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Dammit! I can’t believe my A1c is 8.3 (hey, that kinda rhymes).
According to my meter, my average BG for the past 90 days is 168 mg/dl. So how the hell did I end up with an A1c of 8.3%? I’m sooo excited for my endo appointment on Friday.
I’m really starting to think the A1c is a big, steaming pile of horseshit.
I was testing my bg at work the other day when I was approached by someone I consider to be a complete idiot. This is what went down:
Me: “Oh, sorry blank. I’ll be done in a sec; I’m just testing my blood sugar. I have diabetes.”
Her: “I have diabetes, too”
Me: “Oh, that sucks. I’m a type one.”
Her: “Me too.”
Me: “Wow, really? I don’t normally see too many of us in the wild. Do you use a pump?”
Her: “No, I use insulin.”
Me: *crickets*
Today, after far too long, Roddy Pippin stepped out of a Texas prison a free man. Robert McCausland, who has been by Roddy’s side every step of the way, prepared the following statement:
Friday, October 21, 2011This morning at 9:06 – thanks to the incessant prayers and tireless efforts of so many – Roddy Pippin is alive and has finally walked free!As we know, justice for the stolen cows had long-ago been served, served by the youngest and the sickest of the “gang.” Now justice has also been served for the actions of self-righteous public officials – officials who refused restitution, who “did not want Mr. Pippin to be released early,” and who therefore “insisted on the four stacked two-year state jail terms reflected in the plea bargain.” Ironically, this new justice has been served because of the work of other public officials – judges who looked at the facts and who set free all the taxpayers’ funds that should have been directed to pay Texas teachers all along!
Of course, this would not have been possible had it not been for Roddy’s latest lawyers – the amazing lawyers: John Jasuta, Stan Schneider, David Schulman, and their team!
And I know that Roddy would not be alive today had it not been for so many others – people and organizations ranging from Roddy’s loving mother, Holly, and his loving wife, Jacie – to Arthur Edwards, Phillip Baker, Shannon Burdette and Roddy’s many other friends throughout the U.S.A., Canada, Mexico, United Kingdom and elsewhere – to doctors such as Dr. Orzeck, Dr. Duncan and Dr. Strumph – to numerous nurses and the ambulance and life-flight workers who cared for and transported Roddy – to inmates, some no more guilty of any crime than Michael Morton, who so many times held Roddy’s convulsing body to protect him during seizures – to Katharine Gordon and all the other amazing people at the American Diabetes Association and at the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (“JDRF”) – to reporters who dug to uncover the facts and to report objectively – to so many of you – and even to those within Texas government who showed concern and who guided us through the maze in order to save Roddy!
It’s impossible for most young people to truly understand the feeling of death. It’s unfortunate that any child of God, and of our Nation’s Native People, had to endure such. But he has, as others had before him, as others do now, and as others will. Fewer because of all of you – people willing to stand up to those in power – willing to stand up to those whose power has corrupted them and to all who stand with them and to all who believe what they believe.
Democracy cannot function when people become sheep. Laws lose effect when public servants control and are immune. Hope is restored when GOOD PEOPLE see, and care, and ACT!
May God bless you. May God bless Texas. May God bless America and all of her friends.
Before I close, I just want to say a few things about Roddy. We ALL know how difficult it is to live with type 1 diabetes. We talk about our endless highs and terrifying lows. We stress over our A1cs and eye exams, and we give ourselves mental pats on the back for a job well done.
For the past eight years, Roddy has shared all of those same feelings, but without any power or control to manage his condition. He dealt with DKA-type symptoms on an almost regular basis, and when his BG wasn’t so high he was vomiting, he was on the floor with a low-induced seizure. Imagine what that must have been like.
It takes an amazingly strong person, body and spirit, to survive what Roddy has. All of us around him are amazed at his will and his faith. He deserves only good things from this point forward. I hope you all will join me in wishing him and Jacie all the best.
I hate saying and/or writing those words. I don’t like being wrong, but then again, who does?
Back in 2009, I gave Minimed the heave ho. I was convinced that there were better pumps out there, and I was determined to find one.
First, I became a Pod person. I liked it at first, but as time went by, and I had more and more occlusions and ripped-off pods, I decided it was time to move on.
Instead of going back to Minimed, I was excited to try the Animas Ping. I was swayed by the colors and overall flashy-ness of the device. I wanted to love it, and for a while, I convinced myself I did. But there were some things – conveniences, I guess – missing from the Ping:
So, I pulled my Minimed 722 and supplies out of storage and dusted it off. Right away, it felt “normal.” Sure, there are some things that annoy me about it, but as someone who’s tried three major brands, I have to say that the MM 722 best meets my needs.
I haven’t written in a while because so much has been going on. A few weeks ago, I wrote about my abnormal mammogram results. Naturally, given my family history, those results sparked a storm of activity. I was tested for the BRCA gene mutation, which is a harbinger of breast and/or ovarian cancer. I went for a follow-up compression test, which hurt like hell. Then, after meeting with the surgeon who will do my biopsy if one is needed, I had went for an MRI.
The good news is that the BRCA test was NEGATIVE. This wonderful and unexpected result was a huge relief. I was already mentally planning my bilateral prophylactic mastectomy. I was thinking about reconstruction and implants, etc. I was hoping my husband would still love my body even without my “rockin’ cans.”
Hearing my doctor’s voice on the other end of the phone was one of the scariest moments I’ve had. Hearing her use the word “negative” was one of the most wonderful. She was clearly happy, too. I have the greatest doctors in the world!
The breast MRI was brutal. If you never have to endure 30 minutes in a narrow tube while laying uncomfortably on your stomach with your boobs hanging down and this bar digging into your ribs, I envy you. It was loud, painful, and embarrassing. No results yet, but I’m feeling oddly optimistic.
I saw Dr. S. on Monday. Overall, it was a good appointment. My labs were decent – A1c 7.4%, which is a nice drop from the 8% I had in May. I’m still not trying very hard, but I’m not ignoring diabetes altogether anymore. So, while not completely back on the wagon, I’m sort of hanging on to the side and moving along with it.
My thyroid is still being a PITA. It can’t seem to decide if it wants to be hyper or hypo. Frankly, I don’t care which it chooses – it just needs to pick one and stick with it. Everything else looked great. I have “enviable” cholesterol and my liver and kidneys are totally normal.
In exciting news, this year will be the first Baltimore Grand Prix on 9/4/2011. As most of you know, Charlie Kimball, a fellow T1, will be racing that day. They’ve been furiously constructing the course, stands, etc. downtown (I drove through it on Wednesday’s MRI appt.), and I’m looking forward to the event.
I’ve wanted to meet Charlie for a while now. Not only because he’s a fellow T1, and I LOVE meeting “my people,” but also because he does something I think is super cool. I’m something of a speed demon, so I think it’s fantastic when someone makes a living doing it. Plus, I’m married to a racecar driver (for hobby, not career) and self-professed “car guy.”
<side note: I’m not really a big fan of US motorsports, but if I’m going to watch one, it’s got to be Indy. I loathe NASCAR. Now, if you want to talk F1, come sit by me. </side note>
So, I was curious when I got the following email from Dr. S. a few weeks ago:
“I just learned that we are going to have one of the Grand Prix Race Car drivers who is a Type 1 Diabetic speak at a special event on Wednesday, August 31st at 1 pm at Union Memorial Hospital to our group. I know it is in the middle of the day, but please look at your schedule and come and hear him speak. It should be great. More information to come….”
I responded right away with, “It’s Charlie Kimball, right.”
Dr. S. wrote, “I think so.”
Clearly, Dr. S. is not a motorsports guy, so I’ll forgive his ignorance. I’m super excited for this event, so I’ve requested the entire day off. Sadly, Brian will be out of town at a race of his own, so he’ll miss it.
That’s what I’ve been up to. I’ve got another post cooking, and it’s about something I don’t often admit to – being wrong, wrong, wrong!
Is this what we, as diabetics, have to look forward to?
http://www.thedenverchannel.com/news/28773212/detail.html
A while back, I had an encounter with TSA agents at the Panama City Beach Airport. It was awful, and in response, I wrote a letter to my congressman (who never responded). Here’s what I wrote:
As the female TSA agent moved her hands all over my body, requiring me to lift my shirt to expose my waist line, I felt violated. When she swabbed my hands, I felt humiliated. When she thoroughly searched my bags for explosives, I felt scared. When she confiscated items that passed the BWI inspection just a few days before, I felt angry. As I walked to my gate, tears streaming down my face, I felt powerless. Never, throughout the entire process, did I feel safer.
Children and their parents looked at me as if I were a criminal or a terrorist. Am I? Nope. I’m a born and raised American with red hair, pale blue eyes, and fair, freckled skin. Why me, then? What’s my crime? I’m a type 1 diabetic who uses an insulin pump to stay alive.
If you haven’t experienced one of these TSA “pat downs,” I envy you. I get one every time I fly. It used to be an annoyance; now it’s an assault.
I had hoped that this new policy would be short-lived, but the molestation of airline passengers doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. This is why I’m writing to you, my Congressman. I am pleading with you to use your power, which I helped give to you, to address this problem. As I told the TSA screener, “you’re searching the same people over and over again simply because they use an external medical device. It feels like discrimination.”
Please don’t let this continue. I’m a proud American, who loves her country. But I am not willing to be molested each time I fly to protect it. There has to be a better way.
So, what do you guys think? I’d love to hear your opinions on the TSA craziness!
***I wrote this after I learned that our only attempt at IVF had failed.***
Infertility is silent. Looking at a person or a couple, you’d have no idea that they are suffering a loss as deep as any one could experience.
When a couple begins the long and painful process of fertility treatments, we do it because our desperation outweighs our common sense. We know the odds; they’re awful, but we put ourselves through it anyway.
We tell ourselves that the shots don’t hurt and the side effects don’t suck. We pretend that it doesn’t bother us to have a vaginal ultrasound every other day or that the parade of doctors sticking things up inside of us isn’t humiliating. We joke about our arms resembling that of a heroine addict thanks to the daily blood draws. We do these things because it’s the only way to get through it.
But when all of that fails, when you finally have to face the reality that you will never bear a child, never see that heartbeat on an ultrasound or feel a baby move from the inside, never experience an epidural or breastfeed a newborn, you are simply devastated.
People who know of your struggles will say things like “you can always adopt.” Some people, hoping to comfort, will say, “at least you can’t miss something you never had.” Others will say, “it could be worse, you could have lost a child.”
These words cut like a knife because adoption isn’t the same as having a little piece of you alive in the world. Because you CAN miss something you never had. You live with the void and the ache every single day. And you know that it’s just as bad never to experience the joy of having a child than to lose a well-loved one.
As infertile couples, we grieve. We grieve in silence because it’s not something that people talk about. The day after we learn of our new reality, we’re expected to go to work and act like nothing has happened. We’re expected to pretend that our lives haven’t been shattered with a single test result.
So the next time you hear about couples struggling with infertility don’t try to make them feel better. They won’t. Don’t try to brush off their pain by suggesting adoption. It’s not that easy. Don’t expect them to just “snap out of it” and move on. It takes time to heal.
And when you encounter “that couple,” don’t assume that their choice was to be childless. Treat them as you would someone who has lost a child. I can guarantee that their pain is just as wide and just as deep.
A few of you have asked why I changed the name of my blog. Well, I have a few reasons.
First, I wanted to get away from all of the bad karma that surrounded my old site. After the job fiasco, and everything that came before and after, I needed a change. I also wanted to eliminate any link to my real name. As I learned the hard way, putting yourself out there can get you into trouble. As you’ll see, my name appears nowhere on this site (and I’d like to keep it that way, so those of you who know my true identity, please keep it quiet).
Second, the name of my old site was, as you all know, derived from LADA. After doing oodles of research on LADA and how it really works, I learned that I never really had it. See, my diagnosis hit like a Mack truck; it wasn’t gradual, which is a harbinger of LADA. I went from a normal A1c to a through-the-roof 13.8% in less than six months. None of the type 2 meds worked on me. I was pretty sick, with two separate near-DKA incidents (thankfully, I went to the ER before it got really bad). I lost a lot of weight (like over 50 pounds in less than six months – and, sadly, I wasn’t even trying). All of these things really describe a typical type 1 diagnosis pattern. Plus, given that I was still fairly young (i.e., under 30), I fit the LADA profile even less.
My third reason is simple. I LOVE the name type 1 type A. Like most type 1s, I’m have a Type A personality by necessity. I have to plan for every contingency. I don’t have the luxury of being spontaneous, so sometimes I come across as a bit of a pit bull. So be it. Until someone walks a day in my shoes, they can’t possible understand what this life is like.
For those of you who read my posts at the old site, never fear. I’ll still be the bitch you all know and love (hate?). I won’t hold back – just as I never did. If you were kind enough to have me on your blogroll, please update it to Type1TypeA.com.
Oh, and while this blog will still be mostly about life with D, I’ll be writing all sorts of stuff, so don’t be surprised if I take some unexpected turns 
I can remember when my sister first found the lump in her breast. We all assumed that it was nothing – she was only 31! When I learned it was officially cancer, I still didn’t believe it. All through her treatments – surgery, chemo, radiation – I stuck my head in the sand and convinced myself it was all a big mistake.
When her cancer came back, after almost five years of remission, I didn’t make the same mistake. I educated myself on breast cancer – particularly the myth that it doesn’t affect young women. It does. Often. And the kind of breast cancer than younger women get is more aggressive and deadly than our older sisters.
So, when my BG/GYN began ordering mammograms for me almost 10 years ago, I complied. Every year I go and get the big squish, and every year I get the “all clear letter.” Until this year.
I can’t describe the panic I felt when I got this letter (and the phone call from my doctor). Despite being assured that “it’s probably nothing,” I knew it probably wasn’t.
Yesterday, I went in for my follow-up mammogram/compression test. <side note: a regular mammogram hurts. Yeah, I’m not taking the whole it’s-mildly-uncomfortable stance. It hurts. A lot. But a compression test hurts even more. The basic gist is that your boob is squished as much as “you can tolerate.” Oh, and they tell you that the tighter the squish, the better the pictures, so try to tolerate the excruciating pain. </side note>
After the test was done, I was sent to a small waiting area (not the general waiting room) so that the radiologist could review the images and determine if further tests (sonogram) were necessary. Two things went through my mind:
If I have to have a sonogram, it probably wasn’t good news, so I really wanted the nurse to tell me that I was good to go
Lisa probably had this exact same experience.
Once that thought intruded, I lost it. Uncontrollable tears started flowing, and I wished that I could have called her at that moment.
When the nurse came back and told me that the doctor wanted to do a sonogram, I knew I was in trouble. I had to wait a while for my doctor to authorize the ultrasound, so I remained in that little room.
<Rant> I’ve had more ultrasounds in the past year than most women (including those who have multiple children) will ever have in their lives. It totally sucks that not one of them was for an OB scan. Yeah, that’s just wrong. </rant>
The ultrasound tech couldn’t find the tumor(?) on the ultrasound, but it was clearly visible on the mammogram (even my untrained eye could see it). After a few minutes, the radiologist came in and said that I had two choices. I could wait six months and come back for a repeat mammogram to see if it’s grown (he strongly recommended this option). Or, I could have the thing removed and biopsied. He said, “not much can happen in six months, so I really don’t think a biopsy is necessary.” Ummm, my sister went from remission to Stage IV in less than six months, so don’t feed me that bullshit! His advice was, at best, wrong. He should know that, given my age and family history, it’s likely that any breast cancer I have would be super aggressive, and six months could mean the difference between Stage I and Stage IV. This guy has the personality of a cinderblock, so I really just wanted him to leave the room. He obliged.
At my last appointment, my OB/GYN strongly recommended that I be tested for the BRCA gene mutation, which is a pretty good indicator if breast cancer is in my future. I was sort of on-the-fence about it until yesterday. I’m getting that test, and if I have the gene mutation, I’m going to have a prophylactic mastectomy and oophorectomy (bye-bye ovaries).
So, now I wait. For 10 years, I’ve felt like a ticking time bomb. I feel like the bomb just went off.
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