It has occurred to me (preceded by a bright flash of light and electricity) that quite a few of my posts have absolutely nothing to do with Diabetes. Because I can't seem to write daily posts exclusively devoted to my disease. Hell, I probably couldn't pull a weekly Diabetic post even if I made something up. To be honest, my Diabetes is fairly boring and sedate, with little deviation and/or surprises. So I end up wanting to pontificate on something marvellously inspiring, emotional, ingenious or funny that Rae has said...or complain about the driver I got stuck behind on the highway this morning...or how a guy called in at work and told me that he had to meet me because my voice is so sexy, and I totally shot him down (bad, bad me)...or how I lost the person I thought was my best friend because things got a little rough and he just copped out...or hell even how great my legs look in the killer heels I just bought. Things that aren't even related to the title of this blog.
There exists a reason for my lack of literary exclusiveness to my Diabetes, and it all starts right from the beginning. So, bear with me while I take you back in time fourteen years and a couple of months...to a story that I play a part in but am not the main character. The real focus, and the true heroine of this story is my mom.
And so, I bring to you The Most Partial Reason for Me (or, if you will, Why I am a Control Freak of Epic Proportions).
I was always a small kid. OK OK, the truth is I'm short, I won't gloss it over (although inside I'm a six-footer!). In 1991 I was a Grade 6 student, already going through puberty, in the "Gifted" class with a University reading level and an IQ measured above 140 when I was 8 (no, I'm not bragging; this all leads into the whole control-freak thing).
In a very short span of time (I remember it as about a month) my physical health started drastically declining. I went through the typical list of symptoms that are common-place in Type 1 Dx stories. Intense thirst, fatigue, lethargy, excess urinating, etc. etc. I lost so much weight in that month that I could wear clothes I'd worn when I was 7. (I recall being <60 lbs at Dx, but I was only 11 at the time so the memory is short on that) I didn't sleep, at all, for two weeks straight (welcome to the world of Insomnia) and toward the end I missed a significant amount of school. The mood swings, oh those were the greatest part. I had raging arguments with anyone who came near me, and even lost my best buddy since kindergarten as a result (I apologized for my behaviour afterward, but she was implacable). My mom's favourite story to tell involves a fight at two in the morning, in which I yelled at her that I was going to call the police and report her for child abuse and they'd come and put her in jail so THERE! I was the spawn of Satan, Dr. Jekyl one minute and Mr. Hyde the next.
My mom took me to see Dr. JackOff (our Family Physician) when all of this started. Dr. JackOff screwed up royally and misdiagnosed me, Big Time. He actually did an FBS, which came out (as I remember it) at about a 16.0 (288 for you Yankees). Dr. J, in his infinite wisdom and needing something to blame it on because God knows we wouldn't expect him to use his brain, told my mom that the incredibly high BG was a result of a sugary juice called "Beep", and sent us home. Thus, my evil twin was expected to disappear into MPD* land just as easily as the Beep was poured down the sink.
But, of course, I retained my alter ego and things continued to go downhill from there, quickly. For about a week before I was finally hospitalized, I could do nothing but lay in bed, puke my guts out, and munch on a box of candy hidden underneath my pillow. Yes, you read me right. A huge box of Rosebuds, known only to me, lay under my pillow for convenient pilfering in between bouts of vomiting. For those of you who are not Diabetes-savvy, I'll explain it in a KISS way. My pancreas had given out the ghost and the foods that I was eating could not be properly metabolized to give me energy. So my body was literally eating itself from the inside out. All my brain knew was that we were hungry, FEED ME, and sugary carbs such as chocolate gave a moment's respite. Unfortunately, the chocolate made matters worse by driving my blood sugar up even more and setting me on the path to DKA.
My mom took me back to Dr. JackOff and demanded that he find out why her daughter was a shrewish skeleton who couldn't keep any food down. Dr. J fumbled the ball yet again...but then an amazing thing happened. Dr. J's practice was hosting Med Students and Dr. J's sidekick-of-the-day questioned Dr. J's initial Diagnosis. That wonderful, teddy-bear-ish Almost-Dr. had the courage to question a more experienced (HA!) doctor's opinion and save my life. In the ensuing weeks, my mom was told on many occasions that, if not for the Almost-Dr.'s exemplary powers of deduction, I would've been dead within a week. If I could find that man today, I would hug him and promise him my first born child.
So, the Almost-Dr. swayed the Never-shoulda-been-a-doctor into having me hospitalized immediately. Just like that, I was admitted, placed on an IV...and so began my two-week stint in the Ped's ward of the Grey Nuns Hospital. The place where I met the best Ped's Endo in the World; the man who would, in turn, save my sister's life. And so the focus of this story shifts to my mom.
But, as this post has already become something of an essay, the rest is saved for another day...
*by MPD I am referring to the Multiple Personality disorder that was my evil alter ego at the time