Friday, June 29, 2007
This morning was a little high, but I sort of expected that. I've got a good excuse, really.
Husband and I have both been exhausted lately, and Son an absolute terror around dinnertime. He won't wait until I have time to make anything-either he's in the high chair in 15 minutes after we get home (anywhere between 6 and 6:30) or we ALL pay for it. I've tried the whole having a snack in the car on the way home, but all it does is fill him up before he actually gets to a real meal. Since I've put my foot down on pre-meal snacking (and remembered to lock the pantry door), the meltdowns are still happening, but by God, he's now eating his meal. Imagine! Any meat other than hot dog, ground beef surrounded by mac and cheese or tomato sauce, or an occasional fish stick, are NOT tolerated, but fruit is OK, and veggies of the orange variety are OK too.
Anyway, we went through all the fun that Son is, and we were both too tired to think about what to cook. We desperately need me to make up a menu and do some shopping. Husband asked me what I wanted, and it was a toss up between tacos and spaghetti. No instant spaghetti anywhere, so off to national taco chain he went. He came home with our order, which we both started to inhale after Son was in bed. I thought that that pop tasted OK, my normal diet. After a few sips of his own, Husband asked me to do the taste test (he's always convinced that there is something wrong with his; he just doesn't seem to get that whole fountain vs. can difference). Ooops. Um, I've got the full sugar version. After a nacho supreme. Crap.
My two hour after that debacle were OK, but it hit me this morning. I'm just calling it God letting me have a little of the old life-no wonder it tasted so damn good-and a reality check. No biggie. I've got way too much stress in other areas to get worked up over this, although I'll have to be a saint today.
Well, I suppose that it's time to go and deal with some of the stress-the work piles are calling.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
As Husband came upstairs, it was time for me to the do the poke and hope, er, two hour blood glucose check. My number came back higher than I expected (as usual). Husband wanted to check his for kicks as well. It came back astronomically high. We both agreed that while the chili cheese fries and hot dog weren't the best nutrition choices he had ever made, the number seemed waaaay out of whack, so he tested again. From the same stick, on the same finger, with a different result. Now I don't know if 10 points is statistically significant (I'll leave it to the math geeks like Pithy to tell me that), but it seemed fishy to me. I mean, it was less than a minute later!
So, my curiosity piqued, and in a desperate hope that maybe things aren't as bad as they seem to be with me, Husband retrieved my new, but yet unused, tester. I didn't have anything against using the new one, but I had just refilled my test strips on the old one, and was going to switch once they were gone. Sure enough, another different result, but this time with a nearly 15 point difference. Eureka! Old tester=undue stress for pregnant woman who freaks out on husband with every bad test and finds herself crying nearly uncontrollably in her glorified, windowless, cube office.
It was now too late to test me again, since the window had passed, but I decided to do a dual test this morning when I got up to test my theory once again. Once again, the hypothesis was proven (gee, I feel like I'm on Mythbusters or something!).
- New Tester: 89
- Old Tester: 103
Voila! Not wanting to tick off my endocrinology doc too much, I tried it again over lunch, and once again a decent difference; 11 points; 127 v. 116. I was also a bit worried that I was trying to cheat to a certain degree. In law, when a plaintiff goes looking for a jurisdiction to file their lawsuit in that has a history of leaning one way or another, we call if forum shopping. To some degree, I felt like I was tester shopping, but the scientist in me told me that this was not an isolated incident, and that I had calibrated the new one per the instructions. My other one is so old that they don't even make the calibration solution for it anymore. Using this as my rationale, I called the office today to tell them that (1) my OB had upped my nighttime insulin by two units, and boy howdy, did that do the trick; (2) my OB also wants them to check my numbers twice weekly, since the once a week thing isn't cutting it; and (3) am I in a sugar delusion that testers could differ so much?
The office called back relatively soon to tell me that they had faxed in a prescription for the new test strips and lancets to my pharmacy, and that they would be ready to go this afternoon, and that the upped dosage had been noted on my chart. Not too much push back on that one. And yes, once testers get elderly they tend to become more and more screwed up.
So, yes, I feel better about this. If my tester was that fouled up, then my after meals may not have been as jacked up as they appeared, which means that I may be able to dodge the fast acting insulin bullet for a while longer. I know that I'm not out of the woods for the long run, but for now, I can cut myself a bit of slack. I've been doing a great job of beating myself up about how things have been going, so now that I have actual proof, I can relax a little. Still eat to plan, and since its now out of the high 80s and 90s, take the rowdies out on a leash, and just breathe a little. Now if my ribs and back would just cooperate....
Monday, June 25, 2007
Human beings sure have a long way to go.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
However, this time, it's been for me. I'm not happy about this, not one bit. And the fun of it all is that it's only going to get worse until BabyA (she's got to finally get a name around here, doesn't she?) makes her debut.
As we suspected, and I greatly feared, my gestational diabetes is worse this time around. It seems that two years does not help matters much. My morning (fasting) numbers have not come down, even with diet modifications, and I'm now on insulin at night. I've really been struggling with this on an emotional level. Husband pointed out last night that this isn't my fault, it's not something that I'm doing wrong, that it's just out of my hands, and now I've got to play by the rules. The thing is, I AM playing by the rules, and nothing seems to be going in my favor. It just isn't fair.
My first stop (of the many) was with the outpatient clinic for diabetes attached to large hospital in ritzy suburb after I faxed in my numbers for May to Dr. Wonderful. I went through the education module with both the nurse and dietitian, and was told in no uncertain terms that even though I was trying to manage things by diet, I was being too hard on myself. I was throwing some decent keytones, and simply wasn't eating enough. I have to admit some degree of relief at hearing this-I was getting sick of being hungry all of the time. Basically, I wasn't eating enough over the course of the day, and my liver got its enzymes all in a bunch and was dumping glucose into my system while I slept to try to give me enough calories, hence my high fasting numbers. Stupid me took this to mean that I needed to cut back on my carbs even more, and to ignore that gnawing in my stomach before bed. Argh.
I saw the clinic on a Monday, and since Dr. Wonderful had made the referral to them with a recommendation of night insulin, they had me do a food journal and chart my numbers until Wednesday, when I was to fax them in and we would go from there. Even with following the food plan, but numbers still sucked. Thursday afternoon was spent getting my sample insulin pen and all of the accoutrement's that surround that. In the meantime, Dr. Wonderful's office had set up an appointment for me on the following Monday to go to an endocrinologist.
I played phone tag with Dr. Wonderful's nurse, but I was finally able to get hold of her. I asked her if it was because things were so bad that I was being sent to a specialist, or what. She said that Dr. Wonderful wanted to stay very much on top of this, and that this is the practice's procedure when a GD patient ends up on insulin. After I calmed down a bit, I realized that this was probably a good thing. I'm not one of those people who have PCOS as a result of being overweight-I've been this way since I was twelve. During high school, my twice yearly periods happened while being 5'2" and 130 pounds. For someone as active as I was, that was a pretty reasonable weight. I just had boobs and a butt, something most of my friends didn't. Anyway, at least now I will have a relationship with an endocrinologist, something that I haven't had before. She mentioned follow-up care during my appointment, since now I am at even higher risk of type II later on. Argh.
We went out of town over the weekend, with all the fun that surrounds a toddler, a four hour car ride, and what we now know is the beginnings of strep and a summer cold. It also isn't horribly conducive to following any sort of meal plan. I did the best that I could, but it was still pretty sucky.
On Monday afternoon I headed up the endocrinology clinic, which was surprisingly on top of things and running, get this "right on time." That was enough to make me fall over, since I thought that since I was a shoe horn appointment, I would end up waiting. I liked the endocrinologist-she respected that I knew a decent amount about what we are up against, although I was appreciative of the weight talk. I'm almost seven months pregnant and a bit stressed-can we tackle that trigger at some other time? PLEASE?? Regardless, I was shuffled off to the nurse/dietitian, given my prescriptions, and off I went. I need to fax everything over to them tomorrow afternoon to see if things are OK.
The thing is, things aren't OK. After some initial success with the insulin (a 96, with the threshold being 95), I am now back up in the 105 region in the morning, even on the increased dose. My one hours after meals are high (over the required 140) or in the upper ranges of normal. One thing that differed between the first clinic and the second is that the second wasn't quite as optimistic that I will be able to avoid the insulin before meals as well. Just call me a pincushion. Upwards of four shots a day, plus the four blood checks.
I know that people who have true type II do this every day. I know. I know. I know. However, like I told Husband through tears last night, it's just another case of my body screwing me over. I'm scared about what it is doing to BabyA, what it's doing to me. My stress levels are so high right now I sometimes wonder how I can make it to the next minute, the next day. It just feels so crushing sometimes, and I don't see a way out. This doesn't help my numbers at all.
I just feel like a bad mom already. Not only am I at risk for future problems, so are my kids. This never crossed my mind for a minute when I was dealing with our IF issues. All of the what-ifs are in my head. I'm scared something is going to happen to BabyA before she is born, and terrified that it will happen while she is being born. Will they take her early if she gets too big? How will that work with my leave, which is only being complicated by being out so much for appointments, etc. I oscillate between being mad, hurt, sad, ticked off, you name it. I just want it to be OK, for my body to cooperate just a little bit. So far, that ain't workin'.
Monday, June 04, 2007
So, it tends to take my by surprise when the hormones make their presence known lately. Case in point, this morning. I didn't sleep real well last night, since my brain didn't get any shut down time before bed last night. After I got up for my potty break at 3:30, sleep was tortured at best. I'm tired, but functioning.
I get to daycare, drop Son off, and he's playing happily. I notice that his cubby is full of "art" projects (mostly done for him since they seem a bit advanced for him, but still) that I haven't picked up, so I pull them all out and go back out to the car. I looked through them, and while you can't see a whole lot of Son in them, it does look like he is progressively trying harder to actually do something with them. Anyway, I come across one where his handprints are like tulips on top of teacher-drawn stems. I started to bawl, right there in the daycare parking lot. I got it together to leave, but promptly dissolve again once I cross the street and park in the lot for work. (The picture is now up on the wall in my office-there are days where I still wish that I didn't have to leave him every day).
I get to work, and since I have a short amount of time to burn before my first appointment of the day, I check my bloglist. To find an entry about a loving Lab who was her master's best friend, and mourned him when he died in the way that only animals can. The entry went on to talk about how the dog helped the master's wife cope with his death, and about how the dog died over the weekend. I cried again. It probably didn't help that the picture of the dog looks a lot like my Yellow Dog, the ditzy blond lab that we have. Sigh. I said a little prayer for Sadie and those who loved her. I also plan on hugging Yellow Dog when I get home tonight, and I might even break out the last new tennis ball in the can.
All of this before 10am. Can't wait to see what the rest of the day holds for me......
UPDATE: No more waterworks as of 3:30, although I probably should have after I got the return call from my OB after he saw my glucose numbers. Off the to the diabetes clinic for me! Possibility of PM insulin, which doesn't surprise me much. I've got the big group session next Monday-which I have a hunch will be a waste of time since I've done this already, but the refresher was what I asked for, right? Let's just do what we can about these fasting numbers, please? I'm trying not to be any more neurotic than normal, but I'm getting a little scared. And Husband has the balls to say that I'm not taking this seriously. He couldn't make it a week.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Last night he was just so sweet, and I need to get it down. Feel free to look away.
Husband was out in the garage cursing at our riding lawnmower, and it was getting to be time for bed for little man. I needed to get out of that garage for fear of beating Husband with the instruction manual for the mower, since he was refusing to read it. Son was horribly grubby, and really needed to be cleaned up. I managed to get him into the house, and stripped down to get ready for his much-needed bath. He plays so hard, he usually ends up with sand in his diaper (talk about uncomfortable). Needless to say, the bath was definitely in order.
Being scatterbrained, I managed to have a naked child with no bathwater. Hunh? Don't know why I forgot to run the stupid bath. Son was kind enough not to water the bath mat like he has in the past, and actually thought that it was pretty darn cool to be sitting in his tub while the water ran. We played, he got me soaked (as usual), and once out of the tub, he insisted on wrapping himself up in his towel all by himself. Wouldn't let me do it. He looked at me with such a look of victory when he got it right. Such a big boy, but still using the hooded hippo towel. OK, a cute big boy.
I brought him back to his room, got him dressed and combed and all of the other fun stuff. I've mentioned before that we have this routine that when we are all done, he stands up on the changing pad, stretches out his arms, and falls into me to get down. Last night he added a twist. Before he fell, he very seriously put those pudgy little hands on either side of my face, and pulled me towards him. I'm fearing for a nibble to my nose, but I thought that I would see where this was going. He gave me a kiss, with a little kiss sound, on the tip of my nose! Nothing sloppy or wet, but just a cute pucker and peck. He was so proud of himself, and was all grins.
Now that he was satisfied that we were done, we went through the routine. I was walking him over to his crib, and he grabbed his beanie bear, BoBo, from the ledge of the crib. He pushed the bear towards me, which I assumed meant that I was supposed to kiss the bear. Nope, not in Son's plans. He had the bear kiss me, with the same little kiss sound, and then he got me again. Son then snuggled into my shoulder before I put him down (which is getting harder and harder these days). I covered him up, and he said "night night" as I shut off the light and closed the door.
Son is affectionate, but never usually like that. He doesn't do that kiss thing with anyone else but me, which I have to admit that I really love. It's our little thing. I need to remember this type of stuff when he's dumping his entire plate on his head and on the floor. You know, with the meal that has a lot of tomato sauce.
I think I'll still keep him.