Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Sister/Sister, part 1

When I was diagnosed I vividly remember the pit in my stomach. The feeling that lived there for days. Diabetes. The word just hung in the air. Needles. Blood. Shots. Sugar. Food. Pit. The pit was that sinking feeling you get sometimes, only it remained for some time. I felt as though I were on auto pilot after my diagnosis. Wake up, prick finger, inject, be force fed breakfast, school, snack, school, lunch, school, snack, prick finger, inject, and bed. For awhile my crazy red headed mother would scare the crap out of me and prick my finger at 2am, something I never got used to. My parents were very matter of fact, very confidant, and never shed a tear or acted upset or stressed in front of their 4th grader who had just been dealt a blow of a lifetime. Yet in all this, in these memories following those first few weeks after my diagnosis....I don’t seem to ever remember where my little sister, Emily, was. 5 years my junior, a spark plug sassy pants of a sister, I assure you she was there, BUT WHERE WAS SHE? It’s often made me wonder what it was like for her, being almost 5 years old, and seeing your older sibling come home and having to give herself shots. Seeing your parents dote on her and make special food, what must’ve been going on in her little brain?

Ask our parents and they will surely tell you: if they had birthed my sister first, she would have been an only child. She was the naked baby, running through the house, sticking her fingers in sockets and jumping off of furniture. While I was the one you could set down anywhere, and I would quietly read a book. Emily was the wild child, and I was the book worm that observed everything. Being 5 years apart we had nothing in common. I was blonde haired and blue eyed, Emily dark complected, with big brown eyes and brown hair. As little girls, we might as well have been from different planets.

I used her when I needed to. I remember needing her blood to trick my glucose meter for my appointments with Dr Ponder. She happily complied. I would teach her how to give me insulin shots if I came home too drunk to do it myself. If I threw a big party when our parents left town, I had her serve beers and light cigarettes, making her swear her allegiance and buying her silence with cash and promises of rides to the mall. And then later on she used me. She would come stay with me when I was in college. Where there were no rules or parents or curfews. And this is when our personalities and bond began to grow.

To see us today, you can still see our physical differences. But to hear us, not even my children or our parents can tell us apart. Our mannerisms, humor, gestures and sarcasm are spot on and identical. Even our handwriting is eerily the same. We have worked side by side at diabetes camp, and Emily has cupped her hand over my swollen pregnant belly for entire seasons of Frasier, feeling her nephews move and kick and be assholes inside of me. She was the first one there to hold my sons, besides their father. And to this day, she’s one of only 3 people that can simply look in my direction and say “BRUH! YOURE LOW!”, and bring me a juice box or glucose tabs. She knows to set down the goods and back away, because touching me during a low is a sure fire way to get bit, hit or yelled at.

My sister also sends me snap chats of test strips I leave in her house or driveway. She loaded her car up with $1,000s of dollars worth of diabetes supplies and came running during Hurricane Harvey. She helped me train Diabetes Alert Dogs and puppy raise. It can’t be easy to be the sibling of a type 1, and they get very little recognition, as they are pushed aside and often forgotten. And we’ve absolutely had our differences through the years, called names, thrown things and had a fist fight or two, but she’s handled being a sibling of a type 1 with grace and might. Thank you, Sissy.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Dr Meanie Pants & the sick girl

Being a teenager is hard. Being a teenager with a life long chronic illness is even harder. I was diagnosed at age 9, and was pretty much on auto pilot with my disease management for several years. My parents were always supportive and helpful, taking me to my Endo appointments and making sure my teachers always knew that I was "special" haha. They never let me feel sorry for myself, and were always so matter of fact about my disease, so I mirrored that attitude. I needed no ones pity or to be constantly promised that a cure was "just 5 years away".

Enter the tumultuous teenage years. Puberty, hormones and everything had to have a drama level of at least epic proportions. I began to blossom socially, and loved running around with my friends...and pretending I wasn't chronically ill. I placed my type 1 on the burner at the back of the very back one. I wouldn't test, I'd miss insulin injections and I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, without making adjustments to my regimen. I was always tired, had headaches and dealt with random infections as a result. My mom was frustrated and sad that I was ignoring my health. She would demand to see my meter once a week, and we would fight constantly. At the time I had no idea how much the yo yo that was my blood sugar was affecting my mood.

Every 3 months, like clockwork, we would travel to Temple or Round Rock, TX from our home in Lakeway, to visit Dr. Stephen Ponder. Yes. The Buddha of Sugar Surfing, the Sultan of Sugar, the Deputy of Diabetesville, Ghandi of Glucose and the Colossus of Camp. Dr Ponder and I never saw eye to eye. I was a teen that knew it all and didn't need some adult telling me how things should be in MY life. I dreaded my appointments, because I knew I would be called out for how irresponsible and wreckless I was acting when it came to my diabetes.

Being a woman, and a teenager, I was proficient in the art of deception and talking my way out of things. I would look my parents straight in the eye and tell them I had been checking my sugars, that I was taking my injections, knowing good and well I was not telling the truth. A day or two before my appointments with Dr Ponder I would sit down with my One Touch meter and change the date and time to reflect the last two weeks of data. I would mix my own blood with the alcohol of a wipe, or with control solution, or even recruit my younger sister or friends to offer up a finger poke. When I was finished, I had a work of art: a completed digital log book that my endo's office could now download and review at my visit. The first time I brought in this BS record keeping I got a rush of adrenaline as I watched the nurse connect my meter to the computer, and my heart raced as I heard the results being printed on the printer. When Dr Ponder reviewed the results, he literally sat there scratching his head. Those 4-6 meter readings per day did NOT reflect the average glucose estimated by my HbA1c. He asked if I ever used control solution with my meter, had I allowed it to get too hot or too cold, how old was it and then asked my mother if there was a family history of any hemoglobin or other blood disorders (there wasn't). I left that appointment with instructions to increase my long acting (Humulin Ultralente) at bed time, and to set my alarm to intermittently check middle of the night blood sugars. SUCCESS! I had fooled the Dr and his staff. Or so I thought.....

At my next visit I strolled in there thinking I was hot stuff. No adrenaline rush, no heart racing, just the confidence that this visit would go as my last one had, and that I would sit there and say yes sir, no sir and I don't know sir, shrug my shoulders and leave. Dr Ponder had a different plan. Little known to me, I was not the first, nor was I the last, patient that had fudged their records. He walked in, sat down and this time looked at me over his glasses and asked how many times per day I was checking my blood sugar: I shrugged and said I'm not sure, maybe 4 times a day or more? He paused and gave me a "mmmmm hmmmmmmm". He then excused himself and said he would return momentarily. He walked back into the exam room with several resident pediatric physicians behind him. He introduced them to my Mother and I. Then he reached out and grabbed my hand, closely studying each finger and my forearms. He cleared his throat and said "Well, these fingers sure are smooth and non calloused for someone that's claiming to test as often as you do......", GULLLLP. "So how about you explain to these doctors and myself exactly how you managed to trick the meter". I looked at him, to the doctors and then darted my eyes to the floor. I said nothing at first while I processed being busted. I then carefully explained what I had done. Painstakingly taking the time and effort and several hours to put together this fairytale logbook within my meter.

I was ashamed and angry. Angry at the world, myself and Dr Ponder. How DARE he. What the hell did this guy know?? Before I left this visit he very carefully explained that I was to send in blood glucose logs, real ones, every two weeks until I saw him again. And should I miss a deadline for sending them, I was out. Finnito. Doneski. So being the difficult teenager I was, I took it as a challenge and said YESSIR!
But there was nothing challenging about NOT changing my destructive behavior. About 6 weeks later my parents received a certified letter in the mail. With a return address of Temple, TX. It was a letter dissolving the physician/patient relationship between Dr Ponder and myself for not sending in my glucose logs. My parents were crushed, I believe I muttered some curse words....and then went about my day.

With Dr Ponder far from my mind, I continued forward with my Sophmore year of highschool. Struggling because I was always sick. So sick, that one morning, close to my 16th birthday, I woke up to vomiting and nausea. An aching headache and weakness accompanied what my parents thought was a stomach bug or food poisoning. My parents quickly made an appointment to see our family physician. As my mid morning work-in appointment approached I began feeling worse and worse. Once the medical assistant called me back to the exam room I was even dizzier and felt like my thoughts were sluggish. It felt as though my feet weighed 500lbs each, as I struggled to follow her to the room on the left. As she showed me in and began to close the door I dropped to me knees and vomited into the trash can. I still remember seeing dots everywhere. I pulled myself up onto the exam table, and tried to call out for someone. My father was in the waiting room, and the nursing staff seemed a million miles away. I stumbled to the door and poked my head out and then the lights all went out. Blackness occurred. Dark, fluid dreams, spattered with bright lights and loud noises floated in and out of my brain. I would hear voices, muffled, as though they were in another room.
According to Dr Butts (yes, that was his name) and my dad, once I opened the door I said "excuse me...." and then collapsed onto the floor. The Dr and my father and a nurse attempted to wake me up. Dr Butts quickly smelled the acetone on my fruity breath and a nurse couldn't get my blood sugar to register on the office meter. Where we lived, 20 miles West of downtown Austin, had no hospitals at the time. Dr Butts had the nurse wheel me To my Dad's Ford Explorer, and I was laid in the back seat. They said my dad would have me to the nearest ER far quicker than an ambulance would. I remember none of this. Dr Butts called the emergency room physician on duty at St David's south and briefed him on my condition. Apparently a stretcher awaited my unconscious self as I was floppy and unable to follow instructions. Once wheeled into a room a brief history was taken and the Drs and nurses went to work. Putting me in a gown, drawing blood, initiating IV fluids and securing ECG leads to my chest and stomach. My heart rate was elevated, my blood pressure was extremely low, and my blood glucose was 680mg/dL. A respiratory therapist arrived with a male nurse to draw my arterial blood gases. And at this point, I awoke. I cursed the men for clutching my arm and wrist so hard. I called them names that would make a sailor blush. I bucked and cursed and I'm sure I was quite lovely in my disheveled state, hair half sticky with drying vomit and eyes ablaze.
The results soon confirmed what everyone suspected: I was in full blown Diabetic Ketoacidosis. I also had a UTI, presenting with a fever and bloody urine. I was admitted to the ICU and placed on an insulin drip, IV antibiotics and monitored with every 4-6 hour blood draws to monitor my glucose levels and anion gap status. The following day, the chief resident for whichever program service had the pleasure of seeing me, stood in the doorway of the small, private ICU room. It was a sunny day and the skies were blue. Austin, TX was a beautiful place to grow up, and exquisite that day. I watched the birds and the people, walking by, parking their cars in the hospital visitors lot. That's when I heard the number. " you hear me? Your hemoglobin A1c came back at did this happen? Don't you have an endocrinologist??"....and that's when I laughed and said he didn't care about me.

For many years I believed that. I blamed Dr Ponder for my behaviors. For my week long hospitalization and illness. He was my diabetes scapegoat until one day I decided I was sick of feeling sick. I was leaving for college soon and had to be well, both for myself and for my family. It was as soon as the excess glucose began to dissipate from my teenage brain that I fully began to see the MANY errors in my ways. Dr Ponder was never to blame. He was merely the only one to call me on my bull crap and challenge me. Which made me furious. I can't imagine the level of fun I must've been to treat with an average glucose of 500+ all of the time.

As I made my way through college and then nursing school, I began meeting persons affected by diabetes. Complications and illnesses, disabilities and handicaps. All from uncontrolled diabetes. And the doctors and nurses on the floor would pity these patients. Pity their situation and state of health. It was then I decided I would NEVER be that patient. I wouldn't be the girl in the ICU bed or Dr Ponder's office being pitied or thought less of. I would take ahold of my disease and own every inch. And that I did. At each Endo visit my A1c would register lower and lower. And this is when I decided I wanted to be a diabetes nurse educator.

Working in an endocrine clinic as a type 1 gave me a world of advantages. Patients saw
My experiences as the best "street cred" in the world. I applied one summer to be a nurse at Texas Lions Camp in Kerrvile for children with diabetes. It was the very place I had given my first insulin injection, the summer after my diagnosis. I met dozens of other girls that were also type 1. I was sent a "Welcome" packet and given a packing list. I diligently packed my SUV up, kissed my son, and headed West. The first day on campgrounds are for new Medical Staff to review policies and procedures. We were also welcomed by the camp's medical director, who introduced himself and gave us a background of the camp and the diabetes program. At the first break I walked up to the medical director, who was wearing a hat with a fake chicken on top, and I shook his hand. I said "Hello, my name is Kelley Champ Crumpler, and many years ago....."
He warmly smiled, his brown skin already golden from the summer sun, and said "I do remember you! There aren't many patients that get I remember you all!..."

And that, my friends, is how a grudge against a World famous pediatric endocrinologist can inspire you to lead a life of serving others with Type 1 diabetes. Diabetes is my ministry, and helping others is my blessing.

Thank you, Dr Ponder. Thank you.

Monday, November 21, 2016


 I sat in my office today looking at the brand new Medtronic 630G insulin pump boxes and supplies spread out on my conference table. 
My patient sat their with apprehension painted on his face. He has been diabetic for the last 10 years, 9 of them wearing a pump similar to the Medtronic Revel still attached to him.
"Is it totally different? Like will I ...have to relearn everything..?". His question was more than valid. This new pump suddenly looked strikingly dissimilar to his current pancreas.
Of course it was different, even if the basic ideology was the same. And this struck fear in my patient. Change often strikes fear in a type 1 diabetic. We have daily routines and rituals that we develop and form. We choose our medications, devices and supplies and then cling to their normalcy as fixtures in our activities of diabetical daily life.

The sound of panic in voices as the call my clinic because of their formulary changes. "But I've been on Humalog for 15 years, how could they possibly expect me to use Novolog??."
Whether it be a new meter, type of test strip, a pump or new lancet device, anything new and unfamiliar causes a type 1 to have a nervous tic. We have our Rain Man routines, and when that is threatened, when we can't buy our underwear at K-Mart, we fret. 

I can tell someone via text how to change pump settings, step by step. I have worn each one long enough that each key stroke is ingrained in my diabetic brain. When my ex, Dr.  C, and I first began dating, he used Humalog, whereas I used Novolog. Our butter compartment in the fridge was suddenly like a throw down between the Crips and the Bloods. His Accu-Chek drum strips mingling with my One Touch Ultras on the floor, like a scene from Westside Story. Each one of us steadfast that OUR way and OUR products were THE best and THE way to go.

Change is scary. Especially when we are talking about a chronic disease that requires daily, almost hourly attention. Rely on your endo team, CDE, pump rep and fellow members of the DOC when faced with decisions regarding change. They are all wonderful wealths of knowledge and experience. The goods, bads and the uglies.

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Dating: diabetes edition

So we already covered the fact that divorce SUCKS. You have to split your diabetes stock pile, you can't rely on your diabetic spouse to have backup insulin/finger poker/test strips when you run out, and you no longer have the comfort zone of that person knowing every inch of your diabetic body. Where do you like to give your shots? Which fingers do you prefer to prick for blood samples? Which long acting insulins do you hate, and which brand of tape do you like for your Dexcom. You don't have a Dia-buddy to help you put your Dexcom in hard to reach places, or fix the tape when it starts to peel up. You don't have someone that can just glance in your direction and instantly "know" that your sugar is low and that you need candy or juice. All of those luxuries that come with a long term relationship while having diabetes slowly spin down the drain and are gone forever. I don't know about you, but I don't just trust anyone to jab a needle into my skin or to get my GrifGrip tape perfectly smooth and in the correct spot.

Dating with type 1 hasn't necessarily been challenging, but I get a LOT of questions. What's that on your arm? Are you bionic? Is that a microchip? Are you actually on house arrest? Are you allowed to eat sugar? Will your kids get it? Will you have this forever? Why do you take insulin when you're high but not when you're low? My buddy's brother was 800 when he was diagnosed and now eats whatever he wants and take shots for it, why can't you do that? Why don't you have one of those dogs? *during a low* Should I call your ex? Do I need to call 911?
OMG YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING FOR CARING BUT JESUS PLEASE JUST CHILL THE EFF OUT. I got this. For 24 years. Without y'all. Let me share on my own. And for the love of all that is holy, don't tap on my Dexcom transmitter. I will literally cut you. With a knife.

On a date a couple months ago I really needed help placing a GrifGrip so I asked my date, a fire fighter, to assist me. I figured he's also a paramedic, he's got this. Omg. I had to go home and rip it off it was crooked and wrinkled and pleated. FAIL. And sexy time? Holy crap. Talk about embarrassing. "wow, you're like..really sweaty..are you turned on..?" *BEEEEP BEEEEP BEEEEP* uhhh no Casanova, my sugar is 55, now hand over my Smarties.

In my college days I kept it under wraps. Didn't tell the dude unless we made it past 3-4 dates. Would test before I left the house and do my shots in the bathroom (I know, ick). And I didn't have to fret or angst about all of this. Because I do worry. Do they see me as damaged goods? Because as a divorcee single mom, I already feel tainted enough, without adding the chronic lifelong and altering disease on top of it! Is it a turn off? Do they see my Dexcom and say "ew, I can't even"?

I don't know that I would ever date or marry another type 1, though. Being the spouse of a type 1 was hard work. The constant worry and anxiety. Making sure snacks and low treatments were always available. Having all of his prescriptions readily available, and pump supplies at the house. Not only was I keeping up with my own diabetes, but his too. And for me, personally, I think it caused a lot of resentment. Let someone worry about ME, let someone grab MY insulin out of the fridge or run by HEB for alcohol swabs. I think for once that would be amazingly sweet. Let someone else worry about keeping fruit snacks or Gatorade around in case I drop low (which I do!). Everyone wants to feel loved and cared for, even the care takers.

So that's all I got, really. Tinder & Bumble are some scary places to meet people...the variety is insane, and the unique attributes of each contender can be quite entertaining. I share some of these over at my private diabetes group Team Diabadass...if you're type 1 and have a raunchy sense of humor, we'd love to have you! 

Friday, January 8, 2016

Divorcing diabetes

Chances are, you know someone who's either going through a divorce, been divorced or is a product of a divorced household. Fact of the matter is, 30-40% of all marriages end in divorce, which is actually an all time low for our nation. But you can barely blink without being surrounded by celebrities marrying and divorcing for various reasons: monetary, adultery, differing schedules or one partner's dislike of the newest Beyonce track. Divorce is everywhere.

That being said, why does it still feel so taboo? Why do I still feel like a failure? Why do I hesitate to admit I am knee deep into a divorce, why do I fret about asking for help? The institute of marriage is held extremely sacred to some, and these people likely have great marriages and think we should too. They want to share their "secret" and want to convince you that this isn't the path God wants for you. They kind of make you feel like a loser. Then there are the ones that point fingers and play the blame game. "Well had you not done such and such, maybe he would have stayed with you"....yeah well..umm NO. We tried. We fell in love while I was a nurse in his budding endocrine clinic and I was fresh out of nursing school. He was 10 years older and one of the smartest men I had ever met. I admired how he approached patient care and advocated for education. He wanted a family, he was a smart ass and he thought I was beautiful and funny. So we got married. Yes there were red flags here and there, but nothing a baby or two couldn't fix, right? What about a few marriage counselors? Writing each other letters mapping out our feelings? Yeah. We fought the good fight. We tried. And now we want to give the other the chance to be happy in the future.

Fast forward 10 years. We have built  a wonderfully amazing pediatric and adult private endocrine clinic. We have thousands of patients that feel like family. Patients whom I share my personal cell phone number with because I truly want them to know they can call if they ever need us. These people truly care for me and the good Dr and our two awesome sons. Through social media many feel like they know my boys and get to share in their daily funnies and goofy smiles.
We are choosing a path less taken by continuing to run our practices and clinic together, even in the wake of deciding to dissolve our almost 10 year marriage. So far, so good. By being able to place the utmost importance on our children and patients we've been able to form a united front and stop being off at one another!

Not saying I still don't break down and cry sometimes while I'm driving and hear a song that played at our wedding, or when our boys ask why we don't do things as a foursome anymore. It's sad. It sucks. There's no way around making a divorce a fun thing for anyone. Looking at houses, organizing finances, discussing custody's anxiety producing. It drives my sugar up. Keeps me from sleeping. Don't even get me started on dating. Sometimes I wish I could take my health issues to him the way I used to so freely. And I catch myself. He's not my best friend and partner anymore. I have to allow him to heal and move on, the way he's allowing me to. We have to learn what our new normal is.

Thank you to everyone that checks on me and the boys. Thank you for your prayers and support. This new season of our life is a stressful one, and we are taking it day by day...and having an amazing family, friends that are to die for and little boys that make laughing so hard hurt is certainly helpful. 

Monday, November 16, 2015

Stick it to me..

Yeah, yeah..I know it's been awhile since I've blogged. I've been busy running a busy endocrine practice, raising two hoodlums and training all the dogs. Don't judge me. Just be thankful I have returned to the diabetes blogosphere AND during diabetes awareness month, because: timing. I'm a class act like that.

I have had type 1 diabetes for almost 24 years. I've had my ups and downs, ebbs and flows, "ohholyshitwhatthehell" a1c readings, and double back handspring with a twist results {disclaimer: I, personally, cannot perform said back handspring}. And you know what? Some of those results were on pump therapy, and some were while doing MDI {multiple daily injections}. Many in the diabetes world, both educators and endos alike, promote pump therapy, or CSII {constant subcutaneous insulin infusion}, as the gold standard and as the end all be all. Not going to lie, I used to be one of these educators. Pumps are great for better mimicking a physiologically working pancreas, and now with integration of CGM, they are getting better and better. Many studies support and tout the benefits of insulin pump therapy, and hey, I'm all for them...and wore one religiously for many years {my favorites are the Tandem T:Slim and Medtronic 530G...I also worked for Schmoni Plod as a Clinical Services Manager for a bit and wore one of their products}.

Close to 2 years ago I realized my weight had become an issue. I had given birth to two beautiful boys, gained close to 70lbs with each, took on the diagnosis of Hashimoto's, Celiac and Ankylosing Spondylitis following said pregnancies, and just really kind of let myself "go". Carbs weren't restricted, insulin flowed like a champagne fountain at your cousin's wedding, and I wasn't exercising. My glucose levels were good, but I was tipping the scales at around 235 lbs {see my pic with THE Gary Scheiner above at AADE 2013 Philadelphia}. I needed to get my ass in gear and I couldn't blame it on "the baby" any longer {he had just turned 3}.

Many of you are familiar with my love of Crossfit and low carb/high fat {LCHF} eating: it was these two things that helped me limit my insulin needs, which in turn lowered my insulin resistance and overall inflammation in my body. During my journey over the last two years I have lost around 80lbs, and I have never looked or felt better.

My weight hasn't been the only thing that has changed: so has my preference for insulin delivery. The more weight I lost and the more active I became, the less I enjoyed my pump. I wanted to wear more form fitting clothes, be able to do push ups without a device awkwardly poking out of my sports bra or stabbing me in the chest, I didn't like how insecure I felt about it at the gym and I didn't like having it on when wearing a bikini for the first time in years. So I made the switch to injections. At first I would flip flop between shots and pump, a couple of weeks here and there...then I would go for longer stretches. Now it's been almost a year since I took off my T:Slim, and I'm doing well on Toujeo and Humalog {I prefer the bouncy button of the Humalog KwikPen}. I do the best when I'm wearing my Dexcom, which I'm not the most compliant about, I'll admit. I have some pretty bad lows here and there, and they are stark reminders that this disease isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and that I can't, and shouldn't, ignore it.

I don't have to worry about bad pump sites, vampire cannulas, my dog ripping out my tubing, occlusion alarms, button errors, itching under sites or marks all over my body.
I don't have the bolus calculator {waaaaaa..maaaaath}, I don't have exact basal increments I can adjust, no temp basal feature, no extended boluses {this makes high fat/high carb cheat meals difficult} and no added benefit of utilizing 20% less total daily insulin.

So there you have it. The down and dirty of it. I guess I just get sick of the comments sometimes in regards to my lack of pump use {uhhhh, do you even pump, bro??} when I maintain my a1c goal just fine with injections. Some are just so judgemental and high and mighty when it comes to disease management. We are all just trying to win this fight the best way possible, and make it suck the least amount of suckage as possible. And honestly? Now that my boobs have shrunk so much, it's a lot harder to hide that damn lay off me!

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Sweet Mama Drama

Sometimes I struggle with my role as a mom that juggles multiple autoimmune disease states. Type 1 diabetes poses glucose a swings that can affect my mood, ability to drive safely, carry on a conversation and just function as a parent. My sweet, brilliant 6 year old is so bright he is able to pick up on the cues for both his mom and dad's "diabeebees" lows. He is able to notify the other parent to these changes, and is quite hip to diabetes lingo and can accurately describe how too much insulin in the blood means you must eat or drink sugar to bring the blood back up to feel better. How many 1st graders should have to explain the pathophysiology behind hypoglycemia? It breaks my little heart, but also makes it beam with pride. My 3 year old will jump right in and ask to have his glucose tested. He loves blood and guts and actually enjoys the ritual. I'm sure in some ways this should be worrisome, but for the time being, we will just let him be a little weirdo and partake in the activities.

My greatest fear is that my children will develop my disease. That I have passed this on to them. That they will grow up having to test, inject, worry about complications, feel the angst of a low glucose, the nagging fatigue and grossness of a high, the never ending Endo visits. When they ask for a drink of water or accidentally wet the bed, my pulse quickens and I immediately scream in my head "ITS HERE, LORD, ITS HERE...DIABETES..GET THE METER AND CALL THE ENDO"....which means screaming for my husband in the next room, and then he tells me I'm a psycho and that my kids are just thirsty because it's Texas and 170 degrees outside in August and they pissed the bed because I let them drink a quart of Gatorade before bed because I'm an excellent mother and they looked like they over exerted themselves at peewee flag football. This whole living with a pragmatic Dr thing sometimes is annoying and I often wonder if I should slap him around so that he knows that I'm actually the boss. No?

Dr. C and I actually consulted with a genetic counselor prior to conceiving the heathens to asses the risk of passing on our diabetes, and the risk was very low. We also have the boys enrolled in the Diabetes TrialNet ( and for the past 2 years their blood work has remained negative for antibodies. Does this mean they will never develop type 1? Maybe. Could they ever? Maybe. Who better to care for them, is the way we have always looked at it. But still, the fear is real. 

Being a parent with diabetes, a different type of "PWD", is difficult. Hats off to the d-moms and dads out there. I salute all of your hard work. I admire you more than you know. But we work hard too. There are days where I go hours without having looked at my CGM because I become so preoccupied with work, life, kids, who peed on the floor, who colored on the wall, who painted their nails, why are their transformers in the freezer and why is the dog locked in the closet...?
Life can runaway from you, but the diabetes is always there. It's hard to explain to a 3 year old why mommy can't share her juice with him right that moment, or why mommy has to pull the car over to test and eat a snack on the way to pick up Bubba. 

And hats off to those of us that created a life inside of us with diabetes. Glucose can fragment DNA from the moment of conception. The risk of birth defects is much higher amongst women with type 1 because of hyperglycemia, which is why it is recommended our A1c is <6% prior to conception. Yeah, ok doc. I'll get right no top of that! Super easy! Pfffffft!! Pregnancy is turning your body into one large walking hormone attached to a pump of hormones and all you want is to eat food and fuel the monster and don't get in my effing way. The end result is so majorly worth it, though. So bravo, Mommas with diabetes!

What's your take on being a parent with diabetes or pregnant with diabetes??