Goin' through the Big D and I don't mean Dallas

If you had asked me a year ago what I predicted would be my biggest worry or concern about getting Diabetes, I would have probably said, "Making sure I don't die." 

My stupid pancreas had up and decided to stop working as hard and I was faced with trying to manage diabetes having no clue what I was doing. When I was first diagnosed, I was in what "they" call the Honeymoon Phase. The Honeymoon Phase could last anywhere from months to years. I didn't want to start injecting myself with insulin, so I asked my doctor what I could try. She told me to cut out ALL carbohydrates from my diet. 

Challenge accepted. I stopped eating carbs. I weighed my food. I wrote down the number of carbs in everything I ate or drank. Everything. Just like I was told, I checked my blood sugar exactly two hours after I started eating. I eliminated things from my diet that made my blood sugar spike. Sweet potatoes were on that list. *Sigh* So were french fries, beer and smoothies...all fruit, actually. And my beloved daily glass of Tropicana Pure Premium Low Pulp Orange Juice.

I was "good" at Diabetes. I was kicking its butt. The competitive side of me was glad I was "winning". It was a nice distraction from actually dealing with the fact that I had somehow gotten Type 1 Diabetes, often called Juvenile Diabetes, at the age of 34. 

Then, almost exactly six months later, I was down 30 pounds from my heaviest weight. My blood sugar was still out of control even though I was living on meat, cheese, nuts and veggies. And wine. Lots and lots of red wine. You know, because it's low-carb. I craved sweets so badly that I bought mint chocolate chip ice cream flavored sugar-free gum and cried as I chewed it up while sitting in my car in the Target parking lot. Ahhhhhh, memories. 

At my request, my new endocrinologist (the other one was an asshole) agreed to hold off on prescribing insulin. She understood my desire to try everything else before admitting defeat and using insulin as a last resort. I knew that once I started using insulin, I would be using it for the rest of my life.

Within weeks of trying several oral medications (and realizing that they weren't working and the side effects sucked and there may have been a complete meltdown in a Kroger parking lot) I had lost 5 more pounds and knew the Honeymoon was over. 

Queue Insulin. And tears. Lots and lots of them.

The one year anniversary of my Type 1 Diabetes diagnosis was August 3. It's hard to believe it's been a year. It's hard to believe I have Diabetes. I don't cry as much about it, although I do get frustrated when my blood sugar goes up or down when it's not supposed to. I don't obsess about the why or the how as much as I did in the beginning. I haven't      OD'd from giving myself too much insulin. So there's thaaaat. Those are all things for which i am thankful. 
And then there's the ridiculous amount of my own money that I've spent on co-pays, prescriptions, gas and parking garage fees. Yes, parking garage fees. You know your life has changed when that two dollar parking fee starts to matter.

If you had asked me a year ago what I predicted would be my biggest worry or concern, I would have been wrong.

The Diagnosis

The phone call that changed my life came around 8:30 on a weekday morning. It was my doctor. My actual doctor called me. Doctors don't call patients. Or, at least, I had personally never received a phone call from a doctor at 8:30 on a weekday morning.

I thought to myself, "This can't be good."

The week before, I had gone for my annual well-woman exam and, as usual, had a full blood panel done. My doctor informed me via email that my blood glucose was abnormally high and that she thought it was a fluke, but to be sure, wanted me to come back for another blood test to rule out any weirdness. I went back, had the blood test and didn't think much of it. When the nurse asked me why I was back again so soon, I explained to her that my glucose was high at my last visit and that it was probably because I had only had an iced coffee, no food, and it was probably the sugary creamer that had made my glucose high. 

She asked what my glucose was. "One-ninety," I replied. At the time, that number meant absolutely nothing to me. I kind of started to worry when the nurse said, "Honey, I could drink the entire bottle of creamer and my glucose wouldn't get that high." Ruh roh.

A few days later, I was standing in the kitchen of a house where I was house/dog sitting when my phone rang. I recognized the number as being from Medical City because of their unique string of numbers: 566-77XX. 

"Hi, Kelly?"

"Yes?"

"This is Dr. X. How are you?"

"Good! How are you?" (Why is my doctor calling me? Why isn't her nurse calling me?)

"Good...So, I got your blood work back and your glucose was still high. One-twenty one."

So, I was thinking, "Whew, down from 190, this is okay. You are okay."

Then she said, "The cut off for fasting glucose is one-twenty."

"Okay, so what does that mean?"

"Well, Kelly...I think you have Diabetes..."

All I could hear was my heartbeat. All of the stupid blood in my body rushed to my face and I  leaned over the granite counter tops to brace myself.

(In my head, I was thinking, "Saaaaaaaay whaaaaaaaat?!" "Did she just say Diabetes?" "Kelly, focus, she's still talking." "Get a pen." "Write this down.")

She gave me a list of endocrinologists to call to make an appointment with for more blood work and to have my A1c test done. A1 what? A1 is a steak sauce.
Or so

Bob: The Monkey Who Bit Me

It all started at the Anoconda Lodge in Puerto Maldonado in the jungle region of Peru. (Yes, we picked the lodge based on its name.) Blair and I had just finished a successful three day eco tour on the Tambopata River and had two days to relax before heading back to Cuzco. (The reason why I say it was a "successful" trip is because I didn't get eaten by a caiman or ripped to shreds by piranhas which was a ridiculous, yet real fear of mine.) 

Upon our arrival at the lodge, we were literally stalked by monkeys who wanted to hold our hands and climb on our backs. Scary and cute all at the same time. The owners of the lodge had exactly one monkey they kept as a pet. His name was Bob. Bob was present at every meal and was a regular fixture at the pool. He would jump in your lap, steal anything that wasn't tied down and was just so damn cute, you didn't mind that your sunglasses were now dangling from a high up tree limb because that's where Bob wanted to put them. 

We had several pictures of Bob and the other playful monkeys, but Blair wanted a picture of herself holding Bob. Our taxi to the airport was on its way to pick us up when we spotted Bob sitting by the pool. I casually walked over to Bob and put my hand out to pick him up to give him to Blair.  And that's when it happened. That little fucker bit me. Right index finger. Blood. FUCK. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I immediately dunked my finger in the pool, squeezed as much blood from it as I could and ran to the kitchen in the main house to wash it with soap and water. Fuck. 

Did I really just get bitten by a monkey? In Peru? Of all of the many ways I pictured myself going down on this trip, THIS was not one of them. 

I got the bleeding to stop and put a band-aid on it. The taxi arrived and we went to the airport. I found a "doctor" at the airport and she gave me some voodoo tree sap that was supposed to be like an antibiotic. I smeared that shit all over my finger and said a prayer. 

Throughout the next few weeks in Peru, I did not die or even get sick (well, not sick from the monkey bite, but I definitely got sick from the "ranch" dressing that was sitting in a dish on a table that I drizzled all over my pizza in Aguas Calientes). 

It wasn't until a year later, after being diagnosed with latent onset Type 1 Diabetes, when countless doctors and nurses asked me, "Have you gotten any infections in the last year?" that it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, Bob was the culprit.