him I'm late. I'm late today..." Start crying again.

"Why don't you wait a few minutes, Kerri. Just wait until you come up a little before you call."

Time now: 8:47 am.

I can feel the low backing into a corner as the juice hits. Test again, 108 mg/dl. On the way up. Relief courses through me and I start to cry again. But I feel like I've been beat up. Arms weak, legs shaking, shoulders aching from holding in my tears. Because he knows my bloodsugar is back up to a safe range, Chris lets me lay against the pillow and he wraps the blanket around me.

The quandary is this: Do I call in and say that I'm late? That I hit traffic? I have to be honest here - I'm late all the time. Work starts at 8:30 and I consider myself early if I'm there by 8:40. Sometimes it's a flat tire. Sometimes it's the weather and the blasted traffic on 95. Sometimes I just hit "Snooze" too many times. But this time I wasn't going to be there until after 9:30. And I felt strange calling in saying I'd had a low bloodsugar. My boss, though very professional, is not very approachable and I don't feel comfortable filling him in on any diabetes issues. I don't want him thinking I am using it as an excuse for my always tardy self. And I never want anyone to think, "Well maybe we shouldn't involve Kerri on this project because what if she gets low while presenting or something?"

So I lied. And I called in sick.

And now I feel a little crummy about it.

The Place: Boston.

2006-01-08T23:18:00.000-05:00

A discussion on Mom Wants a Diabetes Cure has spawned the Great New England D-Meet.

The synopsis is that diabetics who live within convenient traveling distance to Boston, be they children, mothers, or just plain 26 year old bloggers obsessed with Mr. L. Bird, are ready to plan to Meet. The proposed timeframe is February or Early March.

I'm looking for a headcount of who would be interested in coming, what timeframe is best, and what activity we want to enjoy. Since it's important that the kids of all ages are able to come, an event that is all ages friendly should be constructed. We could be just talking dinner here. Somewhere convenient and not fancy. But I'm looking for some feedback on this. Who would be interested?
Also, Allison over at Lemonade Life has gone live with her new website: Diabetes Teen Talk. The community is specifically geared towards teens (those in the "high school through just after graduation" range). If you are or you know someone who would be interested in touching base with other teenaged diabetics, take a skip over.

On New Blogs. And I have a question.

2006-01-06T09:40:00.000-05:00

Today's list:

1. There's a new diabetes blogger. And his dog has gas. I'd say more, but those two sentences alone have me in a smirky mood, so I'll let his blog speak for itself. Type3. Go say hi.

2. My cruise sets sail at the end of the month. Two issues here: I've decided to wear the pump instead of leaving it at home. You all played a role in guiding me, but the main selling point was not having to revisit the whole Dawn Phenomenon irritant. I get so spikey in the wee hours of the morning that my fear of losing the pump and the vanity of my bikini obsession doesn't win out over avoiding those highs. So I'm thinking about going "Un-tethered" and bringing a bottle of Lantus for the days we spend on the beach. Any thoughts/advice/warnings on this?

Second issue is that my phobic fear of flying has lead me to call my doctor and ask for an anti-anxiety medication to take before the flight. Yes, it's all mind over matter and I should try to conquer my fears vs. sedating them, but the idea of Chris having to deal with Hysterical Girl on the flight makes me feel so silly that I opted for drugs. Xanax has been the prescribed drug of choice. I know this could be a touchy subject, but has anyone taken anything anti-anxiety before? I have never taken any drugs and I am unsure about the effects on my bloodsugars and Self in General. Feedback on this is crucial. Feel free to email me if you don't want to comment on the blog. Please. I appreciate your help!

3. Thank you guys for your inspiring comments and emails about the blog awards. While I'm wordy about everything else, I can't seem to get past a stammering "Thanks," and blushing furiously. But know that I appreciate everyone's support and I'm proud to be a part of this. (Blushing again.)

4. Larry Bird. Today he called to ask me what I thought of his instinctive genius.

Man, he is just too much.

Addendum: Kassie, my dearest, this is for you.

Thanks.

2006-01-04T22:52:00.000-05:00

Thank you guys.

Very much.

Oh so slightly OCD.

2006-01-03T12:10:00.000-05:00

I didn’t always count the sips.

I used to treat low bloodsugar reactions by chugging cranberry juice until it spilled down my chin and choked me just a little bit. That panicked, adrenaline fueled consumption, rendering me unable to close my eyes while I drink, but instead leaving me focused on that part where the ceiling and the wall merge. Focus. Drink the juice. Sit on the floor. Wait.

Waiting is always the worst part. “Consume 15 grams of carbohydrate, wait 15 minutes, test again, treat if necessary.” I don’t know a single diabetic who has that kind of time. A Low, one that gnashes Its teeth in your belly and keeps Its hands at your throat, doesn’t wait 15 minutes with you. You drink the juice, It turns around in your stomach. You sit on the floor and It stands up beside you, a heavy hand on your head, just enough to roll your neck forward a bit. Fifteen minutes is a terrifying lifetime while you wait for the juice to start raising your bloodsugar.

Lurch forward 20 minutes, after you’ve tagged half the bottle of juice and maybe some crackers. Bloodsugar hitting a cruising altitude of close to 250 mg/dl. That sick to your stomach feeling from a deviation of more than 200 points in 20 minutes. And there’s the guilt of No Control, when you couldn’t just consume the 15 grams of carbs and wait it out.

It’s hard to wait when you’re afraid you’re going to pass out.

It’s been after many years of treating my own reactions that I’ve come to the Eight Sips Theory. If my bloodsugar is anywhere under 55 mg/dl, I fill a glass with juice and gulp down Eight Sips. Never more. But I’ll refill the glass if there isn’t enough for eight. It’s enough to bring me back. Every time.

“One … two … three … four…” I count in my head as I swallow. Reaching “…eight,” I promptly put the glass down and sit. It’s still within reach, but it’s not lying comfortingly in my hand. Eight Sips. They calm the panic enough for me to breathe evenly. My eyes languidly scope the room, but I know that I will come up enough from whatever the low is with Eight Sips. Seven is not enough. Ten is too many.

Eight.

There’s a comfort found in this routine. It makes me feel safe. Protected.

And oh so slightly OCD.

The Promise of Winter

2005-12-31T14:16:00.000-05:00

Winter brought the Move Out. Our things were packed in copy paper boxes that I took from the office. The big black marker labeled the boxes “His” and “Hers” as we filtered our six years together into two separate piles. Memories were trapped inside of shoeboxes. We spilt the set of “ugly dishes” between the two of us. He took his black cat and I took the calico. And I left. To live completely on my own for the first time in my whole life. I paid rent. And all the bills. I reclaimed my heart when I moved out, but as time passed, I gave it to another.

Spring brought Six Until Me. Borne out of a conversation with Chris and in pursuit of others living with the same condition, I started my blogging endeavor and found others. Just a few at first. I stumbled upon Violet first and her writing served as Solace. It continues to. And then insightful, supportive Sandra. And Amy and her unflagging dedication. To Tek and her life undaunted. And Dee, with his beautiful, smiling daughter. Nothing brings me more hope than reading about the lives of these people, all these fantastic people, who are living with this every day. Just like me.

Summer brought the beach. And tan lines. And stuffing the pump into a cooler while I went to play in the water. It brought trips to The Block and late nights at the movies. A tiny kitten came into my life and she ate through my pump wire while I slept. I totaled my car on a rainy Thursday morning in June and cried more because of the loss of that car than the airbag burns coursing up my forearm. I fell in love with The Boy completely as he tolerated sand on his feet for me.

Fall brought the Itch. The itch to get out of my scathingly boring insurance job and pursue something Better. Something that requires thought. Something that allows me to use my creativity, ambition, and confident presentation to bring about great change. Time to start my career. Falls also brought my first JDRF walk, as Team Six Until Me. The support of my family, friends, and boyfriend yielded an impressive donation total. The decision to write The Book was finalized. I thwarted the Evil Cotton Wool Spot. And The Boy and I decided to share one home instead of straddling between two.

And now there are Promises. The promises of a Big Move next year. The promise of my first cruise. The promise of delicious martinis to come. The promise of an icy winter giving way to the quintessential rebirth of spring. The promise of the 27th year of my life being one of change and excitement. Of health and happiness. Of the many sprawling pages of my book. Of the growth of this community. Of the actualization of my writing career. Of continuing to smile.

Of everything.

A safe and peaceful new year to each and every one of you.

Super Friends.

2005-12-30T13:51:00.000-05:00

I received this comment today from a self-proclaimed Anonymous Lurker. She's a mother with a recently diagnosed 8 year old. I've posted her question below. If you have any words of wisdom for A.L.M. (Anonymous Lurker Mom), please offer them up. She's looking for our collective advice on this:

"Hi Kerri.

I'm a regular lurker and I have a question to put to the OC. I can't figure out the comment are on the OC's site, so i thought I'd start with you. I am a newly single mom ... my daughter was dx'd at age 8 January 25, 2005. We have grown and learned so much during this year. I am so proud of her, myself and her brothers and sister. Should I commemorate the anniversary in some way or just do so privately myself? I'm not sure she will mention it although we are the type of family that makes holidays out of little things. If she does mention it, I'll follow her lead ... I guess I'm conflicted about what we'd be celebrating. any thoughts?

Thanks and a happy, healthy 2006 for you! "

And yes, eventually we can all get capes.

And Secret SuperHero Names.

But for now, let's do what we can.

"El Glutamine, we got you a sweater!"

2005-12-28T12:10:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: This is not medical advice. I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. Keep in mind, everything I know about diabetes is through personal experience, so what works for me may not work for you. And if you decide to try out any of my suggestions, it’s not my fault if you gain 60 lbs or your face falls off or a Pegasus ends up on your night table. Consider yourself warned.

I experience the Dawn Phenomenon. Huge kick up in the bloodsugar levels in the morning. This is the Other Big Reason I pursued an insulin pump almost two years ago. (The First Big Reason was frequent, extreme hypoglycemic episodes.) And it wasn’t even the First Thing Testing that was garbage. It was more the raise I experienced at around 8 in the morning. I’d start out at 112 mg/dl and cruise up to 260 mg/dl by the time I got to work. Work stress has been rightfully isolated as a cause. So has the Dawn Phenomenon.

Good ol’ Charlene and I had solved that problem. My basal rate is 0.45 all day long, except for between the hours of 5 am and 9 am, when it soars up to one full unit per hour. Big increase there. But it solved the problem, and I’d wake up between 80 mg/dl and 150 mg/dl and I’d still be in that range by 10 am. Nice.

Enter L-Glutamine.

Backstory: The Boy is a very fit individual. He reads my blog so I won’t wax on, in that lovey girlfriend way, about his physique, but know that he works out hard and the results are very nice. And he drinks those whey protein shakes and takes L-Glutamine supplements. In keeping with my status as the Informed, Involved Girlfriend, I Googled L-Glutamine to check out its effects. And “decreases insulin resistance” came up a number of times. There were also references to lowering bloodsugar levels in Type 2’s and stimulating insulin production.

Kerri is now very intrigued.

So I gave it a whirl, after calling my doctor and making sure it wouldn’t interfere with my blood pressure and birth control medications. And I noticed a definite change.

I was getting low every morning at work. Every morning.

Not crazy, 44 mg/dl Get-Me-Some-Juice-I’m-Crying kind of low, but 80 mg/dl instead of the expected 140 mg/dl. I noticed that I didn’t have to take insulin to cover my morning cup of caffeine. So I lowered that morning basal increase just a tad. My bloodsugars remained more even during my mornings at work. To further reinforce my theory, the mornings I don’t take the supplement, I notice some spikiness. Again, we’re not talking about any big deviation, but enough of one to create a pattern.

Is L-Glutamine to be applauded for this pattern? Is there some credibility to the supplement craze? I’m taking my insulin and testing consistently and monitoring my diet, but are there other things I could be doing in my Quest for Control?

I’m not sure, but I’ve got my theory.

Five Random Facts.

2005-12-26T21:39:00.000-05:00

Julia has tagged me. And while I'm pretty sure I was on Goo, Goo-oool, Goal, or whatever you called your Safety Zone when you played tag as a kid, I'm here to offer up Five Random Facts About Six Until Me.

Random Fact One: I am painfully OCD about CDs and DVDs. CDs are arranged by genre, then by artist within the genres, and then chronologically within artist categories. DVDs are arranged by genre, then by either director or lead actor, depending. Yes, all sequels are nestled in accordance with their chronology. My mind sort of explodes a little bit every time I notice that a piece is out of its home. (Mind you, I have over 800 cds and I date a filmmaker. I'm a Media Maven.) I don't think this habit is healthy but I can't stop. I've tried.

Random Fact Two: I think I sound fantastic singing. I can hit any note. My vocal range has been likened to Bono, Damien Rice, and Jewel. In my car, with no one else in there and the windows completely rolled up and if I sort of know the words, I am the world's best singer. Ever. No, I don't sing in public. And no, this assertion as World's Best Singer has never been confirmed by another living soul. But it's never been denied, either.

Random Fact Three: In keeping with my stellar reputation as a songbird, I must admit to never knowing the words. I've mangled the chorus of "Panama" by Van Halen, thinking they were singing "Cannonball." In the Whitesnake ballad "Here I Go Again," it was "Like a twister I was born to walk alone" (instead of a drifter, but to me it still makes sense). And in that favorite Christmas diddy, Sleighride, those famous lines "Giddy-up, Giddy-up, Giddy-up, let's go Let's look at the show..." have been reduced to "Giddy-up, Giddy-up, Giddy-up and go, dit dit dit di, SNOW!" I make up the words when I don't know them. And, I must admit, I'm never really horrified to find out I'm wrong. Just embarrassed that I've been singing them wrong my whole life.

Random Fact Four: I can't swim. Not a single bit. I can float and I like to frolic about in the waves, but if I were told to swim in some crazy triatholon, I would drown. Easily. Or I'd have to whistle for dolphins in hopes that they'd come save me and let me hang onto their fins until I reached the shore. But without those dolphins, I'm in trouble.

Random Fact Five: I have never seen "It's A Wonderful Life." Everyone tells me it's the greatest Christmas movie ever. And that Jim Stewart's performance is epic. How have I survived all these years without seeing that movie? Kerri, you have to watch that movie. It's the best. So poignant! But you know what? I just don't care.

Now it's my turn to tag people, I think. If I've pegged you to provide your Five Random Facts, don't feel compelled to comply. Just know that I'll be at my desk at the insurance office, crying big tears, waiting for your blog to update.

No pressure, though.

Life After Dx
Curious Girl
Sugar Overdose
Noncompliant
Diabetes Rant

The Undisclosed Service Center's Attempt at Holiday Cheer

2005-12-22T12:30:00.000-05:00

I work for a Fortune 500 company.

Our CEO reaps the benefits of 17 million dollars a year. My office alone houses 80 people, dwelling in this fantastic cubicle farm. My company “is one of the world's largest and most successful multi-industry companies. Founded in 1923, it has grown into a network of businesses with total revenues of $10 billion, and more than 44,000 employees in nearly 40 countries, serving a diverse and global customer base.” And this is according to the company website.

So one would think that the Christmas Party for such an enormous corporation would be, for lack of a better phrase, swanky as hell.

Last year, there was a Saturday night Christmas party. Everyone attended dressed to the hilt. I even bought a fancy dress for the occasion. My date wore a suit.

This was a night on the town, Faithful Reader. Make no mistake. Swank-filled.

This year, however, rang in a small bit differently.

Despite a company poll requesting another evening party, the Christmas festivities were scheduled on a Wednesday afternoon. “Formal, festive lunch.” Okay. “Transportation to arrive at 11 o’clock and the ETA for the return trip is 2 o’clock.” Um, okay.

Not a shred of swank to be found.

Went to work. Worked diligently (ahem) until the 11 o’clock hour drew near. As I sit within view of the windows on the side of our first floor office building, I oftentimes watch the sun set in the late afternoon. Sometimes I see the huge trucks from the construction firm next door tooling by.

On this day, at 10:58 a.m., a huge shadow was cast across my desk. I looked up only to see the tailpipe smoke from some great beast.

At 11:03 a.m., my pupils dilated in horror as the second bus drove by. Vast. Orange. Boasting “Providence School Department” etched across its belly.

Our “transportation” had arrived.

The Fortune 500 company had sent school buses to pick up it’s employees.

We sat in those cramped leathery seats, grown men and women dressed in their business casual suits and skirts, bracing for the potholes and unsticking our shoes from the gum littering the floor. The windows of the bus were perpetually cracked open. It had a scent not unlike P.E. class and biochemistry.

The wheels on the bus went round and round.

And I realized then, at that moment, why the CEO made 17 million per year.

My Mom is Going to be Upset.

2005-12-21T09:19:00.000-05:00

This won't be a long post, because I'm a small bit traumatized. And I know my mom will be upset, too, when she sees this.

Oh dear. We couldn't come up with $52 million for Captain Caveman??

My First Martini(s).

2005-12-18T19:52:00.000-05:00

There was no way I could play it femme fatale aloof. I could barely keep the smile off my face. It was like a first date. We held hands as he ordered our wine and the room churned and spun with a mass of people but I couldn’t focus on any face but his, though we shared a bed every night.

The meal arrived. We talked animatedly through our meal, exchanging opinions between bites and making our way to the bottom of the wine bottle. Plates cleared, we finished the wine. It’s almost midnight at this point, but the conversation is energetic and animated and we’re not ready to go home quite yet. The waitress brings the bill but he sends it back gently with a request for two espresso martinis.

It was my very first martini. I drink about seven instances per year and I very rarely stray from the vodka/cranberry juice/orange juice combination, as I’ve got that one figured out on the diabetes front. But tonight there was that wine. And my first martini. So all bets were off. Bloodsugar tested. 183 mg/dl. Quick unit bolus to bring me closer to 120 mg/dl. Take a sip.

Should I be drinking, being a diabetic? Should I avoid indulging once in a while for fear of something happening? Is it enough that Chris is armed with the knowledge of how to test me, bolus, and treat any fluctuation in bloodsugar levels? It is okay for me to be out and drinking with my boyfriend? Is it the responsible thing to do?

My mother's words resonate. "I want her to come to the end of her life and not feel like she missed out on anything. Not on anything at all."

We leaned across the table towards one another and talked about the movies we’d seen over the last two weeks. We talked about my book. We talked about the website and the distribution deal and the Big Move to NYC. We talked about the moment we met. We talked about the precarious first date so many months ago.

Two more martinis were ordered. The Girl is in a deliciously inebriated state. Chris is happy to see his girl having such a good time. Bloodsugar tested discretely at the table. 147 mg/dl. No bolus necessary.

We held hands.

We closed the restaurant at two in the morning, bundling up to brave December’s cutting chill. A quick stop at a nearby party brought us closer to home and confirmed my status as RI’s Happiest Drunk Girl.

Home brought the comfort and warmth of our Christmas tree, with a cat asleep under its branches. The room spins but he steadies me with his arm. I test. I have a big snack before I go to bed. He lies next to me, brushing against the pump on my hip. It’s normal to him now. And to me.

I fell asleep, warm and safe.

Drunk on my first martinis. And comforted, knowing that I will not miss a thing.

New Bloggish Presents Under the Blog Tree. Blog.

2005-12-14T09:42:00.000-05:00

Quick post before I head off to the office holiday luncheon and make an attempt at "Festive." There are some new blogs to announce.

CuriousGirl: Nicole writes well. Very well. Her poignant and evocative tale of eight year old embarrassment in a department store and her parents' reaction to her diagnosis must be read. In her words, "... I would have challenges -- just like anyone else -- but in the end, I would be fine."

DIA...gonal: Skytor in Paris wrote a post about the A1c (and effectively renamed it for me) that made me snicker, out loud at my desk, to the point where the girl who sits behind me had to know what was so funny.

A Diabetes Discourse: Tyler writes an very informative blog about diabetes and "the potential for a cure." He recently wrote a post about the "Halle Berry Diabetes Mystery" that had me scouring the internet for clues.

Go greet the New Guys, Faithful Reader. And ready yourself for my rendition of "The Undisclosed Service Center's Attempt at Holiday Cheer" recap.

Today's Irrational Thought.

2005-12-13T09:13:00.000-05:00

I ate a banana on the way to work this morning.

I was afraid to throw the peel out the car window because I was convinced the tractor trailer truck behind me would slip on it and cause an accident.

Did I watch too many cartoons as a kid?

A Bad Year for Goodyear.

2005-12-11T22:11:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the snow falls and I can see each individual snowflake. They tumble from the sky with such grace, as though they are attached to long, silken strings that could be snatched back up at any second by some ethereal seamstress. Sometimes snow gathers in feathery drifts as I watch from my window, sipping a hot mug of Earl Gray tea and thankful that I am warm and safe.

And sometimes snow comes crashing down against my car as I drive down 95 South on my way to work on a Friday morning, relentless, thick, and zealously cruel.

It was my first morning driving the New Jetta in less than favorable weather. My pressure against the gas pedal was minimal, for once. (Hello, my name is Kerri and I have a speeding problem.) The snow was pummeling my windshield and I kept the car steady at about 50 mph on the treacherous highway that is Route 95 South.

There was that sound. The thwump thwump of the tire going flat.

"Oh shit." Internal Motivational Speaker, who usually makes appearances when I'm low, piped up.

Thwump. Thwump. The car starts to list a bit towards left.

"Slow down, get to the side of the road." Internal Motivational Speaker urged calmly.

My foot hit the brakes sort of hard and the shotgun blast went off. The left rear tire blew out and threw The Jetta into the next lane of snow slugging traffic, without warning.

"Oh shit!" Internal Motivational Speaker ducked under a blanket and hid.

No time to panic. Grab the wheel, turn into the skid, hit the horn so other drivers would know I was about to ruin their day, forcibly guide the rudderless Jetta towards the breakdown lane and away from the four lanes of surging traffic.

The car yielded to my firm hands on the wheel. It slid to a stop, barely in the breakdown lane, rear wheel smoking from riding the rim. I rolled up onto the embankment, as far from the highway as possible. I turned the car off and removed the keys from the ignition. Calmly, I reached into my purse, grabbed my phone, and dialed Chris's cell.

"Hello?"

And I then realized that the tire blew out, tossed me across the four lane, snow covered commuter highway.

"Chris?" [Enter tears] "My tire ... 95 ... I'm okay ... [sniffling vehemently] My tire blew out. Um, can you come get me?"

The Boy arrives in less than ten minutes. My hero.

Calls AAA. (There was no way we were changing that tire with the car sitting less than two feet from roaring traffic.) Gets me out of The Jetta in case someone smacks the car as it sits, wounded, in the breakdown lane. Helps me climb up on the embankment for fear of a car skidding into us while we stand on the side of the road. Gives me an umbrella to stand under, a la Mary Poppins, while the AAA guy jacks up the car.

(Mind you, it's snowing maniacally at this point.)

Chris sees me on my shaky way with a reassuring kiss. I get back behind the wheel. Ease out into traffic, which is substantially less now that we've been sitting on the side of the road for an hour.

Internal Motivational Speaker comes out from under the blanket that hid her. Shakes the snow off her head. And smiles sheepishly.

And the snow continues to fall.

'Tis the Season for Blogging.

2005-12-08T23:05:00.000-05:00

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, and new d-blogs are popping up everywhere!

Here are just a few of the latest that I've snagged from recent comments left here:

Butterfly Kisses & Bedtime Prayers: Patti, mother of two and wife of a disabled veteran, writes about her daughter's daily dealings with diabetes. They are currently living in Hawaii but are moving back to the mainland, so Patti is looking forward to engaging in support groups and finding other diabetics.

Sugar Overdose: Diagnosed at age three, Alex in WI is nineteen years old and an admirable athlete. She's in search of some "words of wisdom" and offers to help those recently diagnosed.

Diabetic Princess: Having just turned the big Two-Oh yesterday, Bethany in New York has started her d-blog. She came across my post, "She still smiles" on the Children With Diabetes website, and thought to start her own blog. Visit and wish her a happy belated.

This is My Life: Megan's debut was today. She was diagnosed this past September after dealing with hyperinsulinemic hypoglycemia. Acording to her, "My pancreas spazed out and created too much insulin my whole life, 'til it up and ran out of insulin this year."

Sidenote: We put up the Christmas tree last night. White lights all over the place. Pretty silver and blue ornaments gracing the branches. We left the lights off until all the ornaments were in place so Chris could have a "tree lighting ceremony."

We went to bed, happy with our festive little tree.

Woke up this morning to see it swaying gently as I walked into the living room, obeying some unseen breeze. Eyed it for a minute. Was I still asleep?

It leaned towards the bookcase, shuddering.

The branches rustled. I peered into the depths of the Christmas tree to see Siah, nestled happily in the bottom branches, the tree moving every time she scratched her ear with her hind leg.

My apologies to Mr. Poe.

2005-12-07T22:09:00.000-05:00

Once upon this Christmas season, as I pondered, within reason
Through my numbers, stolen from the memory my One Touch Ultra stored.
While I noticed, nearly sleeping, all the records I was keeping
Showed a low that I saw, peeping, “Study me!” It did implore.
“I know you,” I muttered, “Tricky low from nights before.”
Lessons learned in spades, once more.

And the pages of my logbook, underneath my hand they shook
As I saw the low that plagued me on my nightly workout tour.
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"Never workout without eating, eat a snack, I do implore.
Workouts make you low and then you must eat more.
Eat until you've been restored."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was just this bleak December.
And I had just returned from work, surviving traffic jam galore.
Went to the gym and worked out hard, ridding my body of it's lard
Counted all my work out carbs, those carbs are what I bolused for.
For those tasty, complex carbs whom the pump was cranked up more.
'Twas only these and nothing more.

And I left my mind at home and worked out at the gym alone,
With nothing but some juice, my phone, and I forgot to test before.
So as I worked out hard, and sweating, all the time I was forgetting
Never letting myself test and find out my blood reading score.
But legs buckled and I stopped, staring at the Gold's Gym floor.
"I'd better test or I'm done for."

Meter out and finger pricked, I waited for the finger stick
To ferret out my sure to be low hemoglobin score.
After seconds, I rang in with sweaty palms -- Forty Seven!
And chugged the juice like I have never chugged the juice before.
I had to drink it fast or else I would have hit the floor.
A fall like that makes heads quite sore.

My face, once pale, restored its blush. I gathered my things in a rush
And staggered to the car with levels rising more and more.
Keys in ignition, I remembered, that the bolus I had tendered
Covered more carbs than I rendered, rendered to my mouth before
I walked through those big glass gym doors.
Overbolused, nothing more.

The lesson learned, I fear to lecture, from this Raven-esque conjecture
Is that "just a snack" is not enough glucose for my body to store.
I've realized, through this event, that working out is Glucose Spent
Just some tweaking saves my head from crashing up against the floor.
I crank my basal down to even up the score.
In hopes of being low no more.

Ah, Maine.

2005-12-04T12:50:00.000-05:00

Where The Boy's editor lives, therefore where we traipsed off to so they could finish the deliverables for Uzi's distribution deal.

Where "going into town" is to make the five minute drive down towards where the only six shops are located, along with three breakfast restaurants and two shops that sell earrings shaped to look like lobsters.

Where "the movie theater" is a little place with 20 seats per theater. The seats don't recline and the leg room is restricted to easing your legs over the back of the seat in front of you. And two tickets, a popcorn and an Icee costs less than $20.00. Total.

Where finding a wireless internet connection required asking seven different people and then walking from building to building, as the snow falls around me, with the computer booted up, hoping that I'd finally latch on to a signal. The signal was eventually found above the college cafeteria, where cereal and chai tea are free and plentiful. Note: was disappointed upon realizing that the wireless password wasn't "lobster."

Where people stared at us because they recognized everyone else in the small town except for us. We figured that they eventually would have known we were from out of town based solely on the fact that we weren't sporting jaunty, colorful winter hats. With pom-poms.

Where I hope to hole up in a coffee shop and get some work done on this book of mine.

Where the town Christmas tree stands in the center of this cozy little place, constructed entirely of stacked lobster traps with mulitple green spotlights at the base, shining up into the conical cascade. Garland circled the wooden traps. A star, of sorts, graced the apex.

But it wasn't exactly a star. Oh no.

It was a neon lobster shape, shining like a beacon into the night sky.

Batman Strikes Again.

2005-12-01T10:05:00.000-05:00

Poor Batman was falling apart. The girl was exhausted. Kidney stones. Urinary tract infections. Migraine headaches. Lethargy. And frustrated by her constant journeys to the gym not paying off as we had expected.

Then there was the time that I tested her bloodsugar level and she clocked in at 140 mg/dl, outside of the "normal" range for non-diabetics. The red flags were cropping up all over the place.

So Batman traversed from doctor to doctor, hoping someone would find the problem. After grappling with a number of different medical teams, Batman finally found The One. The Doctor who Listened. And diagnosed her, correctly, with hypothyroidism.

She was diagnosed with hypothyroidism a few weeks ago. And, oddly enough, it made her feel better just to know.

Now young Batman is looking for information. For the "face of hypothyroidism." She tried to find a book about dealing with the disease. She looked for blogs by patients dealing with the same sort of issues. She doesn't want to feel alone with this anymore.

She's having trouble finding her own O.C.

So she's starting her own blog, A Famous Line.

If you know of any blogs or websites dealing with hypothyroidism, feel free to post them on Batman's blog, or you can leave comments here.

Stay tuned for the next post.
Same Bat Time.
Same Bat Channel.

my childhood.

2005-11-30T00:19:00.000-05:00

It was the music that sprang, lilting and exhuberant, from the belly of the Flying Horses Carousel.

It was fishing off the dock at the Summer House, catching nothing more than trouble for standing too close to the edge of the mooring.

It was dribble sandcastles at the Westerly Town Beach during the summer and sprawling sand villages at Napatree Point in the winter.

It was skinning my knee when I fell off my bike in the driveway of my home, only to ride all the way to the neighbor's house to have the kiss and the bandaid applied.

It was building massive Lego towns using every available Lego, only to set the hamster loose like Godzilla to destroy it when we were done playing.

It was writing furtively in my journal about boys I was pretending to kiss, hoping no one was reading but secretly wishing someone would just crease the binding a little.

It was all Five of Us, under the same roof. Not tossed like milkweed seeds across a smattering of states.

I remember it precisely, all those Befores, though I'm here in the Afters.

It was warm.
It was safe.

It was solace.

And when Things get a little out of control here, when the numbers aren't perfect or the writing isn't flowing or my family starts to ache, it helps me take that breath, close my eyes, and find It all again.

As promised.

2005-11-24T20:28:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

A cruise. And some new blogs.

2005-11-22T22:38:00.000-05:00

The Boy picked me up for lunch last Friday. He pulls a neatly folded packet of papers out of his pocket and clutches them at his side.

"What's that?" I ask, absently pawing through my work bag looking for a piece of gum.

"What are you doing on January 30th?"

"January 30th ... nothing, that I know of..." I murmur, wondering what kind of film event he has to attend and do I need to get something to wear to this? "Why?"

"Well I booked a cruise and I thought ..." but I'm not even sure how this sentence ended because think I squealed a little bit and threw my arms around his neck.

A cruise!!

We had talked about going on a cruise a number of months ago, but then this whole move to CT/NYC decision cropped up and we moved in together and talked about saving money. The cruise sort of fell by the wayside as we prepared, in earnest, for this Big Move.

Which is why I my eyes almost fell out of my head when he announced we were going. I've never been on vacation as a quasi-adult. The last time I went anywhere was when The Family and I went to Disney World for my high school graduation gift. (Mind you, this was back in 1997.) I am excited. And thrilled. And can't wait.

Here's where the diabetes comes in: We are going to be on the beach. And in the pool. And in either fancy clothes or beach attire. So I want to take this vacation Pump-Less, especially since I don't want to potentially lose my $5,000 device. I'm planning on rejoining the Lantus/Humalog crew for the week. Has anyone taken a "pump vacation" that can give me some advice on transitioning off and then back on to The Pump? And has anyone taken a sedative of sorts in order to get through a flight without having a breakdown? I need something to calm me down on the plane and I'm willing to fill a prescription to get this peace.

ALSO, there are a few new blogs. Printcrafter, the new Caped Crusader of Constant Glucose Monitoring, has a blog detailing his experiences on Minimed's Guardian. Visit him on Life After DX. As a diabetic who tests upwards of 15 times per day and experiences some tricky impared hypoglycemia awareness, I want as much information on this technology as possible. Keep us posted, Printcrafter!

Other new d-blogs include Diabetes Daily, written and maintained by Elizabeth and her boyfriend, David. Then we've got Melissa in NYC writing from How's the DB?. Erica in the suburbs of Philadelphia links us in to This Body Provides a Comfortable Home. There are a number of new links on the right there, and for the comprehensive list, visit The Diabetes O.C. New bloggers keep showing up everywhere... if you have a diabetes blog that I don't have linked here, please email me at Six Until Me.

Stay tuned, Faithful Reader, for the Thanksgiving Recap and a turkey drawing made by tracing my hand.

Carnival of Compassion: Tenth Edition

2005-11-20T11:27:00.000-05:00

A Carnival of Compassion.

This carnival of compassion would have a ferris wheel that goes around and around, like normal, but instead of screaming with fear and anxiety at the top, those at the apex would look around and realize that there are so many other people on the same ride.

"The Carnival of Compassion brings patients in the blogosphere closer together.
The Carnival of Compassion addresses issue pertaining to life, death, healing and disease."

My focus has always been Finding Others. Others with diabetes that can help answer the questions that crop up daily. "How often do you test your bloodsugars?" "How often do you have an A1c drawn?"

"How often do you hate this? Or feel alone? Or feel empowered? Or feel nothing?"

The O.C. has offered me a chance to interact with other diabetics when I often felt like I was the only one. Being able to tell these people "I feel low," and they know almost exactly what I mean, when others might think I'm depressed. Or "I'm so high right now," and others raise their eyebrows and look for the weed. This community, this opportunity to feel like part of an understanding and supportive network, has made a significant difference in my level of care. Maybe my bloodsugars aren't perfect, but my mind is more at ease with their imperfections.

The Carnival of Compassion is giving me the opportunity to highlight some patient blogs out there that make a disease Real. Give it a face. Who are you? What is your disease really like?

Gluten Free Girl is a blog written by a 39 year old teacher who deftly navigates the challenges of a gluten free lifestyle and celiac disease. In her own words, "After several years of inexplicable medical emergencies, I was finally diagnosed with celiac disease. Now, I feel better than ever in my life. And food tastes better than ever before. Let this be a guide to living gluten-free." She provides resources for those grappling with celiac disease.

OCD Blogger has no profile and remains a mystery. In their words, "Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is a type of anxiety disorder that causes you to experience obsessive, unwanted thoughts and to compulsively and repeatedly perform tasks to try to get rid of those thoughts." The posts are snapshots of the ever churning mind of someone dealing daily with OCD.

Cancer, Baby is brilliant. In her words, "I am 32 years old. Just over a year ago -- in the midst of trying to conceive my first child with my husband of two and a half years -- I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. This blog chronicles that experience, life in its aftermath, and my journey to motherhood, ovaries be damned." Her posts are poignant and beautiful, making your eyes well up a bit as you laugh at her wit.

And lastly, The Beautiful Diabetic, who is just that. In her words, "Diabetes Type 2, Long QT Syndrome, Writer, Dreamer. Texan living in Oslo, Norway. Married to a very tall Viking man. 2 chihuahua's: Flash and Elly. Ebay lurker. Flea Market fan." Recently diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes in July 2005, her posts bring readers into places they wouldn't otherwise bring diabetes, like dealing with the "diabetic meals" on an airplane.

Broaden your horizons, Faithful Reader. Check these blogs out. Part of the reason we do this is to find each other.

And ourselves.

A carnival of compassion would also include that game when you toss the ping pong ball into the goldfish bowl. But when you peer into that bowl, there's not just one, lonely fish roaming about.

There's another one, just like it.

Four Points Before Sleeping.

2005-11-16T23:34:00.000-05:00

Point One: Six Until Me will be hosting the Carnival of Compassion on November 20th. The plan is to include a number of patient blogs that are roaming around out there. I'll be focusing mostly on those that strike That Chord in me, the ones that make me feel empathy instead of sympathy. Be on the lookout for blogs that make you feel something ... that highlight "living with" instead of "dying from..."

Point Two: There are a number of new diabetes blogs that have cropped up recently. One of the newbies is Diabetes Diary, written by Kelsey in California. She made her debut on D-Blog Day and has been posting diligently, and beautifully, since. Another is Kassie's blog, Noncompliant. She wrote an interesting post on the difference between "diabetic" or "person with diabetes." Go weigh in on that one. Another blog is Sweetblood, written by Melissa, who scored big by being diagnosed with diabetes the day before her ninth birthday. Check these writers out, as they are new to the O.C. and deserve the traffic.

Point Three: Is more of a question, really. If you ditched The D for a day, what would you do? Would you trolley down to Krispy Kreme and sit in front of the conveyor belt, mouth open and catching fresh baked doughnuts by the dozen? Would travel down to the beach and roll around in the sand and splash in the ocean, not giving even a second thought to whether your pump was boiling or your bloodsugars dropping? Or will you retort with "Diabetes doesn't limit my life -- I do everything and anything I want to do!"

Of course you do. But there are those little things that you would love to forget about for the day. I would love to go out to dinner in a pretty little dress and carrying a minute purse, giving no thought as to where to hide my pump, how to fit my testing kit, insulin, and glucose tabs in my purse, and enjoying a decadent dinner without contemplating about carbohydrate content, insulin ratios, or sugar content. And then I'd go back to Six Flags and ride the roller coaster again. And then I'd probably throw up. But that would be okay, because no active insulin would threaten my levels. Maybe ice cream after throwing up. Who knows! The possibilities are endless.

What would you do?

Point Four: And this is just a thank you. But Thank You for all of your kind words regarding the "She still smiles" post. To read the kind remarks and know that you all identify with this, one way or the other, makes me proud to be a part of this community. And confident to write this book.

The dedication page in this book is going to be tremendously long...

She still smiles.

2005-11-09T12:04:00.000-05:00

It was six years, until me.

I didn’t know her before my arrival, but from what I hear, she was a good kid. Running all over the place. Devouring every book she could find. This kid even read in the shower when she was that small. Bloated, damp books strewn about the bathroom. She tortured her sister relentlessly. She tried to play the games her older brother taught her.

She smiled a lot. And laughed out loud.

I’m not sure when I was called out to stay with her, but I’ve been told it was when she was sick as a little kid on her sixth birthday. She had a fever that lasted for days. Lethargic little thing, under the careful watch of her ever-vigilant mother. I remember visiting her then, settling gently into her tiny body and making it my home. No one knew I was there. They wouldn’t know for six more months.

Six months until me.

I didn’t mean to embarrass her. But she started to wet the bed after I arrived. Just over six years old and wetting the bed again. She also had a ratty little pillow she needed to cuddle with when she fell asleep. I made her bloodsugar so high in the middle of the night that she couldn’t help it: she would wet the bed. And nothing, not the encouragement of her parents, the dreaded pee alarm, or the shame she felt, could make her stop. So she quit that cuddle pillow cold turkey. “If I can’t stop wetting the bed, then I’m going to stop this!” I felt bad. I had no intention of making her feel so frustrated.

She doesn’t remember much of her own diagnosis, but I do. I remember when they found me. I remember when she peed in the cup at the doctor’s office before she started second grade and they detected the ketones. They called her parents. Her mom and dad brought her in for follow up bloodwork. And then they found me. September 1986.

She didn’t cry much. Her mom and dad brought her to the hospital, where she stayed for two weeks. Her parents bought her a stuffed Kitty that she toted around everywhere… the doctors became used to her little face and the presence of the stuffed animal. She said that Kitty was diabetic, too, and both Kerri and Kitty received injections. The fabric of the animal became a little stained from injecting saline, but it made her smile again. She didn’t feel alone.

And she grew up. Even though I was there. She competed in spelling bees. She tap danced for 15 years. She played soccer, albeit badly. (But I had nothing to do with that.) She kissed a boy. She drove her car. She battled with her parents and confided in her friends. She wrote stories. She keeps a journal, still. She went to college. She moved out on her own. She succeeded. She failed. She adopted too many cats. She fell in love. She dreamed. And then she fell in love again.

She had six years, until me. People thought I would change her life, make her sad. Make her sick. Make her angry.

But instead, I’ve made her strong. I’ve made her fearless. And I’ve made her appreciate everything she has, everything she fights for. She hasn’t let me make her choices. She refuses to let me own her. She controls me. When she is in her last moments, whether sixty years from now or today, she will know, with certainty, that she has Lived.

Really lived.

She still smiles a lot. And laughs out loud.

Maniacal Midnight Post

2005-11-07T22:58:00.000-05:00

The cats are rumbling through the apartment like furry thunder. Big Cat is pretending to be asleep on the edge of the bed, The Skinny Cat is eating like a wolverine in the kitchen, and the Little Cat is poising just above The Boy's sleeping head, ready to pounce on Big Cat's twitching tail. They've been attacking each other for the last hour, scampering wildly from one room to the next, hissing at each other, batting their foolish paws, and stopping mid-trot to lick their behinds.

Odd little critters. Why do I have three of them??

A few quick things before bed:

There are some new d-bloggers in town. (Again, please cue saloon music and swinging doors.) Added to the O.C. we have Andrea over at My Blog??:D who was diagnosed with The D in 2002, and also E. from Boston, MA who runs Diabetes Rant. Both blogs are good reads. And the O.C. is ever expanding...

Gym workouts. I am in need of some input on the workout front. Who out there is involved in a workout regimen that has been gentle on the bloodsugar fluctuations and tones you up? (Kudos to John at Infusion of Thought, who has been diligently posting his exercise/weight loss/d-stats on his blog. Kudos are delicious. And way off the workout theme. Rounding back...) Do you wear your pump while you exercise? Are you doing cardio? Or weights? Or both? Do you run into any issues with ketones? I'm like Johnny 5. Need more input.

November 9th. D- Blog Day. If you run a blog, POST! If you're a Faithful Reader of this or any other diabetes blog, Comment! If you stumbled upon this blog by accident and you're confused about what's going on, Comment Anyway! And overuse exclamation points!!

Clara Barton Camp

2005-11-06T20:45:00.000-05:00

"We had to treat every low bloodsugar reaction with honey packets, Nabs, and white chalky glucose tabs. You had a choice of what you wanted, but it was always either honey or tabs, with Nabs as the follow up. Two packets of honey or three tabs. Four peanut butter crackers. Standard, every time. And at night, when bedtime snack was handed out, if you had a bloodsugar reading less than 120 mg/dl, you got a double snack coupon. Two snacks. To make sure you didn't go low at night."

"I remember staying up all night with my friend Brooke and laughing our heads off as we talked about the "stupid boys" at the Joslin Camp. I also remember getting hollered at by the counselors for kissing one of those stupid Joslin boys...

The swimming test was terrible for me! I hated the green swim cap I was awarded, though thankful it wasn't a red one. The red caps couldn't go in the deep end. But there was no way I was swimming in the pond. There are definitely snapping turtles in there. Or some kind of Loch Ness Barton Monster lurking about.

We wrote on the cabin walls with markers, as though we were leaving some sort of legacy."

"Over there, we had the campfires. The entire camp staff would go. We'd sing songs. Counselors would talk. It was lovely, sitting out under the starry sky and having only each other. We sang 'Taps' at the end. And then we'd walk back to our cabins in silence.

Almost everyone was diabetic. All the campers. Almost every counselor. The majority of the staff. Testing bloodsugars was normal. Carrying a pack of crackers and some glucose tabs was normal. Taking an injection of insulin every few hours was normal. The counselors would break out the big plastic tubs filled with bloodsugar meters, syringes, bottles of insulin, and assorted reaction treaters and we'd all sit on the bunks and test. Or shoot. Or eat something. And it was normal.

Someone would cry in their sleep because they were low. I once saw a girl have a seizure on the baseball field. We walked to the bathroom in the middle of the night in pairs, employing the buddy system, in case someone got low. Everyone knew if you had ketones because you'd be the girl carrying the gallon of water and the plastic cups. And no one really noticed, because they had all done it, too. I remember sitting under that tree and drinking my gallon of water after my bloodsugar rang in at 600 mg/dl, accompanied by large ketones, on my second day at camp. I didn't feel well at all but I didn't feel alone."

"I was the only diabetic I knew for the longest time. And even though my family was so supportive and my friends treated me no differently than anyone else, I felt isolated. Telling your mother 'I feel so low' or '... so high' is nothing but an empty phrase until you've felt that trembling hypo or sloshed your way to the end of a high. She can't feel it. All she feels is that she wishes it were her and not you. But at camp, at Clara Barton Camp, you say 'I feel low,' and they know. Because to them, it's normal, too.

This was the best thing my parents ever did for me, as their diabetic child. Where I felt normal. Where this whole thing was normal. Away for twelve days, surrounded by girls that I laughed with immediately, but learned to trust enough to cry with, too.

This was my solace.

The most wonderful place in the world.

Any former CBC campers reading this? Please post or send me an email. And if anyone has Brooke B.'s email, send it my way. Thanks!

King Kong on a Job Interview

2005-11-03T21:58:00.000-05:00

My friend Don and I were King Kong and Ann Darrow for the Halloween contest at work. Only, I was King Kong. And he was my tall, male, blond wigged counterpart in a white thrift store dress.

It was Chris's idea, really. He knew that I was thinking about a joint costume for work and he suggested King Kong and Ann Darrow. "Because you have blonde hair. It would work," he offered.

But I wanted to be King Kong. The idea of Don dressed up as a woman made me laugh so hard I could hardly control myself. So on went the expensive gorilla mask from iParty. On went the ridiculous furry feet. On went the black skirt, black shirt, and heels. I couldn't wear a full gorilla suit because I couldn't deal with the premise that I could end up having to do something work related... which would leave me at my desk, banging away on the keyboard or answering the phone dressed in furry splendor. I opted for a more conservative route.

I looked like King Kong on a job interview.

We didn't win the costume contest. And we were pretty much stripped of our dignity by the end of the day. But it was fun. And it was almost as good as last year's costumes...

Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf....

(Don is an excellent sport. Thanks, Don!)

52 mg/dl and Ketones.

2005-10-27T23:41:00.000-04:00

I read Teks' post tonight and felt very overwhelmed. Maybe that's the theme of the O.C. of late.

It's been a difficult 24 hours out here in Rhode Island, medically speaking. I've been sporting moderate ketones for the better part of a day now. Changed the infusion set twice. Injected via syringe once. Haven't eaten much due to fear of high bloodsugars. Actually called out of work today because of the ketone issue and my need to be focused and constantly hydrated.

Feeling exhausted.

Wondering how many times I can test for ketones over the course of a day and still be surprised at the dark pink appearance on the urinalysis strip. Wondering if it was being disconnected from the pump while I was at the gym yesterday that did it. Wondering if it was the combination of a potentially kinked pump cannula and a maybe partially spoiled bottle of insulin that started this chaos. Wondering if I can afford wasting all these test strips, infusion sets, insulin units, and days off from work. Wondering if I will always be working for medical insurance instead of for the love of the job. Wondering if writing this book will bring me peace or make me sad. Wondering how much patience we are allowed per day, and if I've just now reached my cap.

At one point this morning, I was at a bloodsugar of 52 mg/dl and sporting small ketones. Too much insulin after that Rage Bolus, not enough hydration to have flushed out the ketones. Strange feeling, that one, to be dizzy and shaky from the lack of sugar but aching and lethargic from its excess.

My body must be confused. I know I am.

Tomorrow is another try at this. So is the day after. And the day after that.

Six Until Me: The Book

2005-10-24T22:19:00.000-04:00

Dear Faithful Readers,

It's Shameless Plug Time again at Six Until Me.

Here's the deal: I'm writing a book. And it's about diabetes. (I know ... try and contain your shock.) Having said that, I am looking to tap the good ol' O.C. for perspectives.

What I'm looking for specifically is this:

Diabetics and Parents of Diabetics, how does this disease shape your life? Can you sum up the effects of this chronic condition in one phrase (I hate this disease and all its tricky bits...) or does the question instead provoke pages of musings? The question is extremely open ended and I hope responses will run the proverbial gamut. I am looking for it all. Please don't censor yourself. Please don't worry about how you will sound or what people will think. It's the raw responses that I want. The ones that might scare you to write. I want this project to really highlight how truly psychological this condition is. And I want all of our voices to be heard.

I trust you.

There's something very strange about this O.C. There is an unparalleled strength to this group, despite the distance between us all. We have, for the most part, never met in person. The majority of us have never had even a conversation on the phone. We have no idea what each other's favorite colors are, or their birthdays, but we have intimate glimpses into each other's darkest hours. Our coldest fears. Our moments of success. The truths that we hide from others. We share this disease and all its fretful fears and careful moments of hope.

One day we will share its cures.

But for this moment, we have the support of one another.

I will be contacting the contributors after reading submissions to discuss publishing options. Of course, any information gleaned from your responses will be both credited in the book and appreciated by the Me.

If you are comfortable answering this question and you would like to be involved in Six Until Me (the book), please email your responses to Six Until Me.

Thank you in advance for your participation.

-- Kerri.

"Good luck, lady."

2005-10-19T22:18:00.000-04:00

I went to my dentist appointment.

"Aaaaaaaaahhhhh," I opened my mouth like a baby bird every time the hygienist came near me. I couldn't answer any of her questions because my toes were curling with fear. Those metal instruments scraping against my sensitive teeth and poking mercilessly at my gums.

"Aaaaaaahhhhh!" as I caught my reflection in the mirror as the blood was seeping out from around my gums. Panic struck me. I tried to stay calm, reaching down oh so slowly to put the pump on "Suspend" mode, as my nerves make my bloodsugar plummet. "You okay?" the hygienist asked, scraping across my molar and making the hair on my arms shudder.

"I'm fine. Just keep going." I said, only though a mouth full of her fingers. So it sounded more like "Ib fibe. Tuskeeb go en."

She finished me up. I escaped the office, nerves on edge but satisfied that I was safe for another six months. I put the key into the ingnition of The Jetta, pushed aside the dangling tendrils of the hibiscus plant (I'll explain in a minute), and headed for Route 1 North, towards Chris's house. My new house.

My car was teeming with the last minute items from the move. In making sure my old apartment was completely empty, I had to forgo the rational "packing" course and opt for "tossing things haphazardly into the car" mode. A bag full of cleaning supplies, a roll of paper towels, and my snow boots rustled about on the back seat. An African Violet teetered precariously on the floor. And my giant hibiscus plant was everywhere. Long branches with big pink flowers were bobbing up and down every time I accelerated too aggressively. (Which was every time.)

So I advanced up the road. Not feeling too great, but I had just come from the Evil Dentist's Office so I chalked up my headache to that. (Faithful Reader is already churning this one out, aren't you? Headache = low bloodsugar. Well done, F.R.) I was on the phone with Chris as I drove, but realized that I felt bizarre.

"I am going to pull over. I think I need to test." I told him. He urged me to do just that. "I'll wait on the phone with you," he said.

Pulled over. Grabbed the meter. Tink. The lancet hit my fingertip. Ew. The blood. 5...4...3...2...1 ... 40 mg/dl.

"Holy shit, Chris. I'm 40. I need to get some juice or something."

He remained on the phone as I pulled into the nearby gas station. "Get some juice, baby." "Okay, okay." I told him I would call him right back, as soon as I bought and drank some juice.

I stumbled into the gas station, lost in my own head. Headache: check. Dizzy: check. Arms and legs weak, as though they'd run a marathon the rest of me didn't attend: check. But my mind was frighteningly clear. I knew exactly what was going on. I knew I needed to make it to the back of the store, where the coolers were, grab a juice and throw it down as fast as possible.

These waves of nausea and dizziness swept over me. I felt them dawning in my ankles, rising up to my waist and cresting just over my eyes, rendering me lost for a second. I paused in walking while the waves washed over me. And I held out my hands to brace myself if I fell as I made my way towards the juice.

Grabbed the cold glass doors. Dole Orange Juice ... the bottle looked so familiar. In one motion, I upcapped the bottle, drank the juice in barely two sips, and eased my shaking frame against the doors.

The man behind the counter didn't see me struggling at the back of his store. He didn't notice that tears were running down my face as I brought the empty juice bottle to his register to pay for it. The cell phone, open and dialed to Chris's number, was hanging limply from my hands.

"You want pay for that bottle?"

"Yes. Please. My name is Kerri." I didn't want to tell him my name but I couldn't help but think that if he knew my name then I would be safer.

"One dollar. Forty-nine cents. You want ticket?"

"Yes. Please. I'm having a diabetic low bloodsugar reaction." I offered a weak smile, handing him my money.

"Juice. Tickets. Here. Good luck, lady."

Keys in the ignition, I tried to relax as the sugar eased into my blood stream. I called Chris and promptly started to cry at his "Are you okay? Did you drink the juice, baby?"

"I'm fine. I drank the juice. I'll be okay..." Ragged breaths. The plastic bag rustled as I threw in the empty bottle of juice. The arms of the giant hibiscus flowers shuddered and eased around my shoulders.

It wasn't until I was driving back home, bloodsugar stabilized at 97 mg/dl, that I realized there were two lottery tickets clutched in my hand.

Here's hoping.

Playing Ketchup.

2005-10-16T21:53:00.000-04:00

Who doesn't love a good homonym?

There's been a lot going on over the last week. I've been a small bit absentee. Here's the run down, a la Six Until Me style:

The Move: The Boy and I have made the leap from Separate Apartments to Living Together. Yes, this is a good thing. And yes, I'm very happy. But yes, it's been stressful emptying out my apartment and bringing the bulk of my belongings to his apartment. Whatever didn't make it to Chris's ended up in storage in my mother's basement. Long story posted on a blog, I've been trekking my stuff all over RI and CT for the last week. I'm tired. I've put many miles on The Jetta. But I'm happy.

The Plan: The plan is to move outside of NYC in April. Me and The Boy. And The Jetta. So that I can find a job that has nothing to do with insurance and he can pursue the finer points of his film career. It's both an exciting premise and a slightly frightening one. If you have any contacts in the NY/Western CT area, can you siphon me through to them? If you don't have any contacts, don't fret. Once I get there, you will.

The Meantime: It's status quo in good ol' RI. My job is still ridiculous. My cats are still hiding in garbage cans. My nephew informed me that, in baseball, two bases is a double, three is a triple, and four is a fourple. I've got my appointment at the Joslin Diabetes Center in Boston on November 1st. I am anticipating a lovely A1c. Maybe under 7% this time? Keep your Faithful Reader fingers crossed.

The O.C.: (Sorry Dee, but that's the moniker that stuck. Because I pooled all the resources and found a plotline on the internet. Six Until Me:1. Six Until Dee:0) There's a veritable deluge of quality Diabetes-related stuff cropping up on the internet lately. The new blogs? Check out Ryan Bruner. Or Infusion of Thought. Or the Diabetes Talkfest Forum, where diabetics of all types, sizes, and fonts can come together and find candid discussions and comfort. There's also Reality Check, which is an Australian based open forum that has great discussion threads and they use words like "bloke". All spots worth checking out. But don't forget about your old favorites.

Like me.

And Larry Bird.

The Next Round of "Top Five."

2005-10-07T11:14:00.000-04:00

I just can't get enough! I want to know more. Again.

Six Until Me presents ...

Top Five.

I'll provide the categories, you provide your Top Five. And I, as before, tip my hat to John Cusack in High Fidelity.

1. Top Five Songs I Can't Get Enough Of
2. Top Five Fantasy Jobs
3. Top Five Names for Our Network of Diabetes Bloggers.
4. Top Five Titles for the Book of My Life
5. Top Five Reasons to Eat Cake

I am looking forward to your responses.
Game on.

Rage Bolus, Anyone?

2005-10-04T11:30:00.000-04:00

Bit of a rantish post here. And there's no reason for this other than to vent frustration.

Last night, after I came home from the U2 show in Boston (more on that later), I was a little bit high. Rang in at 212 mg/dl. Okay, no problem. Bolus it up, go to bed. Woke up this morning at 200 mg/dl. Hmmm, no drop in the blood sugar levels. Not to worry, though, because it's a Free Shower - no infusion set - Day due to the fact that it's time to change the infusion set. Primed and inserted a new set with good ol' Charlene. She purred (beeped?) happily and I set about dressing for work.

Arrived at work. Hungry. Devoured one of those sometimes-delicious-but-most-often-just-gritty Kashi Whole Grain Granola bars. Bolused two units to cover, in accordance with the 1:10 ratio. Worked at my boring job for about an hour before realizing that I had already visited the bathroom twice in that time. Hmmm. Not normal. Tested, revealing 281 mg/dl. Whaaaa... I corrected this morning. I bolused for the crappy snack. And now I'm higher than before? Frustrated Kerri. So I Rage Bolus*. I just crank the shit out the pump, knowing full well that I only need about two units to come back down. I lace in 3.5 units. Sit back, satisfied.

Not done yet. I test again, an hour and half later, clocking in at 286 mg/dl. Fan-freaking-tastic. Good thing all that insulin made me higher. Because that makes f-ing sense. So I Rage Bolus again, sending 2 more units coursing through, Frustrated Kerri not really giving a shit that the "active insulin" tally on my pump is enough to cover dinner at Olive Garden.

So it's noon. I've been high all morning. I just changed my infusion set this morning. And I'm angry. I do not want to pull this set only to find that it's perfectly fine and I've wasted yet another expensive pump supply.

I'm riding this out. It's Me against the D. Who will persevere? How high will Kerri allow herself to rise before she pulls the set and starts over? How much Rage Bolusing will eventually catch up with Herself before Kerri bottoms out at 44 mg/dl? How many licks does it indeed take to reach the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop? If you say three, you and that f-ing owl can go screw. It at least takes 125. I'm going to find out as soon as my Rage Bolusing catches up with me and I'm Trick or Treating at people's desks here at work.

*Rage Bolusing: Taking an uncalculated amount of insulin to correct a frustrating high bloodsugar reading. Also see: Panic Eating.

An Uzi at the Alamo

2005-09-28T11:17:00.000-04:00

He is very supportive of everything I've done, from Six Until Me and the JDRF Walk to doctor's appointments and writing first drafts. He even took me on my first roller coaster at Six Flags last weekend. I was terrified ... but it was terrific fun and I would have never done it if he wasn't holding my hand.

Now it's my turn to support him.

He has affectionately been referred to as "The Boy" for the purpose of this blog, but his Real Name is Chris Sparling. He has recently completed his first feature length comedy, "An Uzi at the Alamo" and it is now available for purchase on Film Baby.

It is legitimately funny. You could chalk my opinion up to Obligatory Girlfriend Online Opine, but believe me, I wouldn't bother lending my support to this project if I didn't think it was worth it. This movie is well written, entertaining, and en route to great success.

If anyone is interested in viewing the trailer, check out the movie's website. To purchase a copy, visit Film Baby or, if you'd prefer to pay by check, please email me at sixuntilme@yahoo.com and I can provide a mailing address.

The Walk.

2005-09-26T22:06:00.000-04:00

The JDRF Walk to Cure Diabetes (the RI edition) took place on Sunday at Roger Williams Park. And Team Six Until Me took part for the first time. We were we a little team - only seven walkers, but we raised a fair amount of money. The team consisted of myself, The Boy, Mom and Oystein, Batman, her BoyWonder, and Best Nurse Friend. We wore sneakers. And matching JDRF t-shirts. I was the only one on the team wearing a pump, but definitely not the only one at the walk.

We raised $3,000 as a team. I was impressed. And very happy with the results.

Six Until Me didn't have team t-shirts, but a number of teams did. The best team t-shirts I saw were these vibrant yellow ones. About 30 people were milling about in these shirts that read "I'm Walking For Steve." Every time I turned around, another Steve Supporter.

I couldn't stand not knowing.

"Excuse me," I approached a woman with dark brown hair, a sports bottle, and a Walking for Steve shirt. "Who is Steve?"

"Steve? He's up there. He's eight years old, diagnosed two years ago. He just got his pump!" I'm not sure if this woman was his mother or aunt or just someone who supported Steve, but she was beaming with pride at the accomplishments of young Steve. She gestured up the path a ways.

There, bouncing in and out among the sunshine colored shirts, was a young kid with spikey brown hair and an impish grin. He was carrying two sticks and poking them against the ground as he marched on. Flanking him on either side were a few other kids, all proclaiming via t-shirt, "I'm Walking for Steve."

His t-shirt was bright yellow, too. It read, "I'm Steve."

Shameless Plug.

2005-09-14T22:59:00.000-04:00

There are less than two weeks remaining until Team Six Until Me makes our debut at the JDRF Walk To Cure Diabetes. We'll walk the walk. We'll talk the talk. Perhaps in a southern accent. Or an Irish brogue. Whatever the case, we'll be there.

If you live locally and want to join the team, visit the link and sign up! If you are lined to make a donation, visit the link and sign up! If you want to see how much progress we've made, visit the ... I think you get the picture.

Verdict Overturned.

2005-09-10T10:19:00.000-04:00

So I worked hard on my bloodsugar control. Tested pretty constantly. Blew through about a bottle of strips every two days or so.

And I went to the gym. Nothing outrageous and I am by no means a certified professional (as exhibited by my wardrobe's lack of pink sweatpants), but I went. And went consistently, save for the car accident fiasco.

I saw my doctor, too, and determined that my blood pressure is just too high for a diabetic. And since I'm not overweight and still relatively young, medication was deemed the appropriate treatment method. Altace 2.5 mg became a part of my daily routine.

And I talked about it. I told you guys. I told my patient and ever-supportive boyfriend. I talked about it with my mom. My friends learned alongside me. Talking helped to alleviate my fear. Conversations confirmed that I wasn't alone and I never would be.

Now I can happily report that, after my eye exam and full dilation yesterday afternoon, that my eyesight is better than 20/20 and that little bastard of a cotton wool spot is gone. I'm back to "IDDM, Uncomplicated."

Tomorrow marks nineteen years that I've been a diabetic.

An uncomplicated one.

Sometimes you just can't win.

And sometimes ... you can.

Underwater.

2005-09-06T00:14:00.000-04:00

The television clicks on and I see those same familiar rooftops peeking out over miles and miles of filthy, rising water. People trapped on the islands that their homes have become, begging for rescue. For solace. For help.

I'm not sure how to react.

I'm not very good with disasters. I am riddled with anxiety as it is. Seeing this terrible manifestation of a natural disaster, I want to help but I don't even know where to start. To see these people, to see their trials, their anguish, is to witness a suffering I can barely conceptualize.

I wanted to write something as heart felt and evocative as Dee's post. His words affected me more than than the images I've been innundated with from CNN or MSNBC. I couldn't say it better. This time, I'll just refer you to his link and urge you to make a donation to an organization that provides relief for these people who need help from someone. Even that one dollar makes all the difference.

Pink Sweatpants are Horrible. Horrible.

2005-08-25T22:58:00.000-04:00

Today's Bullet Point List:

* I sit at a desk all day long and find little to no entertainment during the course of my daily duties. The phone rings, emails crop up, and mail floods my inbox, yet my mind remains stagnant. However, my cat finds a penny on the hardwood floor and loses her mind due to the exhilaration.

* Team Six Until Me is gathering momentum towards the Walk to Cure Diabetes on September 25th. Money is being donated, walkers are volunteering their time, and I have just received word that there will be a Team T-Shirt (happy now, Chris?) contest. Here’s the link for donations and sign up, if you’re interested.

* I am participating in a Spelling Bee for Dorcas Place, which is a literacy center in Rhode Island. My company is sponsoring a team to compete in September. I wonder if my constant use of a computer at both work and home has affected my ability to spell. Spell Check can really rob someone of their ability to string together the correct letters. As can the brain-numbing work at my job. Will my team be eliminated in the first round? We must wait and S-E-E.

* New diabetes blog: DIABolic Check him out.

* I have rejoined the gym (now that the car accident is far enough behind me that my finances have caught up) and the plan is simple – Be Consistent. I need to be consistent in going and working out. I need to be consistent in making sure I crank down my basal rates at least two hours before workout. I also need to make sure my blood sugars remain consistent, none of this bouncing from 50 mg/dl to 250 mg/dl within a twenty minute timeframe. And I can’t be downing a bottle of juice every time I go to the gym. Kind of defeats the purpose. I also will not be wearing pink sweatpants to the gym, as I think that is tacky. I started back on Tuesday. The goal is three to five times a week. I can definitely do that. I’ll keep you posted as to progress. Or foolish moments I have, which will probably happen before any notable progress.

... No way will I ever even own pink sweatpants.

The Five Senses.

2005-08-23T21:29:00.000-04:00

I want a cure tonight.

I want it so badly I can taste it tonight. It tastes like black raspberry ice cream from St. Claire’s Annex in Watch Hill, all creamy and cold. It tastes slightly salty, like my skin after a day at the beach. It doesn’t taste at all like airplane glue or sweaters on my teeth after a few hours of a high bloodsugar. It doesn’t taste bitter, like the chocolate flavor on the back of my tongue after sneaking Halloween candy as a child.

I want it so badly I can feel it tonight. It feels like his strong hands on my shoulders, easing out the stress of the day. It feels free and almost scary, like standing on the top deck of the Block Island Ferry and leaning over just that little bit as the boat cruises towards shore. It doesn’t ache, like my stomach as I drive to Joslin or the eye doctor. It doesn’t burn, like my conscience often does when I think of the unfocused, foolish choices I’ve made regarding my health.

I want it so badly I can hear it tonight. It sounds like Siah sleeping on my pillow at night, gently purring in my ear. It sounds like that first cry my nephew wailed, piercing the night with his brand new voice. It doesn’t sound like the beep beep beep of Charlene as she counts up the correction tally. It sounds nothing like my voice shaking as I admit to the precursors of complications to my doctor.

I want it so badly I can smell it tonight. It smells like Ivory soap. It smells like a dozen unexpected roses brightening a dreary office. The scent isn’t even reminiscent of that dentist smell emitting from a broken bottle of insulin. It smells nothing like fear.

I want a cure so badly I can almost see it tonight.
It looks like my healthy body.
It looks like my healed fingertips.
It looks like my smile.
It looks like my pump, tucked inside an old jewelry box for the rest of my life.
It looks like my wedding.
It looks like my child.

It looks like my future.

In Which I Fake a Low to Get out of the Obstacle Course.

2005-08-17T21:20:00.000-04:00

There has only been one time – ONE TIME – that I used diabetes as an excuse. One time. And I was always so adamant about not letting diabetes ever keep me from doing anything… the irony is thick. It was in seventh grade. The experience haunts me still.

Here’s how it went down: The way the gym at my middle school was set up was such that the gymnasium floor was at the base of a high walled, enormous room. Bleachers lined the incline on all sides. It was set up like a basketball arena. Very easy to see the victims … ah, participants on the floor.

My classmates and I had changed into shorts and t shirts and were filing in to the gym. And there, spread out before us like a gladiator coliseum, was The Obstacle Course.

The gymnastics horse was there. Rearing its ugly head, sneering at us all. The parallel bars mocked us. As did their uneven friends. And the nefarious rope climb was set up at the dead center.

“Line up. Girl, boy, girl, boy. Come on.” Gym Teacher put one hand on his hip, the other gesturing towards where we were to form a line.

I felt my pulse quicken. A bead of sweat emerged from my hairline and made way for my brow. Clammy skin. That pit in my stomach that signified panic. I felt disoriented and confused. What was happening?

Is she low? Faithful Reader asks.

No way. I was panicked at the idea of performing these physical feats in front of my classmates. I was well liked in school. I never had a shortage of friends. And my confidence stretched from academia to social settings. But I had no faith in my athletic abilities. I fell over my feet on a regular basis. I was notorious for slipping while standing still. My legs were those of a newborn colt on a banana peel laden floor. And, at 13 years old, I couldn’t find a way out of that gym fast enough.

“Gym Teacher, Gym Teacher.” (Of course I didn’t call him that, but there is no way I’m blowing my cover now, after all these years.) “I don’t feel very well. I need to go to the nurse.”

Being the only diabetic in the school and a well-known one at that, Gym Teacher dismissed me with the flick of an over-tanned wrist. And I trotted, riddled with a mix of guilt and relief, to the nurse’s office.

To the credit of my integrity and ever-plaguing conscience, I didn’t actually lie. It was more lying by omission. Just by saying “I don’t feel well” and being the diabetic, my need for medical attention was never questioned. But it is the only time I’ve ever let diabetes play the role of crutch. And I can’t let myself forget it. Sure, I’ve forgiven myself. And even now, as I write this, I laugh a little bit. But I can’t forget it.

I forgive you. Faithful Reader puts a hand on my shoulder.

I hope so.

You should have done the rope climb, though. Faithful Reader sighs, lost in the nostalgia. That feeling you get once you’re halfway up the rope is killer.

That it is, Faithful Reader. That it is.

Team Six Until Me

2005-08-14T22:47:00.000-04:00

The JDRF Walk for a Cure is September 25th.

And Team Six Until Me is making their first showing.

This is the page you want to check out to either join our team or make a donation. I have sent out a wildly generic email to people I had addresses for, so if you received an email, forward it out to anyone who you think might be interested in the event. The goal set by the JDRF is $250, but I'm pretty sure we can blow that out of the proverbial water.

Aside from The Walk, I'm writing this post in the middle of an excellent thunderstorm. That's a plus. I love a good thunderstorm. As long as I'm not driving in it.

Random Musings Before the Seafood Festival

2005-08-07T14:16:00.000-04:00

This weekend is the famed Charlestown Seafood Festival. I'm going, for the second time this weekend. Oh, and I hate seafood. Go figure.

I have a few questions for The Masses:

Item 1. According to Violet's research, birth control pills may increase insulin resistance. Okay. Eight days ago, I started on Altace (2.5 mg) in efforts to lower my blood pressure. Yes, it seems that my Type A personality, coupled with two decades of Type 1 diabetes, has rang in on my blood pressure readings. According to the frightening insert in the Altace box, listing a wild range of possible side effects, Altace may cause hypoglycemic episodes.

Hmmmmm. Does this mean these medications may "cancel" each other out? Or am I in for a A1c ping-pong game? If anyone has any information on Altace and it's effects, I would appreciate the insight.

Item 2. Has this happened to anyone? It's Day 3 of the infusion site (it's in my right thigh this round), site to be changed in the morning. I go to sleep at 98 mg/dl. I wake up at four in the morning, thirsty as the day of diagnosis, and test at 338 mg/dl. Okay. Bolus 4.3 units. When I wake up at 9 o'clock For Real, I ring in at 268 mg/dl. I am frustrated and confused as to what the hell is going on, so I Rage Bolus another 3 units. Hour and 15 minutes later, 261 mg/dl. I yank the site, which was due to come out anyway, and see this minute mass of cells (I guess) tucked neatly into the end of the cannula. Bastard. Thwarted by my own cells. So apparently they gathered around the site over the course of the last day. Is this from leaving the site in an extra 10 hours? Could this be my body fighting what it thinks is an infection? Or does this get chalked up as a Freak Thing? One way or the other, it's the first time something odd has built up on the cannula in a year and a half.

Item 3. What am I thinking, going to a seafood festival when I hate seafood? And not only that, but attending this festival Twice in one weekend?

Item 4. This is Abby, my other cat. That completes the family portrait, I think.

Tomorrow marks my first day back to work after a week of much-needed vacation. I'll let you know if I get laid off.

Cause and Effect.

2005-08-03T09:12:00.000-04:00

The cause: Siah. And her little teeth.

The effect: Busted Charlene and High Bloodsugar Reading.

And I'm actually surprised it's taken this long to happen.

A Bottle of Juice in the Shower

2005-08-01T23:47:00.000-04:00

I ignored the headache at first, thinking maybe I was still acclimating to the new blood pressure medication I started on Saturday. I soaped up my hair and enjoying the way my sunburn ached a little bit under the pressure of the water.

A few minutes passed. The headache was still there.

I caught myself staring at the shampoo bottle. Not glancing at it in passing. I've been using the same bottle of Dove shampoo for at least two weeks now. But this time, I had it in my hand and I was fixated on the phrase "Rinse," wondering why it didn't say "Rinse. And repeat" like it did a few years back. My eyes unfocused like I was trying to see the sailboats behind one of those magic eye pictures. And there I stood. Still had that headache. Didn't really think about the fact that I had gone for a walk about an hour earlier.

The water gently washed over the back of my still soapy hair as I realized I was leaning against the shower wall. Headache. Shifting, unfocused eyes. Waves of nausea and dizziness undulating over me. The water was warm. I was warm. And sleepy. So sleepy. It was nice to close my eyes for a few minutes until -

Complete panic. I realized that I was alone in my apartment. My neighbors weren't home downstairs. The Boy wasn't on the computer in the bedroom. I was alone. And having a Crash and Burn low bloodsugar reaction.

I turned the water off and grabbed a towel. I was talking to myself as I wrapped the towel around my body, "Keep it together. Don't fall. Just walk out to the kitchen. Go go go." My internal Motivational Speaker coached me out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. I walked, determinedly, to the fridge and opened the door. The cats circled like sharks at my feet, emitting mews now and again, licking my ankles.

"Juice." I grabbed the bottle of juice from the fridge and took a long pull. Motivational Speaker counted in my head as I drank feverishly. "One, two ... three.. four swallows. Keep going. Take eight swallows. Eight will bring you up enough. Five... come on... six, seven, eight... good."

Juice bottle in hand, I reached for my testing kit off the kitchen counter. Wiping the escaping sips from my quivering chin, I forced myself to go through the familiar motions of taking a strip from the bottle, queueing up the machine, and lancing my fingertip. Meter rang in at 47 mg/dl. Adrenaline coursed through me as I panicked at the thought of passing out, alone in my apartment. Oh yeah, and in a towel with soapy hair.

Low Kerri and Normal Kerri tousled over what to do next. Low Kerri wanted to sit on the floor and wait for her bloodsugar to rise. She also wanted to eat the entire stash of cookies in the cookie jar. Normal Kerri knew she had taken enough sips of juice to come up just the right amount. She also knew that The Boy was expecting her in an hour. Normal Kerri and Low Kerri reached the following ridiculous compromise: Go back into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and bring the bottle of juice.

It was a stupid idea, climbing back into the shower at a bloodsugar well under normal range. I should have waited until my levels came up. But I knew I was coming around when I looked at the shower caddy and saw my Dove shampoo and a bottle of Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice. And realized what a lucky moron I was.

Motivational Speaker agreed, as she retired until next time.

I'm off to the beach, but...

2005-07-23T08:49:00.000-04:00

The Golf Thing for the JDRF was extremely successful. They raised almost $95,000.00 in one night. I met a number of people whose driving force in their lives was to find a cure for diabetes in efforts to ease the pain of their diabetic child. I felt a little strange not working for someone else, but instead for Me. “Hi, yes, my name is Kerri. How old? Twenty-six. No, my child doesn’t have diabetes. I do.” But on the flip side, no one wants a cure for me more than my mom. I’d bet my life on it. Overall, it was an evening I would volunteer for again, without hesitation. Oooh, and the silent auction was rather chatty, so I didn’t receive any reprimand for not being able to keep my mouth shut.

On that note, September draws ever nearer and I have to get my act together for Team Six Until Me. As first-time Team Captain for this diabetes walk, I want to make an impression. I want to raise an obscene amount of money. I also may make t-shirts. Stay tuned for more updates on Team Six Until Me.

My office laid off eight people last week. And has let go of at least 15 employees since January. The writing on the wall, which used to be kind of blurry and in a tiny chicken scratch, has morphed into this huge, 72 point font, bold, “FIND A NEW JOB.” So I will. I am very nervous at the prospect of being laid off. Not because I like the job (because I actually think I might hate it), but the idea of no medical insurance makes my skin crawl. I start calculating how long I can last without ordering supplies. I never can count past three months. However, when I am let go, I won’t be surprised. Or personally offended. There hasn’t been any new business in months. So… I keep a bag with my bikini, a towel, and a book under my desk. In the event that they say, “Kerri, I’m sorry, but…” I will respond with, “Well, thanks. Now I don’t have to wait in aching anticipation anymore. I’m going to the beach.”

Does anyone have any information on outside insurance policies? If my offices closes, I need to take on medical insurance immediately. Any suggestions or start points? I’m at a bit of a loss here and I want to be prepared.

Siah, leapt gracefully into the toilet last night. She was very surprised. And soggy. Were I able to catch my breath from laughing at her, I would have dried her off. Instead, she did that Wet Cat Waddle around the apartment, shaking alternating legs and emitting tiny kitten sneezes. Then she hung out in the garbage can.

Off to the beach.

Kerri the Auctioneer

2005-07-18T14:29:00.000-04:00

On tap for tonight: I will be working at the 4th Annual JDRF-RI Golf Tournament, which raises money for diabetes research. My tasks tonight include, but are not limited to, working the Silent Auction.

Yes, you read correctly.

The Silent Auction.

I'm not sure if I can be quiet for that long. We'll see. Either I'll be able to control myself or I'll end up buying thirty-three different items by accident. I should bring my checkbook, just in case.

This is the first diabetes event I've volunteered for, so I'm excited to get involved. It's strange that I avoided anything related to diabetes when I was younger. Never volunteered, didn't go to support groups, nothing. But now, as I mature (sort of), I gravitate towards anything even remotely resembling support. Does that indicate acceptance?

I'll let you know how the event goes tonight.

Also, there is yet another diabetes blogger online. Her name is Rachel and her blog can be found Here. She's brand new to blogging but a veteran diabetic. Check out the site. (Saloon doors swing shut.)

Lastly, Siah has taken to hanging out in the garbage cans. Can't figure that one out. But the rustling of the plastic bags is a good hint as to where she is most of the time.

Martha.

2005-07-10T09:20:00.000-04:00

There is a New Blogger in Town (salon doors swing open, piano music stops, every stares over their hand of cards) and I think she would appreciate the outreach from our warm little online community. Her name is Martha and she's currently reeling from the first few harrowing weeks of "What is Happening to Me?"

... you know, those weeks we all still have.

If you have a minute, pop on over to Martha's Site and take a read.

Back on the Road.

2005-07-09T22:30:00.000-04:00

Quick post because I'm exhausted. But here's the abridged version of the last week:

1996 Jetta: The Boy and I have just about recovered from last Thursday's car accident fiasco. My '96 Jetta was indeed deemed totaled. And yes, I sat in it one last time and cried a little bit. Because I am way too emotionally involved with inanimate objects.

2002 Jetta: So I bought my new car this morning. It's lovely. A 2002 Jetta GLS in Dark Blue. Hot little car. I like it. If you look at the reflection in my car door, you can see my handsome boyfriend in some kind of weird ninja stance, taking the picture.

Thanks to my friends and family: I need to thank my Mom, my Dad, Grambo, The Boy and Batman for their help this week. Without them in my carless week, I would have had a nervous breakdown at the accident scene, I would have never made it to work, and I couldn't have made the New Car purchase so quickly and painlessly. I mean, people were treking me all over the place. Without complaining. And without taking any money for gas from my grateful self. So THANK YOU to everyone for your help. I'd be fired from my job and possibly renting a Shriner car as a method of transportation.

I'm off to the beach tomorrow. In my new car.

Ah... sometimes it's just so sweet.

Goodnight, Jetta.

2005-07-02T02:04:00.000-04:00

The construction site worker. He held out the stop sign so abruptly that the driver of the BMW was forced to slam on his brakes. Two car lengths behind, I hit the brakes as fast as I could but I knew.

I couldn’t stop.

We saw it coming. “I can’t stop.” The sentence fell from my mouth and settled in my hands as I braced them against the steering wheel. “We’re going to hit him.” His arm grabbed me.

The combination of the cold summer rain and the layer of sand on the road from the construction site made a surface my wheels wouldn’t catch. The brakes locked up. The car slid towards the BMW for the longest five seconds I’ve ever known. My hands froze against the wheel and my 1996 Jetta, holding hostage myself and The Boy, smashed against the back of the BMW with a force I thought only existed in nightmares.

The noise was incredible. Thirty miles an hour never seems fast as the scenery flies by, but it is so very quick when everything else stands still. The airbags leapt out at us, tossing a combination of burning and chalk at our exposed arms and faces. I closed my eyes.

As soon as the Jetta stopped, I threw open the driver’s door and fell out onto the roadside. The car was filled with airbag dust, car pieces, and The Boy. Ice replaced my blood as I stared hysterically at him from the road. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay?”

Those three words were all I knew until he looked at me and said "Yes."

What happened next was standard accident fare: The Boy and I stood beside my crippled car, waiting for the police to show up. I sat in the backseat of my car, whose front end was spilled across the street, dialing The List: Mom, Dad, Work. “It’s Kerri. I’m okay. [The Boy] is okay. I totaled my car.” My boss received the additional caveat – “And I’m not coming into work today.” The Boy was my hero. He talked to the other driver, the police officer, and held my face in his hands when I started to cry.

Fast forward – the other driver is okay. The Boy and I are okay, save for airbag burns, sore backs, and bruised arms from where we held each other at impact. Emergency room visits yield no broken bones. My car, the 1996 VW Jetta in that pretty lavender color, sits in what most would call the Repair Garage, but I know it’s the salvage yard. The Boy and I are fine, but the car is totaled.

I’ve had this car since high school. I had it when I graduated. I had it before I went to college. I had it before Mom and Dad divorced. I had it before any cotton wool spot. When my home was tossed into upheaval due to divorce and familial strife, I would sit in my car, turn up the radio, and go for a drive. That car made me feel safe. I owned it. I was very proud of it. It was mine. And it gave me a sense of security when life became a kaleidoscope of chaos.

So it hurts to let it go.

But it is just a car.

I’ll say, with certainty, that there is nothing more important than the fact that no one was hurt. We all walked away from an accident that could have hurt us very badly. Any lament for the lost VW pales in comparison to what could have happened. I realized in a split second how powerful a car can be. How fragile a life can be.

And how powerful a love for someone can become in that instant.