H1N-What?

It’s an epidemic. Or is it a pandemic…?

I get my “-emic’s” mixed up.

I watch the news everyday; I consider the footage of airports filled with passengers wearing paper masks. Pictures of people coughing. Directions on how to sneeze properly. (Have you heard? They have changed the rules on this. It is supposed to be into your sleeve now, not your hands. I wonder if it will turn into another margarine VS. butter debate… which one is really better for you?)

Yesterday washing your hands was the BEST WAY to ward off the illness and today NEW RESEARCH has decided that maybe that’s not the case… (Sense a hint of sarcasm?)

Wear a mask in public places.
Sneeze into your sleeve.
Sanitize sanitize sanitize…

And good heavens don’t even mention travelling to Mexico. (It’s like talking about bombs in an airport… oh no no no no no …)

We as diabetics are considered a “high risk” category. Along with the tiny children, the asthmatics, and all others who have chronic illness or who live with someone who does. (Sheesh, does that even leave anyone?)

There has been a lot of controversy surrounding this flu shot. So the underlying question: Do we, or don’t we?

I did.

I’d heard of the sickness people were suffering from it. I’d heard rumors of seizures and swollen arms. But I get the regular flu shot every year. So I just bit the bullet and got both done at once, despite all the kerfuffle. (Seriously folks… what’s one more needle right?)

Heck I’m still waiting for the bird flu to hit, never mind this pig thing. What ever happened to that? This thing the birds were bringing overseas from, what, Asia or somewhere, that was going to wipe out human kind…? I always get this mental image in my head of flocks of rabid seagulls (all red eyed and frothing from the beak) zooming and zipping in from over the ocean and dive bombing us like war planes.

Well clearly that never happened. (It’s also like when someone mentions Mad-Cow. Isn’t your first thought always a cow-who-looks-angry? Like a Gary Larson cartoon? No? Just me?)
There has been a lot of media hype over this H1N1 thing that might be slightly disproportionate to the reality. It’s a shame that absolute truth in these situations is impossible to achieve or even guess at.

I have a friend who believes that it’s all a conspiracy and that these flu viruses are being cooked up in a lab somewhere and inflicted on us by a foreign government as a type of ware fare.

That one may be a bit of a stretch --- (I have an idea, we all just need to eat more bacon. This way there will be fewer pigs, and therefore less swine flu. Just need to eat more bacon… It’s hard to argue logic like that.)

Either way, my fellow diabetics, keep healthy, be careful. Whether or not you decide to get the H1N1 shot is for only you to choose. It’s a very personal choice so weigh your pros and cons carefully and don’t be too swayed by scare tactics and irrational propaganda. And remember: sneeze into your sleeve.

It’s the LAW now!

Mummy and Me

There’s nobody in the world quite like our mother. She cooks for us. Feeds us soup when we’re sick. Heals our wounds both physical and emotional. She worries about us uncontrollably and loves us unconditionally. She always has the answers.

I was never certain I wanted to be a mom. The idea of trying to raise children was daunting. .. frightening. And I was selfish in some ways and I knew it. I wanted a business or creative career. I wanted to travel to exotic places. I wanted to delve into my own personal projects. I wanted to pursue my own dreams.

And to my everlasting shame, I never ever wanted to experience labor.

I know I’ve mentioned my low (low) pain threshold.

I suppose the nuclear family life was always in the back of my mind filed under “eventually”. Husband, home, children (maybe 2?) and the dog (of course). Football games, piano lessons, PTA…

Maybe that’d be nice. Stability of family life. Scrapbooks of first steps and snowball fights. Braces and school dances.

The older I got the more that seemed like maybe… maybe I do want all that. Eventually. After I travel the world, build a satisfying business career, become a published writer, and spend a few years with my husband… of course.

Of course.

Things have changed again.

I have made the decision not to have children.

After being diagnosed with diabetes it has been something of a difficult question: Do we have a child or do we not accept that risk? A non diabetic woman’s body has the ability to turn itself inside out to accomplish this feat. Ours does as well but the risks are different.

It’s amazing. Little by little I began to learn what that could mean for me should I choose to go that route. I’m clearly no medical professional, and risks vary so much from person to person, but after looking at the possibilities … at what exactly could happen to myself or my baby, throwing in my own personal health history… and it just doesn’t seem like a possibility any longer.

I guess it’s a question of trust. I don’t trust my ability to keep a perfect sugar reading through pregnancy. And how could that hurt my child? How could I live with a guilt like that should something go wrong?
It’s astounding what you don’t want until you find out you can’t have it. It’s in our nature I think. To desire what is not ours to have.

Like me and egg sandwiches.

I’m so allergic to eggs.

It’s a very intimate, personal choice, this baby decision. Something each woman has to make for herself. And it’s not like there are no other options out there; surrogacy, adoption. Each with their own emotional results.

Have you ever been asked this question: “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”

I actually hate this question. Usually it’s in reference to a career path. (what is the right answer to that, by the way? I’ve never known quite what to say)

Well , where do you see yourself in 20 years? 40 years? 50 years?

I’ve always been hazy with these imaginings. I picture me and my husband , both with white hair, our faces are fuzzy but it does appear that I am at least 100 pounds overweight.

Apparently I’m going to be fat in my old age (fat and happy I hope!).

The other thing is that I always imagine that I have grown children… with children of there own. I have to actively remove them from my little picture. When I do it seems a little empty.

I have made peace with my decision.

The pitter patter of little feet will be from Oscar (my little dachshund). Or rather Oscar IV or V or something…

What happened to Compassion?

I used to make it a regular practice to buy at least one thing every time I went to the grocery store, that I would put into the food bank bin.

I would reason that someday, at some point in my life I will be in need of social services such as this. As a matter of duty I feel I should contribute now.

I am not naturally inclined to be charitable. When I say that I don’t mean to imply that I’m not generous or giving. I just mean it’s not in my nature. It’s something that I actively work at on a daily basis. In a lot of ways we live in a selfish world where each person must watch out for themselves first.

Dog eat dog.

I was out at a pub one night with some friends. The alcohol induced conversation drifted towards the state of the world. Lily, my friend who has single-handedly-decided-to-Save-The-World was getting heated about a food plight somewhere in Africa. She slammed her hand down on the table and demanded:

“Why don’t people care?”

To me the answer was clear as day:

“Lily, no one has time to care.”

I went on to explain how it’s taking up most of my energy trying to gain some control over my own illness and my own life to be able to contemplate the issues Africa is facing. My boyfriend at the time agreed and pointed out that if it wasn’t for the fact that I had diabetes, and that was something we dealt with everyday – then he wouldn’t have as much energy invested in it himself.

I’ve thought about that conversation a lot.

There are so many challenges we face in our lives. So many big, big things. So many health conditions, so many financial situations and family difficulties. Issues with lovers and stress over careers.

Big, big things.

Right now my challenge is diabetes. (Maybe it’s yours too?) Maybe it’s also my excuse.

The answer I gave to my friend was honest. But it was also shameful. We all have so much on our plates it’s hard to see beyond it.

That’s the problem.

On another day this friend of mine, Lily was lamenting on my condition. She was saying it was terrible that I’ve had to deal with all this. But maybe I could look at the good things it gave me.

I was doubtful but curious.

She said I would never have achieved such an understanding and compassion for the pain, illness, and discouragement of others any other way.

It’s a backwards gift.

But we all have it.

We all know how it feels to be afraid. To crave comfort. To feel misunderstood.

Or to feel pain. Exhaustion.

Can’t that be put to better use?

I can’t save Africa. But I can save some one.
I can listen to a friend who needs a shoulder.
I can put a can of food in the food bank.
I can smile at someone instead of frown.

I guess what I’m saying is that I can try.
I don’t want to be one of those people so consumed with their own problems they can’t see anything else. Heaven knows I’ve thrown myself enough pity-parties complete with full seasons of FRIENDS on DVD and pints of ice cream (sugar-free of course).

So no more pity-parties.
Well, less of them anyways.

The people around me have noticed a change. I don’t seem like a grouch anymore. I’m not always miserable. When you make an effort to help someone else who may be suffering – it makes your own a little less.

I promise you this.

Stress Is A Four Letter Word

How do you handle stress?

I eat lemon cake.

Or fried chicken.

My best friend doesn’t eat at all. She loses her appetite completely.

My co-worker pops pills.

I know others who need to take a walk to calm down.

My boss turns into super woman and goes into a frenzy to accomplish a thousand things all at once.

Well, I cut back on the cake and chicken. I had to when stress is a constant daily factor. The calories really start to add up…

I read once that stress is related to 99% of all illnesses. Actually I think it’s written on my Lululemon shopping bag. It makes sense to me though. It raises our blood sugars, doesn’t it? It affects those with heart conditions, causes stomach ulcers… who knows what other bad and scary things could be happening inside our bodies due to this intangible, mysterious thing.

It’s illusive. It means different things to different people. Some people thrive on it. School stress is my motivation and I love what I can accomplish with it. Daily stress is something else though, the little things that pile up and up and up until – well… what?

Panic attack?
Meltdown?
Anxiety disorder?
Depression?

If you have had one of those things you’ve probably had another. They all hold hands together. And I know the answers are unclear. I feel like I’m just an uncertain being asking other uncertain beings how to “catch smoke” by trying to manage my stress.

So we medicate.
Sedate.
Meditate.
Contemplate.
Then medicate some more…

I’ve been told that depression can be a by-product of high blood sugars. So when our sugars run away on us, our stress levels run away with us.

Then our stress levels keep our sugars high.

It’s a tricky-sticky situation to find yourself in. But maybe we can try to , I don’t know…

Motivate?

Try to turn what stress we can into positive energy that pushes to us to achieve. And the stress we can’t? There will always be the stress we can’t change.

But there’s help for that.

Help we can get so that this type of stress doesn’t change us.

Sick Days

For most of March I laid in bed. Counting down the days until my 24th birthday and watching the crack in my ceiling get longer…. And longer….

Rolling over in bed seemed hard.

Getting up to pee seemed like an extensive excursion.

Out of 20 days of work I missed 18 that month.

I had the flu.

And we all know what happens when we have the flu. Blood sugars sky rocket. Uncontrollably. Which in turn keeps us sick and makes it hard to recover.

Which keeps our blood sugars uncontrollably high.

And ‘round and ‘round we go…

I didn’t go to the doctor right away. I mean, who goes running to the doctor the minute they get a sniffle? No, we wait until we realize that it’s not getting better on it’s own. Right? Plus there was the added difficulty that I was so tired and sick and out of breath that making it down the hall to the bathroom was near impossible, never mind all the way to my doctor’s office.

But I wasn’t getting any better. So eventually I did go to the doctor. Because I had to.

My GP is very good. He was the one who initially realized I was diabetic. He’s intuitive. His administration girls are very nice. He always gives me what I need.

But I hate going there.

It’s the way he makes me feel when he comes into the “little” room. Like he is the parent and I am the naughty child. I have always done something wrong.

Very tall and intimidating, he looks down his nose and asks me how my blood sugars have been.

“Fine!” I squeak

He gives me the Eye.

“Good, in fact!” I lie.

He looks at me like he knows darn well I’m not being truthful but can’t very well sit there and argue with me. Not very doctorly.

If I had a tail, it would be between my legs.

On this particular visit I am once again in trouble. Apparently I should have come in right away instead of waiting two and a half weeks of illness to go to the doctor. He might as well be wagging a finger at me. I tried shamefaced to explain about not wanting to come in for every little cold… but that weak argument was silenced when he told me that the reason for this was because since I had waited so long I had now developed an infection (infections again!!) in my lungs.

Pneumonia!

I was floored. I mean, I’d know I was sick but pneumonia?! I had no idea I was that sick.

I left the doctor’s that day with 2 prescriptions and a lecture on pneumonia prevention.

Now whenever I sneeze or cough my family jokes about how I should call the doctor right away or I’ll be in trouble. (oh so funny. Everybody’s a comedian.)

Actually my throat is feeling a bit dry right now.

It might be strep.

Maybe I’d better leave a message for my doctor just in case…..

Hey, listen to me!

There are some ancient medical practices that in today’s scientific times seem ludicrous, dangerous, and in extreme cases: positively barbaric. I’ve watched movies that take place in an age when all illnesses were believed to be carried through the blood. Their natural thought pattern led them to then drain as much blood from the patient as possible in order to rid them of whatever their affliction was.

It makes me wonder how many of these poor people died of blood loss rather than whatever it was that made them sick in the first place.

Did you know they used to use mercury to treat wounds and other ailments (seriously!) or that heroine was often used to cure coughs (interestingly this actually works, of course you may die…). Lobotomies were used to “cure” depression and mental illness (nothing like another hole in the head…).

It seems laughable.

Doctors would never use such outdated ideas today. As medical research advances, I’d like to think that it filters down to us as patients. I’d like to think that our Doctors and nurses make changes to their regimes and policies as new and (hopefully) improved medical information becomes available.

Well, we all hope that, don’t we?

A few weeks ago I woke up with pain…. down there. An all too familiar type of pain. My heart plummeted into my stomach – I was so scared to look… I took a peek and – lightning split the sky, thunder roared in my ears, dogs began an unearthly howl, birds fell from the sky and none of that really happened but I would have taken any of those things in exchange for what was actually the case.

An abscess.

Again.

It was on the surface this time, and small as far abscess’ go. But painful enough to not allow me to sit up. And the bigger it grew; walking was becoming more and more tricky as well. I packed a little overnight bag: extra clothes, toothbrush, book, snacks. I knew the drill. Off to the hospital.

*Sigh* here we go again.

It was the same sort of thing as every other infection hospitalization I have had. Young attractive, male intern-doctor…and a horrible horrible embarrassing extremely vulnerable situation. Wow, ladies… if it’s the young hot doctor thing that does it for you… get yourself an infection. And then maybe a salon appointment on your way in. And smile a lot despite intense pain…. Hah… anyways…

Due to the area and sensitive nature of my “issue” as I will now refer to it as, I was moved up to the Woman’s Hospital … aka- Gyno. Nice and quiet there, nurses were actually to be commended. I had some I felt went out of their way to help me when I got upset. And I really appreciate the little things, like handwashing my pants when I stained them due to my wound and got very upset. Thank you for that.

I was inspected (OW. With inspecting abscess’ everything is ow.)
I was poked for blood often.
Given morphine. (pain was bad. Could not move easily)
Poked more.
Prodded a little
More blood taken.
Hooked up to pumps for dehydration and antibiotics to get RID of this stupid thing on me that is inconveniencing my life.
Inspected again (Ow.)

I basically had to wait this one out in the hopes that antibiotics would take care of it. I was under constant scrutiny because my sugars were all over the place – like I was doing this on purpose. Like I had sugar cubes hidden under the mattress or something. I had not anticipated a lengthy hospital stay and did not have my own insulin with me. At the mercy of the institution. At the mercy of despair.

This is where the story gets dicey.

They had put me on an insulin sliding scale. Sadly I did not understand exactly what that meant for me at the time. Basically if my blood sugars read between 0 and 8 I am not allowed any insulin, between 8 and 12 and they give me a set X amount, etc.

I bet you can already see how this is going to be a problem…. Can’t you?

At 2:00am, the middle of the night I woke up starving so I wheeled my pump down to the vending machines and bought a bag of Cheetos. I then took my Cheetos and wheeled my silly-beepy-pump to the nurse’s station to get some insulin so I could eat my Cheeto-goodness.

They asked what my sugar level was.

7.2 I said proudly.

Nope. Not allowed to have insulin.

….‘K-what?

Since I was in the 0-8 range I was not allowed insulin, I was informed. At first I didn’t think they understood. Yes, I was good now… but I wanted to eat Cheetos. Didn’t they get that I needed insulin to do that?

Nope not allowed, said the nurses. I could eat my Cheetos, then in an hour or so they would come check my sugars and give me insulin to bring it back down. So I was supposed to continually let my sugar get very high in order to get my insulin to bring it back down? I was told yes. I was told that was how they always do it.

Whaaaaaat…?

Is something wrong with this picture? Please, my fellow diabetics… write to me and tell me what you think of this.

Well at that time, even through my drug-induced haze, I was sure this lunacy must have been some kind of weird mistake. That seriously couldn’t be what they “always” do with diabetics… make them ill on purpose? It just didn’t make any sense. But I didn’t want to fight about it. I just wheeled my way back to my room and decided I just wouldn’t eat until I could get insulin and speak to somebody with sense.

I was very upset.

A little while later the overnight doctor came to see me, I guess having heard about my dispute with the nurses. She asked me what ‘my problem was’ (literally).

When I explained to her my issues with the Cheetos and the nonsensical sliding scale, I was again told that was how it was always done. I told her that was wrong. I told them that would make my sugars yo-yo, which was just wrong. I knew I needed to keep my sugars more stable, lower, if I ever expected my infection to heal.

The fight that ensued was neither professional nor practical. I had not intended to get into it with her… fighting with doctors never accomplishes anything, they mostly have the attitude that they are always right (even if they are not). But I did feel provoked and spurred on by my own internal self-righteousness. She was disrespectful and sarcastic, implying that I did not know how to carb-count (as if it was some impossible thing no one could do) and kept challenging me to carb-count things and demanding to know how much insulin I would take for different hospital foods. She kept saying “Prove it! Prove it!”

It was such an unnatural, strange experience. By the end I had to tell her to leave, repeatedly because I was so upset. Finally she did.

I did not eat.

I was enraged. I knew I’d been right in trying to administer preventative insulin, instead of only corrective. The next morning the doctor I’d been admitted under came to see me. I guess news of my fight had gotten around. After telling her my views and the basic play by play of what had happened, she told me I had been right – that she did not agree with the sliding scale and assured me she would speak to that gynecologist-doctor that had fought with me and the nurses from the night before.

It felt a bit better that someone had listened to me. That someone had taken my side.

The doctors and nurses within our healthcare system are generally caring, intelligent people. They’re here to help us and guide us. They do an amazing job.

But there comes a time when we need to take responsibility for ourselves, for our own bodies and healthcare. We carb-count everyday, we dial our own insulin, inject our own shots. And we are knowledgeable and capable. If something doesn’t feel or sound right to you, you have the right to ask and speak for yourself. After leaving the hospital I did my own research. What really was a sliding scale? Why were they using such a system that seemed so contradictory to what I’d been taught?

First I realized that there is more than one kind of sliding scale. Endos sometimes use them in patients individual night time long acting insulin regimes… the type I was more interested in was when they use them to treat diabetic patients in hospitals. The results I found were interesting and shed some light on my weird hospital stay.

It seems it is generally agreed amongst the endo-community that this is an old, outdated, and cringe worthy process. It is spoken of the “lazy” way to take care of a diabetic in hospital. It’s an “easy” way for the attending doctor to leave a simple guideline for nurses to administer insulin without the need for “complicated” checking, analysis, and calculating of proper insulin needs. It takes the need for the doctor out of the picture by leaving it up to the nurse. And it ups the risk for the patient by astronomical proportions – depending on their reason for hospitalization in the first place of course. It does not take into consideration what the patient is eating or when, what their condition is, or other insulin regimes. It’s dangerous, to put it bluntly. It is reactive rather then proactive. It is shameful that this is considered common practice where I was. And what is far worse, is the way my own insight into my own condition and my own body were so quickly tuned out and disregarded. Absolutely no one took half a moment to hear what I had to say… that is until my attending came to visit me the next morning.

My nurses didn’t know better and were trying, I think, to do the right thing. .. I don’t know who or what was responsible for this sliding scale nonsense but it needs to end – now. It scares me to think of extreme yo-yo blood sugars that are completely unnecessary in a place that is supposed to be safe for us. My abscess would never have healed if I’d let that situation continue.

My urgent advice is to learn from my mistake. Have your nurse’s, your doctor’s, your endocrinologist’s (especially), phone numbers, beeper numbers… have everything with you all the time. Because I was unprepared.

I won’t be again.

If they won’t listen to you, get them in touch with those who they will listen to. It’s your body, It’s your health. Don’t let anyone disregard what you have to say.

9. Are you lovin' it?

I don’t smoke.
I rarely have a drink.
I don’t really have any substance abuse problems at all.

Except maybe one….. Mcdonalds.

It’s awful isn’t it? Makes your stomach churn? I know. I find that people have a love/hate relationship with this fast-food chain. You love it, or you hate it. Am I right?

I love it.

And I hate it.

I eat McDonalds often (far more often than I should), and no matter what I order it’s so awesome when I am stuffing my face with the glorious greasiness, and then the worst thing ever the literal second I am finished. Oh my stomach hates it. And yet I still go back… time after time. I can’t stop myself…

I have a thing for McDonald’s breakfast (and I know I’m not the only one…).

Carb-tastic.

I order the Bacon + Egg bagel-with-no-egg. I swear I feel like an absolute moron every time I order it, but hey, they always know what I mean. What can I say, I am allergic to eggs (I had a friend who recently converted to vegetarian-ism and now orders cheeseburgers with no meat… I thought it was so funny until I learned that McDonalds actually has a button for that on their cash register! Crazy.) I also find that the more you go, the more you want it.

It is so addictive.

It was a blow when I had to take the “egg” part of it out. Just awful. I watch other people eating eggs around me and it actually makes me mad sometimes. It was such a perfect no-carb food. In the beginning I was so upset about it that I refused to stop eating them ( oh me and my Denial…) was that ever not worth it. I get so sick. But we are all sort of in the same boat, aren’t we? Do you eat sugar-full ice cream? If you don’t… does it sometimes make you mad that you feel like you can’t? Well, maybe ice-cream isn’t your thing… but everyone must have a vice of some kind. It’s true that it’s not really fair.

That’s the thing about fast-food. It’s fast. I work full time, I have class all night two nights a week, I have a study partner another night and tons and tons of homework. And family, and friends and my own projects, and my dog. That’s only my normal-person stuff. I also have to check sugars what feels like every five seconds and calculate insulin and inject and carb count and sheesh! Who has time for it all? And on top of it we are supposed to cook well and eat well and exercise. It can get to be too much….

Who could resist a drive through when you’re rushed and starving and don’t have the ability to cook healthy meals for the next couple of days after school at 10pm? The yellow arch all glowing and omnipresent sure starts to look good.

For some reason I can never seem to get the insulin-to-gross-McDonalds-food ratio quite right. I guess that’s my biggest problem with it right now. That, and that I need to just eat less of it in general. I have accepted that McDonalds will probably always be my “problem”, but that if I cut back, it may be less detrimental. It’s not that I don’t like healthy foods, because I do. In fact I eat better than most people I know. I just like UNhealthy foods much better.

I’m still lovin’ it….

8. He's just not that into...Diabetes.

I’ve recently been through a difficult breakup. During our two and a half years together, through ups and downs… one common factor has always been my, often poor, health.

Unfortunately chronic illness takes it’s toll not only on the ones afflicted, but of course everyone surrounding them, including and predominantly significantly others. The ones we love most.

It can be such a difficult decision to be with someone at all. We bring baggage into a relationship automatically. We suffer … and our lovers suffer with us. We have depression and our mates are at a loss as to how to comfort us. It is not an easy life we offer them.

And so the ones we love… do we hold on to them, build lives with them, and a “forever”? It’s been a constant debate in my mind. When you love someone you naturally want what is best for them. Maybe being with some one sick is not the best life we can offer them. Maybe it isn’t fair to them.

But maybe being sick isn’t fair to us.

And you know I don’t necessarily mean physically sick. My mental health has occasionally been shaky. Depression can be incapacitating. Anxiety limits you.

Are we limiting ourselves with these things?

Dating is hard. Love takes work. Throw illness and the insecurities it brings into the mix and maybe it’s impossible. Your significant other has a tall order to fill.

Not only to potentially have to take care of our physical need should something go wrong, but they need to be a support system in every other way as well. They need to truly understand illness. If someone has never had an affliction, never had an immediate family member with one, that is tough to do.

Among other things, try as we might, my relationship could not withstand this test. But I’m hopeful. I have the potential to live and love and build a life. I have a fantastic life to offer.

I don’t want to date because I’m scared of bringing someone knew into my chaos.

I don’t want to be alone and single.

Unfortunately there is no third option.

Is there?

Well there IS Oscar. My dachshund puppy. My little man. He listens to me. He cuddles with me. He will go for walks and adventures with me and share my popcorn. That’s almost as good. Right?
…..
…..right?

7. Hospitals

How many of us have not had a hospital stay? Those of you who haven't, have at least been to a hospital... in this age of sickness and ill health.... who hasn't?

They have a smell. Don't they? And it's always the same. It smells like sick. And a little institutional. Like palpable despair. Sadness so thick you could cut through it with a knife. Sick institutional despair.

Pleasant.

What folks don't know about are the funny smells that attack when you live in the hospital for a week. Or two. When you have hospital visits every few months (almost like clockwork). And you sleep there. And you eat there. And you attempt to wash there. The pumps... the beeping... the needle pricks... the noise.

There is the washrooms with a shower head, that have no discernable shower, just a drain in floor. It helps when you have a pump and hose attached to your arm (or two... as I have had the pleasure of dealing with) and have to pull some Circe-de-Soleil-ish moves to get yourself in there without ripping your arm(s) open. But it also has the audacity to make you feel like your in prison. Not that I have been to prison per se. Just from what I see on HBO the shower rooms are not really rooms at all but just large open areas with the said drains in the floor. They have this standardized pump soap that is soap/shampoo/conditioner-and-antibacterial all in one. Very convenient! It has a nice flowery smell actually.

The problem is that flowery smell can attack you out of nowhere when you least expect it. Long after you have left the Sick Institutional Despair, on a nice summer day outside you can be walking your dog, happy as a clam (where did that expression come from anyway? Do you think clams are happy? That they lead happy-little-contented lives? With those irritating grains of sand that bother them and make them create beautiful precious pearls for us?) when BAM your neighbor has planted the wrong flowers in their garden and the smell suddenly brings back raging memories of Sick Institutional Despair and the day is not beautiful anymore. Now your thinking of prison showers, being poked with needles, and disturbing blue gowns that show your bum when you stand up.

If you ask anyone about hospitals, the first thing they think of is the Food. Hospital Food is an entity in itself. I actually don't mind the Food myself. It's the most exciting part of the hospital day! 3 meals in bed. What could be better? Brought on a tray, as much coffee as you like. And they always gave me pudding. Not too shabby.

Even despite the fantastic culinary delights, the hospital is still not a great experience. In fact I couldn't think of a single decent memory of the hospital until last week. It was always a horrible place, but I am still surprised that I overlooked this one thing....

My best friend had her baby. A beautiful tiny girl. All pink and perfect. And when I went to visit her in the hospital I walked in and smelled that familiar Sick Institutional Despair, but it didn't effect me the same. I was just so happy! And it made me think that maybe this place isn't really meant to be the awful prison it seems. The health care workers are there to help us, to return us from sickness to health and to deliver to us new lives.

What could be more encouraging than that?

6. My Story

I suppose it's time to tell my story, the one that led me to this place, to this part of my life. It occurred to me recently that no one really knows how it all happened... How this chaos factor entered my existence....

19 years old and in my very own first apartment. The first space that was all my own! It was thrilling. It was exhilarating.... it really wasn't that great of a place. It was a large bachelor apartment in a rundown brick building. My specific unit was relatively well kept and clean, but the building itself was... less than ideal. Horrific yelling in the halls was common and occasionally a drunk that hadn't quite made it into his apartment was found lying outside it asleep. There was no buzzer, no security. But it was mine! For the first time in my life I was doing it on my own. That more then made up for the less than stellar conditions. I wore my rose colored glasses and just thought... no, knew everything was going to be fine. Great, even.

The difficulty is that I cannot cook. I don't want to cook.... I do not enjoy cooking. So after 19 years of beautiful, tasty and cleverly disguised healthy cooking from my mother.... I began a diet of Kraft Dinner, instant-anything, and McDonalds (which was a decent hike down the road... and therefore my excuse for eating it: the "healthy" walk on the way to and from). Yum. The pounds slowly crept up and up and up. I also began working in a breakfast restaurant mistakenly believing that the running around all day would somehow counteract the greasy food I would eat there. I knew my body was young and resilient and could withstand this moderate abuse. I mean... I didn't smoke.... I didn't do drugs... I didn't even drink very often. And I reasoned with myself that I did see vegetables... in my burgers or in the teeny side salads I would get with my tuna melt after work.

It's funny that I didn't see what was happening before I could stop it.

Suddenly I was sick all the time. I always had the flu. I always had a head cold or some weird illness that made me miss work. I figured my immune system was dragging a bit. I started taking one-a-day vitamins.

I still ate fried chicken and Taco Bell (my all time favorite) all the time. I was taking vitamins now! I had my health covered (right?).

I do admit that I found the weight gain frustrating (what young woman wouldn't?) but even that was no deterrent for my lifestyle. Then it was like I got hit by a bus: I contracted Mono. What a doozy! It is nothing like being sick with the flu! My neck swelled in weird places and I couldn't eat anything for weeks at a time except Ginger ale and freezies (I recommend those if you are ever in a similar position... It was the only thing I could keep down!). I waited it out... bed ridden and miserable.

My clearest conclusion of that time is that I had weakened my immune system enough with the lack of nutrients that my body just couldn't stand up well to being sick anymore.

Gradually I recovered from my sick-induced haze. I will spare you anymore details, but in short: I got better. It was so startling and thrilling to be able to just choke down a sandwich again! Yesssss!

It was on the road to recovery that it happened: lightning struck.

I was sick again! But why? It was so strange. I was weak and confused. I couldn't stop drinking water. I would finish a liter and fill up the bottle again, drink it and immediately fill it and drink it all again. It scared me. Other people who knew no better were encouraging me that being able to drink lots of water was a good thing. I tried to believe them but it just did not seem natural. Drinking and peeing was all I could do. And I was ravenously hungry. I ate enough for three sumo-wrestlers every meal (or so it felt like at the time). Food food food water water water. And instead of gaining more weight... I was losing weight. It just dropped off. That part seemed too good to be true! (I bet this stuff is starting to sound oh-so-familiar... isn't it?) But I couldn't gain strength... and was struggling for breath all the time... panting like a dog. I was getting frightened... But I didn't know the signs. I had never heard of the signs of diabetes before. How could I know?

It all grew to a climax when I woke up one morning and did not have the strength and energy to roll over in my bed. I felt chained to the one spot... I knew then that I was really sick. Something was so very wrong. I reached for my phone and called my dad. I was whisked to my family doctor.... He seemed to poke and prod at my tummy for a bit. Then he uttered the words I don't think I will ever forget: “You are much sicker than you think you are"

I was rushed to emergency. Slapped into a wheel chair... tags on my wrists... the nurses were checking my blood sugar for the first time... that was an interesting experience...especially since I had no idea what they were doing... Yelling numbers to each other that meant nothing to me 17.9???? What??? Nobody seemed to have the ability to slow down enough to explain anything.

You would think all of this would be enough to concern me. But it didn't. I was just tired. I slept through the emergency room. Every half an hour or so they would come in, wake me up and take more blood. And more blood. And more blood. I wasn't scared anymore. Just annoyed as heck. Why wouldn't they just let me sleep? I was in a training hospital. So every so often people I thought were doctors would come in and tell me "looks like diabetes." and then someone else would come "well no we don't know it's diabetes." the constant back and forth information was making my head swim. I mean, they had taken like half the blood in my body to test.... shouldn't they know by now?

After a day or two in hospital (my memories of the time passing were hazy at best. I slept most of the time) the diagnosis was certain. Type 1 diabetes. My "team" (as you always have a “team” in a training hospital) didn't quite know what to do with me. I was 20 years old. None of these young doctors had heard of type 1 popping up in someone so old... they led me to believe that this was rare to the point of "unheard of". I sat in my bed glaring at them all thinking to myself "what a way to use up my "one in a million chances" of something. Couldn't have been 649? Oh no:.... diabetes...." Ha.

The experiences from that first week long hospital visit that stick out the most, first of all was that they never seemed to have time to speak to me during the day. It was always 3 in the morning or some such nonsense when some super-good-looking young doctor would come in wake me out of my groggy slumber and ask me a questionnaire. The questions were always the same, the doctor was always young and attractive, and they never failed to ask me (while I was sleepy and embarrassed as it was) about not only what I considered to be pertinent information such as my family history of diabetes (there is none. I am the first in all immediate AND extended... which is why I refer to it as lightning), but also about things like sexual history. Sexual history... like seriously... what?? I can vaguely remember sitting there thinking: is this a joke? A stupid joke? Or am I deluded? Diabetes is not a sexually transmitted disease... IS IT? Keep in mind I was always barely awake during these sessions.

The second experience that sticks out is the "diabetes education" that I received during this week long life-altering ordeal. I had a nurse I had to go visit and a dietician. My dietician was very informative and attempted to be helpful. My nurse was difficult and I remember feeling like an ignorant idiot most of my time there. I remember those sessions being the only time I wanted to cry. I did learn the basics, like needles and simple insulin information. But I also found out later about some gross misinformation that was given to me there, and some important things that were not included... I learned about keytones of course. But the significance of them was lost on me. Nobody explained until a year or so into my condition that, um yes high enough blood sugars can be just as fatal as low blood sugars at a given time. That was terrifying. And even more so was the realization that I had not known this for a year.

*Just a side note here, I feel very strongly that a government directed standard diabetes education curriculum is absolutely and 100% NEEDED for new diabetics of any age, type 1 or 2. Rather than relying on the resources and discretion of each individual institution. And if I have missed my mark, and there already is such a thing... it needs to be strictly enforced, since according to my own little un-scientific research... this doesn't really exist for the adult age group.

Learning to give myself insulin was tricky. Sticking yourself with a needle just doesn’t feel natural does it? They taught me to inject the syringe into my belly into the skin around my belly button. I remember thinking that the teeny little syringe felt light and very breakable in my clumsy hand. And it took a looong time holding that stupid thing before I could work up the nerve to actually do it. My friend was sitting there waiting for me to do it. It took her finally getting exasperated and spitting out “Just do it already!” before I gulped down a lungful of air (as if it would be my last) and plunged the tiny needle into my stomach. I laughed. I didn’t even feel it! Though it still took me like, half an hour to work up the nerve to do it every single time in my first couple of weeks. My friend was encouraging. She said something to me that day in the hospital that I will always remember: “You just do what you gotta do. You just do it.” (Ha, that sounds like a Nike ad, doesn’t it? Well it’s still true.)

During that week I learned that, while they cannot prove it conclusively, they strongly believe that it was my Mono that triggered my body to attack my pancreas wrongly... causing my diabetes. Apparently it is common (I use the word "common" extremely loosely here) for a virus to trigger this condition. Not everyone knows about this possibility. That is a little scary to me. Because when I trace it back in my head I wonder had the McDonalds, the instant food, the Kraft Dinner... the malnutrition... if I had taken care of myself then... would I have contracted Mono as a result of a poor immune system? And if not, would lightning have struck?