Some days suck. Like today when my breakfast food arrived and I went to take my insulin and my pump read “NO DELIVERY.”
I packed up my breakfast in a to-go box and after everyone had finished eating I went home to change my pump.
My blood sugar went from 118 to 327 in two hours without any food.
Now here I sit hungry, writing, and waiting for my blood sugar to return to a normal level so that I can eat my cold breakfast.
Some days just suck.
(Sorry this post is so long... guess I got a bit carried away with this story.)
The man checking out my groceries stopped to look at my milk and half and half. He was reading the labels of the nutritional value, and then looked up and turned to me, “Did you know diabetics can’t have milk?” For a moment I looked at him, looking for a pump, callused finger tips, something to indicate that he himself had diabetes. Then I chuckled to myself. Did he somehow know that I had diabetes? Was my pump tubing sticking out? Why was he telling me this?
“It’s funny you’re telling me that because I have type 1 diabetes.” I smiled at him, then said, “You mean because of the enzymes in milk that aren’t good for the immune system?” I was trying to figure out what he was talking about. Most people haven’t read about the few studies that have linked drinking cow’s milk to the development of autoimmune diseases like diabetes. I was ready to hear what he had heard, and if he agreed that I shouldn’t be giving my own children milk because of this enzyme.
“Oh, yeah, but no, I mean because of the sugar in milk. But diabetics can have half and half because there isn’t any sugar in half and half.” Oh, boy, here we go. He is still referring to “people” with diabetes as some kind of strange group... “Diabetics,” what “they” can and can’t have, as if we belong to some kind of other species. (Did he not hear me just tell him that I have diabetes, that I’m diabetic?) I can’t think of another disease or condition where the people are only referred to by the name of that condition. Cancerers, AIDSists, Lupusites, it sounds funny, right? People are cancer survivors, or have cancer, aids, lupus, but they aren’t defined, identified only by their condition. Why is it that with diabetes, suddenly I’m a “diabetic,” no longer a woman, mother, sister, wife, or friend living with diabetes.
“Hmmm.” I pick up the small container of milk and half and half I’ve just purchased. He’s right, the half and half says 0 grams of sugar. “Okay, but let’s look at the serving size,” I say. “You can drink a whole cup of milk and it’s 13 carbs, but the serving for half and half is only two tablespoons. I bet if someone drank a cup of half and half there would be some sugar in it.” Now I’m thinking, I hope some person isn’t drinking half and half in place of milk thinking it’s “sugar free.” It’s crazy how misinformed people become.
“Oh, but not carbs, sugar,” He corrects me. “But if there was any sugar in the half and half they would have to put it on the label, right? So there can’t be any sugar in it.”
“Actually carbs are broken down into sugar in your body, so really someone with diabetes should look for carbs, not just sugar. I’m not sure what the rule is for nutritional labeling, but my guess is that if you made the serving size the same for the half and half, that there would be close to the same amount of sugar as in milk.”
He’s not convinced. I quietly grab the jelly bellies I’ve purchased while waiting in line and put them into my purse. I’m secretly hoping he doesn’t ask me about the sugar in the jelly bellies because I don’t think I can explain low blood sugars and why “diabetics” sometimes actually need sugar. Plus my own blood sugar is low, and I’m becoming a bit irritated at the whole situation. “Why did I even open my mouth?” I wonder. It would have been easier to just have said, “Oh that’s interesting. I didn’t know diabetics can’t have milk,” and left it at that.
He goes on to tell me that he is going to ask someone at work about the whole sugar in milk thing, and that I can come check back with him next week. Apparently having lived with diabetes for almost 12 years doesn’t make me an expert on the subject.
“Same time, same place, next week,” I say and smile at him as I grab my cart full of groceries, and hurry out to my car so that I can open up my jelly bellies and fix my shaky hands and light sweat that is starting on my forehead.
A few weeks ago Aliya and Evan followed me into the bathroom while I was changing my pump. My children are probably the most informed on the actual nitty-gritty of my diabetes care. They watch me draw out my insulin, insert new infusion sites, poke my fingers to check my blood sugar, and come with me to the pharmacy to pick up prescriptions. They know the pokes only hurt sometimes, and only for a minute. They know I sometimes have to check my blood sugar before we leave the house, start eating, or go on a walk. They know I’m coming around the corner when they hear the beeping of my pump. I sometimes wonder if that beeping of the pump is familiar to them from the moment they’re born. If they recognize those beeps like an infant recognizes family members’ voices. It’s what they’ve always known.
During this last observation Aliya asked me, “Mommy, when I grow up will I change my pump site too?” The question hit me hard. Essentially, she was asking me if she’d have diabetes when she grows up. I smiled and took a deep breath. How do I answer this one? My immediate answer is, “Oh God, I hope not. Everyday I hope not.” You see the fear is there. I still panic if one of them wakes up to pee in the middle of the night. I watch how much they drink during the day and make a mental note if they seem to be drinking more than normal. I wonder if I will miss the signs. If I won’t notice the weight loss, the cold that just lingers, the hunger that can’t be filled. And I wonder how I would raise a child with diabetes. How will I not feel guilty about the finger pricks, insulin shots, careful carb counting, the life that would never be as it was?
But, I don’t want her to be afraid. I don’t want her to end up with this disease and be scared because of me. At five years old, I’m not ready to have her worried about diabetes.
Another deep breath. “Hopefully your pancreas won’t ever stop working.” It seems to do the trick for now.
I know the day will come that she learns more. That she worries about my health because I have diabetes. Everyone knows the complications that can come with this disease, and I’m sure it won’t be long before she understands how those complications might effect her Mommy. But for now I want to protect her. I want her to see that even with diabetes her Mommy can accomplish all of her dreams. And more than anything, I want her to know that she can too, with or without diabetes.
e went on a road trip/camping trip/family reunion up in Mendocino County last week. I have to be honest, I was a bit worried. The thought of spending two days in the car with the three kiddos didn't sound all that appealing. Plus my kids aren't great sleepers, so I dreaded the sleepless nights we usually have on vacation. Traveling with kids is work, and camping with kids is lots of work. But the trip was amazing.