Happy 2nd Diaversary to Me

Me and diabetes... we go way back. Back to two years ago. Today is my 2nd diaversary, to make up a word. Actually, I was diagnosed with diabetes on October 3rd, the day before Jim and Courtney's wedding, which is how I always (always meaning last year and this year) remember their anniversary. But my doctor wanted to run a bunch of tests before telling me if I was Type 1 or Type 2. Now I think "Duh, woman! Of course I was/am Type 1!", but I didn't know anything about diabetes then. I was just happy not to be dying of pancreatic cancer, which is what I thought when my doctor's office called me on my direct line in my classroom and told me my blood sugar was alarmingly high and to come in the next day for another test. I thought I was too old for the "kid kind" of diabetes (Type 1) and too young for the "old people kind" of diabetes (Type 2). All I knew was that one's blood sugar had something to do with a faulty pancreas, so I cried myself to sleep that night, gazing at my slumbering husband, thinking, "Well, babe. It's been a fun two years... I'll see you on the other side." A little morbid, I know. I've always been too dramatic on the inside.


I "celebrate" today, October 16th, as my diaversary because it was the day I was officially diagnosed with Type 1 and started on multiple daily injections of insulin. And it's the day before my dad's birthday, which helps me remember. It's also the anniversary of the day a certain Iraqi moved in with us, but that was three years ago, so that fact is actually irrelevant.  


Moving on!


I never really documented how it is that I originally found out, so I think I'll tell the story for posterity's sake, if nothing else.


Most people find out they have Type 1 diabetes when they black out or slip into a coma and get rushed to the hospital. I still praise God that I did not have that experience. I went in for a normal, ahem, female doctor's appointment on October 3rd, 2008. My sister, who was pregnant with my precious June Buggy at the time, had just had her blood panel done and had a little scare. She discovered that she was a carrier for the cystic fibrosis gene. It turns out that my brother-in-law is not a carrier, and everyone's fine, but it piqued an interest in my own genetic traits. Was I a carrier? Nathan and I were wanting to start a family soon, so I brought this up to my doctor and she ordered a blood panel for me. Three vials later I went back to school.


After the infamous we-can't-tell-you-exactly-what's-going-on-but-can-you-come-back-first-thing-in-the-morning-and-don't-eat-anything-after-midnight call to my classroom a few hours later, I was nervous. I knew that something was really wrong, but I chalked my anxiety up to my inner dramatic hypochondriac tendencies. 


I still remember what I was wearing to that appointment. A dress that my dad bought for me at Anthropologie. Brown tights. Brown shoes from Payless. I straightened my hair. I didn't wear any make up because I planned on crying when I was told about the cancer.


I remember sitting on the crinkly paper. The medical assistant pricked my finger, put the blood on the strip, and plugged it into the machine. I peeked over to see the number, not that it mattered. I didn't know what normal was.


256.


"Is that bad?" I asked. P.S. A normal fasting blood sugar is between 70 and 110.


"It's a little high," she said. "Are you sure you didn't eat anything?"


"I haven't had anything since about eight last night," I said.


The doctor came in soon after that. She was really nice, but she spoke really quickly and I stopped paying attention after she said "diabetes."  My brain was foggy.  I started paying attention again when she asked me if I had taken steroids or had cancer as a child. Um, no and no.


She asked me if I had been tired lately. I wanted to narrow my eyes and say, "Ma'am, I teach middle school. Everyone's tired." I remembered that week falling into a deep sleep in the car (Nathan was driving) on the way to a prayer meeting after dinner. Dreams and all. Needless to say, I had a hard time staying awake through the prayer meeting itself as well.


I just said, "I guess."


"Thirsty? Urinating a lot?"


I drank constantly since school started, starting with a tall glass of orange juice (aack!) with breakfast, thinking that I was thirsty because I was using my voice teaching a lot.  I was going to the bathroom with a full bladder between every class. My secretary kept asking me if I was pregnant. I just thought I was going to the bathroom a lot because I was drinking so much liquid


Over the summer when we were in Israel with Tim and Kristi, I went to the bathroom at least three times a night, but I thought it was just because I didn't want to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. The only bathroom in their apartment was off of their bedroom, and I had to creep past them sleeping in their beds to use the facilities, which was not something I wanted to do. Basically, I thought my own mind games were causing the problem.


"Will you get on the scale for me?" she asked


108.


What? I thought to myself. I don't ever remember being 108 pounds. Ever. That probably explains why my sister told me that I looked like I was 'carrying a dump' in my pants this summer.


"I'm surprised," I said. "We don't keep a scale at home."


"Well, the nutrients you're eating and drinking are bypassing your bloodstream and just getting flushed out. Your body thinks it's starving to death."


After the appointment, I managed to keep it together until I got to Nathan's office at church, which was just around the corner from my doctor. He closed the door and I burst into tears. "I have diabetes!" I cried. He wrapped me up in his arms and hugged me.


"Okay! It's okay! It'll be fine. You're fine. I love you." 


I know he was trying to be nice, but it wasn't helping. He asked me what type I had, but I didn't remember what the doctor said, so we did the only thing we thought to do, which was to look it up on Wikipedia. We saw pictures of nasty, infected feet and read about people losing limbs. More tears.


"It's okay! Even if you lose all your limbs, I'll still love you. I'll even dance with you. We can do a little dance and call it the diabetic shuffle." And with that, he poked out his elbows, mimicking the loss of his arms, and danced a little jig with the stupidest grin on his face.


I just blinked and then stared at him with my mouth slightly open. He wound down the dancing.


"Too soon?" he asked.


It hadn't even been 10 minutes.  Classic Nathan.


If you're new to the blog, and you care to read more about my journey with the big D, click here.

I went to Google images to find a decent picture to represent diabetes, and I found this. Hopefully I won't be needing suspenders to hold my belly up in the near future.


Oh, by the way, I'm not a carrier for the cystic fibrosis gene. :)