I'm taking a brief break from my diabetes tale of woe to focus on something else. Don't you hate when you get a call from your doctor's nurse regarding your recent blood tests and all she says is, "The doctor wants to see you about your blood tests. There are some. . .abnormalities."

What do you say to that? "Give me more information, please." "Am I dying?" "Does the doctor want to see me right away because if I don't come NOW, there's no chance she'll collect her fee from my estate?"

I'm scared. What now?? I've had problems with low hemoglobin results in the past, but I figured all that was behind me. I took iron pills for a while, my count went up, and I'd had no further poor results. When I tried giving blood earlier this week, they said I had iron-poor blood and refused me. Pass the Geritol!

Seriously, my doctor had me take CBC in addition to the hemoglobin test, and I'm concerned those tests showed up something BAD. I wasn't able to get an appointment to see my doctor until Friday, two days away. I can and will worry about my health until I hear what my doctor has to say, hoping the news won't be TERRIBLE. Then again, if it was that bad, wouldn't she just have ordered me to the hospital in an ambulance? Probably.

I hurt so much today. In addition to the regular cacophony of pain, I'm getting a dull ache in my left butt cheek. I'm sure it's just a variation of the usual sciatica, but I'm so tired of being in pain all the time! Between diabetic neuropathy in my feet and legs, the pinched nerve in my neck that causes pain to radiate down my shoulder and into my elbow and hand, and the regular screaming agony in my lower back, I just want to have my brain transplanted into a new, young, healthy body.

I sure hope there is an afterlife, and when I die, my body will float up to heaven and every ache and pain I feel now will be totally gone. To me, that would truly be nirvana! Oh, and of course, I want to see my beloved pets on Rainbow Bridge, greeting the new, pain-free me, barking and meowing joyously as they jump into my arms for a reunion.

To be pain-free. . .wow, what a concept. I'm 52 and feel like I'm 30 years older. It sucks and blows!

By the way, "sucks and blows," one of my favorite expressions, has an interesting birthing explanation. It's become a huge part of my lexicon. A few years ago, following a flood in the basement caused by hubby and me trying to perform some do-it-yourself plumbing, we were looking for a wet-dry vacuum. I figured it would be good to have one that might be also used for exhaling as well as inhaling things. "I want one that sucks and blows," I said. Brad, who was about 11 or 12 at the time, burst into laughter, Dan and I followed suit. It sounded dirty, and funny, so we adopted it. Brad got into the habit of saying, "This sucks and blows," when he wanted to express unhappiness about something. I did the same, and continue to use it freely, gleefully, and always with a string of giggles at the end.

I'm hoping whatever is wrong with me can be solved by another pill. I already take 15 per day, including vitamins and an aspirin. What's one more?

Later!

My son and I were both dealing with being diabetic, and it sucked. He had to take shots while I had to take pills, and he was jealous of that.

Since I was the one diagnosed first, I assumed he had inherited it from me, but I learned that he had more likely inherited it from my husband's side of the family, where an uncle and cousin both had insulin dependent diabetes. I read an article that suggested that BRAD gave ME my diabetes while in utero. I guess it doesn't matter where it came from; there is no cure for diabetes as of now, and while I pray one is found, at least for insulin dependent diabetes, I'm not counting on it. As a realist and cynic, I think of all the money that will be lost to the companies that produce diabetes medication, insulin, syringes, and now insulin pumps, and believe those who profit will not allow a cure to be shared even if one is found.

It took a long time before Brad's sugars were in fairly decent control, and I give credit for that to Dr. Balachandar, Brad's pediatrician-endocrinologist. The pancreas, which houses the eyelets of Langerhans, insulin-producing cells, is attacked by the body's own defenses, causing diabetes. The pancreas is an endocrine gland, so specialists in that area are endo docs. Dr. Bala, who saw Brad several times a year, had me change his insulin dosages as my son grew. Even though I never would have believed I'd see it happen, Brad DID become accustomed to blood tests and shots. They became woven, seamlessly, into his daily life, as did proper eating and monitoring of his exercise. After the horrific low blood sugar reaction that sent him to the hospital eight months after diagnosis (which had been caused by a triad of too much insulin, not enough food and too much exercise), I made up my mind that would never happen again. It hasn't. Low blood sugars are common in diabetics, but as the years have gone by, Brad has been able to pay attention to the symptoms and deal with them before they become severe.

Our lives changed in a thousand little ways.

Letting him go to birthday parties and sleepovers was very difficult for me. What if he had a low blood sugar reaction while asleep? What if he ate something he shouldn't? He wasn't able to eat cake or ice cream, and it made him feel like an oddball. When he started school, I was on a first name basis with the nurses in elementary, middle and high school. I wanted to go everywhere with him, protect him, cocoon him. Brad, however, was fiercely independent in some ways, and secret calls to teachers and/or nurses were not appreciated. He knew how worried I was, but he didn't want me coddling him. Weirdly, he was in his teens before he agreed to take over giving himself his own blood tests and shots. Even then, I was on top of every result, coaching and advising him.

Brad played Little League baseball and became an excellent pitcher. He went to day camp (Maplewood, in Wantagh, where I was also both camper and counselor). He went from counselor in training at age 13 to group leader, and now, age 22, is considering another contract with them. He completely owns his diabetes now, especially since age 18, when he was put on an insulin pump that only HE knows how to operate!

(to be continued)

Shortly after I was diagnosed diabetic and made it my business to lose 30 pounds, bringing my blood sugar under control as a bonus (or was it the other way around?), my four year old son was diagnosed with the "bad" kind of diabetes, requiring blood tests and shots for the rest of his life. This threw our happy little family into an uproar of depression, anger and misery.

Since such tragedies rarely happen in the midst of calm, at the same time, we had decided to move from our home in Levittown to a house in Massapequa Park. I wanted my son, who by then had already shown signs of brilliance, would learn in a better school district than his mother had.

We moved in January, just weeks after Brad's release from the hospital. My father in law, Sidney, a fantastic man, came out to help us, leaving his wife behind in San Diego. In between bringing our electrical outlets up to code and hanging medicine cabinets, Sidney helped me administer blood tests and shots to a screaming, kicking, protesting Brad. My son had figured the horrors in the hospital would end once we'd left there, so realizing we'd brought home those sharp lancets and insulin syringes and would CONTINUE to hurt him went over very poorly. Sidney had tears in his eyes as he helped me wrestle Brad to the ground to do what had to be done, and it was clear that seeing his only grandchild suffering in this manner was completely unacceptable to him. It was to all of us--but there was nothing we could do. It was, simply, insulin shots or death.

My own diabetes was forgotten, although I was able to utilize a similar diet with Brad. We all became slaves to his needs, his schedule, his food. I began to eat recklessly and gain back the pounds I'd worked so hard to lose. I was like a horse wearing blinders; nothing mattered but bringing Brad under control. Eight months after diagnosis, he was rushed to the hospital after going into convulsions from plummeting blood sugar. I began eating poorly because I was depressed, unable to believe what was happening to my only child.

One day, Vinny, a co-worker from the post office, brought in a blood testing monitor his doctor had ordered him to get to keep track of his newly-diagnosed Type II diabetes. Since it was exactly the same as Brad's, Vinny asked me to show him how to use it. I used it to test myself for the first time in many months, and to my horror, 251 came up in the monitor's window. Normal blood sugars are between 90-110, never rising over 180. Vinny blinked at my result. He picked up his phone and handed it to me. "Call your doctor--NOW!" he roared. I tried to make an excuse, but Vinny held up the phone as if it were a weapon he was going to use to knock some sense into me.

I called my doctor, who, hearing the latest news, sternly ordered me get blood tests immediately. When the results came in, he called me at work and insisted I come to his office that very moment--and no, it wasn't OK if I came after work!

He sat me down and told me my H1C, a test that evaluates blood sugars over a three-month period, showed a result of 10.5 Since normal back then was 7.5 (it's come down even more since), he said diet would no longer work for me, and put me on my first diabetes pill--glipizide. He ordered me to see a nutritionist, follow up, exercise, blah blah blah. "My son was just diagnosed diabetic!" I shouted, beginning to cry. "I have to take care of him now, don't you understand that? I don't have time to do all this!"

"Well," he said softly, "just think--if you don't take care of yourself and die of diabetes, who is going to take care of your son then?"

He was right, of course. But the prospect of taking care of TWO diabetics was overwhelming. How the hell was I going to do it? Where would I get the strength?

(to be continued)

I was 34 when my doctor said, "You have Type II diabetes." At first, that diagnosis didn't mean much to me. He told me the first step was to alter my diet. That meant I had to begin eating heathily, something I had NEVER done. I was thin as a teenager and no matter what I ate, everyone was always urging, "Eat more, you're too thin!" So I gobbled down everything I liked, and what I most liked was candy, cookies, ice cream sundaes and cake. I ate all the wrong foods and didn't gain an ounce. It helped, I'm sure, that my friends and I rode our bikes everywhere we wanted to go, often miles at a clip. I'm sure that helped me maintain a slim, sleek, stunning figure.

At age 15, while helping my mother carry a TV console down the stairs, I felt agonizing pain ripping through my back. I saw a doctor, took painkiller and it subsided enough for me to go on with my life. It twinged now and then, but, having no choice, I learned to live with it.

I was skinny, too skinny, according to some.

Ah, how things change! Like all teenagers, I wanted to be able to drive, although I was less enthused at te prospect than most of my friends. I had a terrible time in Driver's Ed, to be described in another blog entry some other time.

Despite the tough ride, I proudly won my license on my first try, two months before my 18th birthday. For my graduation from high school, my father bought me a 1972 Chevy Nova. I was thrilled to have my own wheels, of course, but that blasted machine was a piece of crap that spent most of its time in the local garage, being fixed for dozens of shortcomings (mostly in manufacture, I suspect).

Once I began to drive and my bike was garaged, I began putting on weight. Slowly, stealthily, it crept onto my hips, waist, thighs. I wasn't doing much in the way of exercise anymore, but since I'd looked, in the words of my mother's boyfriend, like "a hank of hair and a shank of bone," the excess weight actually made me appear more voluptuous, rather than porky.

But Porktown was awaiting me, I assure you!

I attended Nassau Community, a junior college, for two years after graduating high school. I lived at home and gained more weight. By the time I was 19, I still looked slimmish, but definitely not the starving waif I'd once appeared. At 19, I slipped a disc in my lower back, leaving me paralyzed from the waist down. (Yes, I am luckless, thanks for noticing!) That cut short my spring semester at Nassau, sent me to the hospital, in traction, for two weeks, and turned my life into a hellish nightmare of pain, painkillers and an anxious mother hovering over me.

You get the gist; I went from active bicyclist to sedentary driver, pain-ridden back sufferer, and lazy student extraordinaire.

Cut to 1987. Brad, the only fruit of my loins and a thoroughly delightful child, was three. My doctor told me I had Type II diabetes, to go on a diet, and to start walking as many miles a day as I could rend out of my feet. I followed the diet strictly, and began taking longer and longer strolls every day. Walking, especially listening to my favorite music, inspired me and sent joyous endorphins coursing through my system.

I lost 35 pounds and was the subject of both adoration and envy by all who knew me. They applauded my willpower as much as my newly-slimmed down body. I was proud of myself, too. My blood sugars returned to normal levels. My doctor, pleased, advised me to continue my healthier lifestyle.

In January, 1988, my son Brad, then four, was diagnosed with Type I diabetes. That's the insulin-shot-and-frequent-blood-test kind, and it threw our lives into nightmare. Hospitalized, for a week, Brad hated being stuck with lancets and needles, and was even more distraught to learn it would be happening to him at home. . .and forever. He cried, we cried, and my own diabetes faded into the background of our lives, not to be noticed for a long, long time.

(to be continued)

I work for the US Postal Service, in a large mail processing facility. Every three months, the local blood bank comes here to bleed us. We used to get a full day off for giving blood, the USPS's way of thanking us for our contribution. Then they cut it down to merely four hours for giving up my ruby red pint.

These days, the only time we get off is whatever time it takes us to actually give blood. They bleed us on the clock, but when you are through with the preliminary paperwork, blood tests, blood pressure and temperature check, followed by the actual lying down to give your pint, then gobbling up Oreo cookies and juice or water as your reward, you're expected to return to your job. Depending on how busy they are, this might take anywhere between one hour and two. Then you return to your work station.

I give blood whenever I can. My satisfaction comes from knowing I'm helping someone. I'm proud my blood type is B+. Only 10% of the world's population has that blood type. I'm also left handed, another minority club. I like being different, marching to the beat of a different guitar, my preferred instrument over drums.

I'm digressing. Sorry. Tangents are part of my nature.

I filled out the paperwork, which asks lots of personal questions about your sex life. You had better not have had sex with anyone who had AIDS or used dirty needles or consorted with a prostitute. They want GOOD, PURE blood, you see, nothing infected with AIDS or loaded with some disgusting disease from Africa (you can't even donate if you've been there, and there are lots of other unacceptable places on their not-allowed-to-donate list).

A nice guy from the blood group tested my blood pressure, took my pulse and temperature, chatted me up very pleasantly. I felt excited about giving blood, downright proud.

The guy shook his head. "You can't give today," he said. "Your hemoglobin isn't high enough. We need 12.5, and yours is only 10.5." I was crushed, so disappointed, I wanted to cry. "Test it again," I suggested, holding out my other hand. "Maybe this side of my body will have higher hemoglobin." He complied, but the machine's stupid window still showed hemoglobin too low to allow me to donate.

He bandaged my bleeding fingers, thanked me, and sent me on my way. I felt really tired. I had hoped to perhaps take a nap while they were getting their pint out of me, but noooooo!

I heard the USPS was having a raffle for those who donated, with a DVD player and a flat screen TV as the top prizes. I sure would love to have that TV. I wonder--did they put my name into the raffle? I'm really disappointed I wasn't able to give blood, but winning a nice prize sure would salve my hurt.

Next time, I'm going to talk about diabetes. It plays a huge role in my life. Diabetes sucks. And blows. But that's one for tomorrow.

Friday! Two days off! Hurray!