Monthly Archives: November 2013

My First Stranger

My friend Di has started a blog, and she’s a pretty funny gal. I highly recommend a trip over to Talking To Strangers.. only a couple of posts yet, but well worth a read!

Talking to Strangers

His name was Tim. 

I don’t remember Tim. I don’t remember this incident. What I remember is my mother’s retelling of this incident. She found it amusing. She found me amusing, if her stories are any indication. 

Because the back drop for this story is Yakima, Washington, I must have been between my second and third birthdays. 

My dad came home from work one day bearing a ‘new’ tricycle for me. Really, it had been my older sister’s, but he’d taken it to a friend’s house for repairs and repainting. I’m cool with that. I was so excited about that tricycle that I leaped aboard and took off for my first road trip without looking back. I’m told that I was out of earshot instantly; my tiny legs moving faster than those of the grown-ups in pursuit calling for me to come back. And come back NOW. 

Legend has it…

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Sprouts, Poptarts and Humble Pie

001It was Friday night. The hubby and I needed some alone time, so we went out.  To the grocery store.

This is how you can tell our age and domestic status.  Married, four kids, pushing 50… yup, date night means a trip to the grocery store.

And because we are this family, with our various auto-immune challenges, ranging from gluten, soy and casein sensitivity to Vitiligo to Type 1 Diabetes, with some lactose intolerance thrown in for good measure, we were having our “date night” at Sprouts, the Valhalla of special ingredients, stocking up on gluten-free pancake mix, dairy-free “yogurt” and the all important Bio-K to balance out our digestive tracts.

Don’t worry, that’s as TMI as I will get about digestive tracts.

I always look forward to a visit to Sprouts, because with all the dairy-free, soy-free, gluten-free, MSG-free, hydrogenated-oil-free foods they offer, it feels like they speak my language. And a couple of times a year, they speak my language for half-price for a full 8 days, so that really makes it fun to shop there.

Except we missed the memo that this Friday night was “take your overwrought and fussy children shopping” night.

I heard him before I saw him.  I heard him running from one end of the store to the other.  From my position in the juice aisle I paused and looked toward the center aisle of the store.  Sure enough, I caught a glimpse of him.  A small, black-haired boy, running, just as his footsteps had suggested, full-tilt, waving both arms above his head yelling, “Mommy!  Mommy!  MOOOOOOMMMMMMY!”

Artwork by Erin

Artwork by Erin

He was not lost.  He was not distraught.  He was obviously having the time of his life.  I stood there with a bottle of organic lemonade in my hand and tried to project authoritative displeasure in his direction the next time he sped by the end of my aisle, but he went by so fast I barely saw him, so the “Thou Must Stop With Thine Misbehavior” vibes apparently bounced right off him.

I contented myself with packing things into my cart while vehemently thinking the things I would like to say to his mother about the importance of Keeping One’s Children In Check In Public Places.

Now, you would think, with four of my own, and with a small nephew who almost exactly fits the description of this little boy, apart from hair color, that I would have a modicum of sympathy.  Or at least understanding.  And see, NOW, from the comfort of my home, after the fact, I do.  I totally get it.  But I’m getting ahead of my story here.

Because at the time, I was supposed to be having ALONE TIME with the hubby.  And this whirlwind of a child was distracting me from my date.

In 20-20 hindsight, it does not escape me that while half the problem here might have been this boy’s mistaken assumption that the grocery store was a playground, the other half might very well have been my mistaken assumption that the grocery store was a venue for Quality Time With One’s Spouse.

However, at the time, it was all about how little his mother was doing to curb misplaced exuberance.

It didn’t help that there was another lady there at the same time with no fewer than six 5 to 8 year olds in tow.  I must admit that she was doing a spectacular job at keeping them polite and orderly, despite the fact that Whirlwind Boy was flying by with distressing regularity and tempting her youngest beyond the poor child’s ability to resist.  A quick, “Hold my hand NOW!” from Mother was necessary to prevent the hand-waving cavorting from becoming epidemic.

Which, by comparison, made Whirlwind Boy’s mother look even more lax in her duties and added fuel to my vehement mental fire.

I finally took refuge behind a display of Christmas treats, actually feeling thankful that they were on display two months early, since they made such an admirable shield from possible collisions with flailing five-year-old arms and legs.  There I waited for the ruckus to subside, and eventually it did.

My date, on the other hand, was bravely shopping for cheese as if nothing was amiss.  He’s bigger than me.

Once the store was quiet again, I assumed the Whirlwind Family had left the shore, heaved a sigh of relief and ventured out from my hiding place, rejoicing that while I was there, I had discovered gluten-free Toaster Pastries in two flavors.

I met back up with the hubby and we had a conference that went something like this:

ME: Is that it?

ALAN: Ummmm… I don’t know, can you think of anything?

ME: I don’t know. Did you get cheese?

ALAN: Yep, I got cheese.  So… what else?

ME: Ummm….. I don’t know.

ALAN: We should go home.  We sound pitiful.

ME: Yeah, we should go home. We can always come back later. After we have slept.

Let’s just say it had been a long week.

We made our way to the checkout, and as soon as we got in line, who should pull her cart up behind us but… yep, you guessed it.  Whirlwind Boy’s Mom.  With son.  And daughter, who was a slightly toned down version of her brother.

Our stuff was already on the conveyer belt, so we were stuck.  Whirlwind Boy ran around us and stood where we needed to stand to pay and struck up a conversation with the checker.

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?  HEY! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

The checker took it all in stride and chatted with him, while I, feeling slightly huffy, had to maneuver my cart around the boy to get it to the end of the checkstand.

“My name is Cory.  What’s yours?” bantered the checker.

“MY NAME IS COLIN!” he announced to everyone in the store except for those at the far end in the dairy section, who were probably out of earshot, what with the humming of the refrigerators.

He finally threaded his way between Alan and I to stand by his mother, who had been quietly but firmly trying to get him to return to her this whole time.  As he walked past Alan, Alan said, ‘Hi, Colin!”

The boy whirled around, mouth agape, and said, “How did you know my name?”

At this point, just like the Grinch when he hears the Whos singing in Whoville despite his attempts to steal Christmas from them, I began to feel the ice around my heart begin to crack.  Because this kid was undeniably cute.

I was still judging, of course, because when we are tired and not reining ourselves in and fall back on our natural inclinations, judging comes so much easier than, oh, reasoning, or empathy, or connecting with our fellow human beings.

“He has probably had too much sugar,” I mused, feeling superior because I never took MY children shopping when they were all sugared up.  (In order to think this way, you understand, I had to conveniently forget the Sideways Tipping of a Full Basket of Groceries Incident, as well as the one that involved a two year old colliding with a sweet lady’s cart of vegetables. And we won’t even talk about how an entire department store was locked down when another two year old of mine hid under a rack of girl’s clothing.)

Selective memory is so comforting, but it always comes with a price… that inevitable fall before which pride goeth.

Almost as soon as that judgmental thought had crossed my mind, the friendly checker grabbed a container of Organic Lollipops and offered them to Whirlwind Boy and his sister.

The sheer panic in their mother’s voice stopped my self-righteous self in its tracks.

“NO! No, please, don’t give them sugar!”

So.  Apparently this child’s behavior had nothing to do with the mother’s inattention to healthy diet.  The fact that she was shopping at a store that carries healthier food than most should have clued me in.  Apparently this mother knew all about the evils of sugar and red food dye and nitrates and all the other crazy-making ingredients being sold by Evil Big Business Food Companies.

Which left only one conclusion: this child was just like this.  All. The. Time.

Within a split second, I went from judging the mother to my heart going out to her.

This child was not a monster.  This child was a delightful, outgoing and very intelligent young man.  He was the type of piano student I love to teach, even though he would most likely fall sideways off the piano bench or get his fingers stuck in the lid while sitting on it.  The type of teen I love to have in my English classes, even though he would most likely stir up enough of a ruckus that building maintenance personnel would feel the need to remind me on a regular basis that There Is A Class Below Yours And You Are Shaking The Building.

ESTELA, Tratamiento Facial (2)

ESTELA, Tratamiento Facial (2)
(Photo credit: estelabelleza)

The type that is often misunderstood by the system and those who cling to the status quo, who gets shackled with labels and drugged into submission but ends up growing into the kind of adult who can change the world for the better. The type whose mother should be awarded instant Saint status when the child comes of age, along with a life-time membership at a spa and a free yearly vacation in Hawaii.

This is what Ty Pennington looked like as a child.

And apparently, it was very, VERY bad to give this child sugar and his mother knew ALL about that.

Without hesitation the checker whisked the lollipops out of sight with one hand and offered a box of stickers with the others.  Whirlwind Boy declined politely and commenced trying to hang upside down off the neighboring checkstand. Alan and I picked up our groceries and left the store, but not before I caught the mother’s eye and smiled at her.  A little nod of solidarity.  A little glance of, “Don’t worry, he’s awesome.”

And although she probably didn’t know it, a little moment of, “I am so sorry for judging you and I vow I will never, ever, ever do it again.”

Categories: Around Town, Diabetes, Family, Food | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Diagnosis: Diabetes. The Day of The Unraveling Of Mom.

stress strain redo

Stress Strain Chart: Wikipedia
Additional artwork mine. (I know, I know, it’s a gift)

Diary Entry from one week after Ryan came home from the hospital:

The crisis has passed, and we are now settling into our New Normal of Diabetes Regimen.  Ryan is handling everything very well, Alan is back at work, and we have recommenced school.  Everything is great.  I have nothing to complain about.

I am noticing, however, how very irritating people can be.  I can’t really explain this, but in the past few days, people have been so difficult to deal with.

Other people, you understand, not me.

It occurs to me that perhaps what is happening is that a combination of stress, sleep-deprivation and delayed-onset-motherly-freaking-out has begun to bring out in me my Inner Cranky Person.  I usually keep her well at bay (unless I lose something, but that only happens once in a while, and is TOTALLY UNDERSTANDABLE).

<Glares left and right just in a case a family member appears to say otherwise>

This week, however, my ICP seems to be making her voice known.  I worried about that for a few seconds, until I realized that I was too stressed, sleep-deprived and freaking out to really care, and reasoned that since I know many cranky people who live their daily lives requiring the world to walk on eggshells around them, it is actually possible to be cranky and not have the Entire World Blow Up.  Which is what I think, in the back of my mind, I believed would happen if I were to ever be impolite. So apparently, and I don’t remember actually doing this, but the signs are there that I have, apparently I decided at some point that it’s my turn to be cranky.

So here’s how today went:

<Fill this part of the post with errands all over town compounded by drivers being affected by the full moon and the fact that I was running these errands for a family member who was getting ready for a long-awaited trip, on which I was now not able to accompany her, given our current status of Newbie Diabetes Family, but I’m Mom, so I couldn’t act jealous.>

Extrapolate mood after that, factoring in a math lesson, once I got home, that was pretty much like this video:

Kid Snippets: “Math Class” (Imagined by Kids)

Also factor in the subsequent realization after this Math Lesson from Hades that I am going to have to enforce a gluten free diet with the child who struggled so much in the math lesson.  She had been on one in the past, but we eased her off it.  Let’s just say the symptoms have returned.  Lack of focus is one of them.

Giving shots is easy compared to policing gluten-freedom.  But I so NEED to have something else to do, so why not?

I finally tried to cook dinner, since my last two piano students mercifully stayed away for unknown reasons, (perhaps their guardian angels whispered warnings in their ears?) but we were out of hamburger buns, so I tried to call Alan to ask him to pick some up, but the son-of-a-goat-herder-phone-cord, which is long so that it can reach all over the kitchen, has reached that inextricably tangled state, and rather than calmly working on it while I talked to him, I just pulled as hard as I could on the ends in opposite directions and walked into the kitchen without really even looking to see if that worked, even though I knew darn well that brute force never works with the stupid cord when it is tangled.

And it hadn’t. So I knocked the whole phone on the floor, along with the stuff on the counter, which included my cell phone, which popped open, flinging its battery and cover all over the kitchen floor. Not to mention that the dang phone hung up at some point in all this violence, so I had to call Alan again, so at that point, the conversation went something like this:

Alan:  Hello! How are you doing?

Me:  Well the phone cord is tangled (still struggling with it) and it just won’t untangle (grunt) no matter what I do (grunt).

Inner Monologue:  This stupid cord! Why won’t it untangle? I’ll just pull harder! That’ll show it!

Alan:  Oh. (silence while he tries to figure out why I called him to tell him that)

Me:  Anyway, what time are you (grunt) coming home?

Inner Monologue:  It’s all Alan’s fault. It’s all his fault this thing is tangled like this.

Alan:  Um…  (silence while he tries to figure out why I am asking him this, since it’s the same every day)…  I should be there by 5:30.

Me : (Looking at clock for first time) Oh. It’s only 4:30. (grunt) Oh, I didn’t know it was 4:30. Never mind. I can get the buns myself.

desert & wine!

desert & wine! (Photo credit: ookalieoo)

Inner Monologue: I’ll go to Target. Then I can buy buns AND a cordless phone.  I’m going to buy some chocolate and junk food too and eat all of it with a glass of wine.

Alan:  Okay. Um. What buns?

Me:  (realizing I’m beginning to sound crazy) For dinner. Never mind. I can get them myself. I just didn’t know it was 4:30.

Alan:  Okay.

Me: My students canceled so…. anyway, I didn’t know it was 4:30.  Um…I have to go, bye. (hangs up before she does any further damage)

So I went and bought the ding-dang buns. No junk food, though, because when I got to the store, it inexplicably turned out to be the grocery store instead of Target.  And since I had foiled myself on my phone-replacement plan, I became sanctimonious and healthy and rejected all the rest of the promises I made myself over the cheese-whiffing phone cord and bought some nice vegetables instead of the junk food.

After dinner I could have kicked myself for not at least buying chocolate, however, and ate six somewhat stale cookies to make up for it.

And about halfway through the cookies I noticed that everyone had gone to the other end of the house, leaving me by myself, bringing me to the conclusion that embracing my Inner Cranky Person is all well and good, but there is actually a REASON that politeness is a better policy.

It has to do with not eating alone.

Categories: Diabetes, Family, Food, Homeschooling, Relationships | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Diagnosis: Diabetes. The First Night Home

Welcome Home

Welcome Home (Photo credit: Matthew McVickar)

Arriving home from the hospital was everything it should have been.  The dogs went wild.  The house had been cleaned by a parade of friends and relatives.  Dinner was delivered, piping hot, at dinner time by another friend, along with Welcome Home balloons for Ryan.  I was feeling pretty optimistic about things.

And THEN I decided to treat Ryan to some ice cream.  You see, I noticed that he was starting to feel deprived with all the carb counting.  Reality set in that afternoon when he wanted a snack, which has to be under 10g of carbs, and the first thing he chose was a cookie… too high a carb count for even one cookie, and the second thing was a bowl of cereal, until I pointed out that in order to stay under 10g he would have to have just 1/4 cup of cereal.  So I offered him carrot sticks, peanut butter and a slice of turkey, but that is NOT a typical happy 11 year old boy snack. At least, not this 11 year old, not yet. He ate it because he was hungry but then he was quite sad.

So I went to the store and bought some ice cream.  14g for 1/2 a cup (incidentally, the “low carb” ice-cream had exactly the same carb measurement as the regular vanilla.  Whatever.).  Then, when I gave him his bedtime dose, I added enough insulin to cover those 14g of ice cream and let him have a bowl.  He was very happy and felt very normal.  I was the hero.

White Board | 219/365

What the dosage equation looked like to me at the time.
White Board | 219/365 (Photo credit: mfhiatt)

Until Alan decided to review the numbers we are supposed to use in figuring the dosage, which change for the nighttime dose.  He found a note on the page that said you are supposed to cut the dose in half if it’s bedtime and you are adding insulin to cover a snack.  There are a lot of complicated math-type and detail-type reasons why this is totally not my fault, including the fact that although my oldest son claims he heard the trainer mention this particular detail a number of times, I never did.   I heard related details, just not this particular one.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  At any rate, my bedtime dose was one unit high.  My hero status began to teeter.

Well, okay, then, so just ONE unit, that shouldn’t be a problem, I thought.  But we tested him again just in case (which means another poke in the finger).  It was lower than usual, but still very normal.  Actually, it would have been a good number except that I’d never seen it that low before.   But still well within normal, so I sent him to bed and figured it was fine.

Then came the 2 am check.

We didn’t actually HAVE to do it, but the nurse had suggested we do it for at least a few days until we get good at this.  So I volunteered to do it, because Alan hadn’t slept well ever since this all started, while I had been sleeping a good 8 hours every night, even at the hospital.  (I chalk that up to my training in Youth With A Mission, where we often slept on a school bus driving through the night, two to a bench seat).

The short version of the story is that things didn’t go perfectly.  To really communicate the angst of how badly it went, I think it best to share an excerpt from an email I sent around 3 a.m. to my friend Di in Washington, who works night shift. And let me just give this disclaimer: Yes, good Christian girls do swear sometimes.

…So I get up at 2 am.  I almost go back to bed, because, you know, I checked his blood sugar at 11 and it was okay, but they said 2 a.m., so I make myself get up and go check it.

Now, this means I have to get out the meter, and a test strip, and the pokey thingy, all by the light of my cell phone because the flashlight was in Ryan’s room instead of where I would need it BEFORE I went in.  So now I’m irritated.  So I go in there, trying not to wake up Ian, grab the flashlight, sit down on the edge of the bed and try to simultaneously hold the flashlight while inserting a tiny little strip of plastic into a tiny flat little hole, all the while peering through two pairs of glasses because I don’t have my contacts in and need my reading glasses to read the meter, and my hair of course keeps falling across my eyes, obscuring my view.  I get the damn strip in the damn machine, shove my bangs under the ear pieces of one of my pairs of glasses and grab Ryan’s hand to poke him.  Can’t see well enough to figure out where to poke the damn pokey thingy, and end up picking a spot nigh unto impossible to get blood out of.  Not to mention that after I’ve squeezed it a bunch of times I discover that was the same finger we poked at 11.  Ryan’s too sleepy to be any help. So I get some blood on the strip, but it’s not enough so the machine reads “Error, use a new strip.”

Blood glucose meter and testing strips

Blood glucose meter and testing strips. Yep, I used about that many. (Photo credit: DeathByBokeh)

The bottle of strips, of course, is out in the living room because I, in my infinite wisdom, only brought one into the room.  So I get up, knock a couple of things over and careen out to the living room, grab another damn strip and put it in the damn machine.  Then I squeeze the damn finger again and test it. It’s still not enough blood and I get the same error. 

I still haven’t brought the damn strips into the damn room, so I go back out to the living room, grab another damn strip (still only one because at this point there’s no way I’m admitting this is not a good method) and shove it in the damn machine.  Squeeze the finger again, still not enough blood but this time I get smart and don’t use it on the strip.  Poke another finger and get blood everywhere, at which point I realize I forgot to bring a dainty little cotton ball to mop up with.  Whatever, I just let him bleed and get the damn blood on the damn strip and the damn machine says his blood sugar is 68.  Damn it, that’s too low.  So that extra unit of insulin we gave him DID make a difference. 

So I run out to the kitchen to get exactly 4 oz. of apple juice, because that’s what the book says to do and I was tested on that in the hospital so I know THAT number, anyway. I search for the tiny little juice glasses, because that’s what I always pictured using when we talked about this in training, but I can’t find any of them, and then it finally dawns on my befuddled brain that a coffee cup will do just fine if I measure the juice with a measuring cup first.  I run back into the bedroom with the juice and command the boy to drink it all.  This is more sugar at one go than he has had for days, and it’s his favorite apple juice, so he’s happy, but he actually starts to fall asleep before he has drunk it all. The nerve.  I make him finish it, belatedly hand him some toilet paper for his bloody fingers, and tell him I’ll be back in 15 minutes to retest him.

Then, I have to amuse myself for 15 minutes at 2:15 a.m.  I have finally found a valid use for the Words of Wonder game on Facebook.

Three games later, I go test him again.  Which means poking him AGAIN.  I pretty much hate myself at this point for inflicting so much pain on my child and hasn’t he gone through enough and why did I volunteer for the 2 am shift because I’m all alone here trying to juggle the flashlight and the meter and the damn strip and the pokey thingy and doing everything wrong.  At least I got a good drop of blood on the first poke this time, measured it on the first strip just fine, and the reading was 115, which is normal.   He rolled over and went back to sleep and I went out to the computer and played another game of Words of Wonder because so there I’m an adult and I can play it if I want to.  And then I realized my adrenaline was crashing and I was shaky, so I poured myself a teacup full of apple juice and drank it. If there had been a bottle of wine open I would have had that, but there was no way I was messing with a corkscrew given my recent ineptitude with the pokey thingy.

And tomorrow I have to tell Alan all this.  Except it will be, “Yeah, it was a little low so I gave him some juice and it came right up.  No big deal.”  I will have Ryan wash that hand before Alan sees it and all those nasty pokes will be our little secret.

At the time it was happening, I thought to myself, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to break down sobbing when this is over,” but I didn’t.  I played Words of Wonder and wrote an email.  Apparently this is how I deal.  I’m wondering if the breaking down sobbing that everyone seems to expect from me over this entire situation is never going to come, because I’m just not.  I’m just dealing. Things need to be done, and I am doing all the things.  

And I am playing unnecessary games of Words of Wonder at 3 a.m.

 

Categories: Diabetes, Family | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

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