April 30th, 2010 by

The door opened and Chris was escorted in by one of the nurses.  He was wearing a bright blue jumpsuit over his clothes, and a face mask to prevent germs from entering the operating room.  My hands, which had been held by one of the nurses (because I asked her to hold my hand because I was scared, I’ll admit it), fluttered animatedly and reached for Chris.  

"She’s on her way," I said to him as he took his seat up by my shoulder.  He and I were both above the sterile field, listening to the sounds of the procedure as the anesthesiologist gave us the play-by-play as she peeked over the curtain towards my belly.

"Your daughter is almost here.  Just a few more minutes now," she reported.  I could hear her smiling underneath her mask, despite the fact that I couldn’t see her face. 

My body was completely numb, but I could still feel the pressure of what was taking place down there.  It was like having dental work done, where you can’t feel the pain but you feel the pressure.  I felt them shifting things about inside of me, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.  

My obstetrician’s voice rang out from below the sheet.  "Ready, Mom and Dad?  She’s just about here!"

Chris held my hand, and I felt this enormous shifting inside of me.  And then the sweetest sound I have ever heard broke through the din of the operating room.  The sound reached into my heart and my mind and wrapped around the most vulnerable parts of me and closed tightly, making me feel safe and terrified and excited and … ready.  All at once.  

It was the sound of my baby’s first cry.  The child I had been hoping to have for as long as I can remember.

My daughter.

Chris said I burst into tears instantly upon hearing her cry.  I don’t really remember all of the details – everything became somewhat of a blur at this point, as the anesthesia worked in combination with the euphoria I was feeling.  A nurse came and asked Chris if he wanted to help wash the baby off.  He took pictures of her while she was being cleaned and weighed and swaddled.  The nurses working on me kept asking if I was okay, and finally let me take off my oxygen mask.  The surgical team worked to put me back together down there. 

So much was going on, but the only soundtrack I could focus on was the sound of my daughter, crying with all her might and proving that her lungs were strong and healthy.  

Suddenly, this little creature was brought to me, wrapped tightly in a white and pink striped blanket, a yellow hat on her head.  She was pouting with her full, little lips, her chin quivering just a little bit as my husband put her in my arms.  

"Oh, my baby.  It’s you.  I’m your mommy.  I love you."  I remember murmuring the same sentences to her, over and over again, marveling at the fact that this tiny baby was just tucked inside of my body, and now she was breathing the same air as me, nestled between her mother and father for the first time in all of our lives.

Even though it took about 40 minutes for the surgical team to close me up and finish the surgery, I was completely absorbed by my child.  Her long eyelashes and her tiny nose.  I thought about how hard I had worked in efforts to make my baby healthy and strong.  How hard I would continue to work to ensure that she and I, and her daddy, would have a long, healthy life together.  Diabetes wasn’t part of these moments.  My heart didn’t have room for anything that hurt.  I couldn’t focus on anything but this incredible moment.

I looked at Chris, who was staring at his baby with wide, tear-filled eyes. 

"This is our baby, Chris.  She’s ours.  We did it."

He kissed my forehead, then kissed his daughter’s forehead.  

"We did." 

Source: Six Until Me.

April 30th, 2010 by

(I’ve tried to write her birth story with more precision, but I’m a bit of a rambler, so this is a two part post.  Had to be.  I couldn’t edit myself down enough.)

The evening before my c-section, I was a complete wreck.  I’d never had any kind of surgery before (except when I was four years old – I had accidentally stepped on a sewing needle and half of it broke off in my heel, so I was put under to have it removed.  Ew.).  I’d never even had an I.V.  You’d think that, after living with type 1 diabetes for over 23 years, that I’d have had my share of hospitalizations and needly bits, but I was relatively green when it came to anything other than insulin and pump sites.  

So I was freaking about the surgery.  In addition to feeling really nervous about becoming a mom.  

But technical stuff first:  Thanks to a wicked allergic reaction that I had to the heparin injections (oh itchy rash that cropped up everywhere that I had injected the heparin – scratchy town!), I was taken off the blood thinner the Monday before surgery.  As a result, I was safely able to plan on the spinal block only, instead of being put under fully.  I was hooked up to an I.V. line for fluids at about 10 pm on Wednesday evening, which also served as an emergency glucose drip if I happened to go low overnight.  (Likely risk, since I was unable to eat or drink anything after midnight.  I was in Gremlin mode.)  

I went to bed on Wednesday night connected to the I.V. pole, with a blood sugar of 109 mg/dl and my baby kicking away inside of me.

And at 5:30 am on Thursday morning, I woke up to take my last shower as a mom-to-be.  The surgical team at Beth Israel requested that I shower using a special antiseptic soap to prepare my skin for the procedure, and after my shower, the nurses came in to connect the insulin drip and disconnect my insulin pump and Dexcom sensor.  (The Dexcom was on my right thigh, and since everything from the breastbone down was part of my "sterile surgical environment," I was asked to remove the 15 day old sensor in efforts to keep things pristine.)  

At about 6:30 am, Chris and I went up to the labor and delivery floor of BIDMC.  I was told to dress in the stylish hospital gowns and lose all of my undergarments (though I petitioned for – and won rights to wear – my socks, damnit).  The nurses wheeled me into the triage room, where Chris and I waited for my OB/GYN.  While we waited, the nurses carefully monitored my blood sugars with my personal meter, and I watched as my nerves caused the numbers to rise.  Actually, my climbing blood sugars delayed the surgery a little bit, because my medical team wanted me between 80 – 110 mg/dl for the surgery, and I was cresting up towards 160 mg/dl.  But once I was holding steady, my OB (Dr. A) came in and said we were ready to administer the spinal block.

I went into the operating room alone, because Chris wasn’t allowed to be present for the epidural (in efforts to keep the environment sterile.  Not that he’s dirty or anything, but still …).  The epidural was one of the things I was most nervous about.  A needle going into my spine that would cause me to lose all feeling below the waist?  The thought made my stomach lurch.  

My wonderful OB knew I was bordering on a panic attack.  She stood in front of me and held my shoulders steady as the anesthesiologist prepared my back for the spinal block.  

"I’m really nervous," I said.  My legs were shaking uncontrollably.  There were about 12 people in the room, and I had only met five minutes earlier, and I was feeling exposed, in just about every way.  The room was almost completely silent as the medical team prepared to operate.  On me. 

"Can someone say something?  I’m starting to freak the hell out here.  How about some jokes?"  I couldn’t stand the silence.  I needed someone to fill the air with nonsense, and I couldn’t provide that noise myself.

The doctor leading the surgery piped up in his British accent.  "I’ve got one.  What has more spots than a leopard?"

"What?"  I wanted to focus on the punchline, not the needle easing into my back.  "More spots than a leopard?  I don’t know … a thirteen year old boy?"

The surgeon laughed.  "That’s not too bad.  But it’s not the answer.  What has more spots than a leopard?"  He paused for dramatic effect.  "Two leopards."

The needle went in.  I felt the numbing solution spreading through my legs, making them feel warm and slippery and fading.  

"That’s what you fill this awkward silence with?  That’s almost horrible," I said through staggered breaths, still completely afraid of the surgery to come.  The surgeon laughed at me again.  "It’s true, though.  Two leopards definitely have more spots than the one."

The epidural was starting to take effect, and the team helped me lay on my back and relax my legs.  Unfortunately for everyone, the c-section required me to be naked from the sternum down, so basically everyone in the room had a bird’s eye view of parts of me I personally hadn’t seen in several weeks.  A catheter was set up, a drape was established to block my view of my belly and to keep the lower half of my body sterile, and I was ready for surgery.  Ready for my baby to arrive.

"Where’s Chris? Will he be here soon?"

"He’s coming in now.  And your daughter will be out in just a few minutes.  Are you ready?"

(To be continued in Part Two.  )

Source: Six Until Me.

April 30th, 2010 by

The 2010 DiabetesMine Design Challenge closes for entries at midnight tonight!  What? You didn’t expect me to post about anything else today, did you?

I’m afraid I can’t really think about anything else right about now.  Too excited to see what happens when the clock strikes twelve… So at the risk of sounding repetitive — in [...]

Source: AmyT

April 29th, 2010 by

Nan from My Pump Gear is today’s guest poster, and she does such a great job of introducing her post that I’m going to just hand it over to her.    Take it away, Nan!

*   *   *

Okay … I am thrilled to be a guest here @sixuntilme!!  Kerri’s is the first diabetes blog I started reading.  I remember searching for answers to my questions like  “How in the world does a 3 year old wear an insulin pump?”  And there she was!…talking about diabetes and fashion!  Well, I scoured her sight and archived posts until my eyes were bloodshot.  It was the starting point in discovering that my daughter, Claire, can actually live a full and happy life with, yes … diabetes.

When this opportunity arose to be a guest poster here, of course I thought of the exposure for our little business, My Pump Gear.  And, then I thought well maybe I just need to share our 8 year old daughter’s diagnosis story.  But, I’ve done that in several different ways online already.  So, if you’re interested, you can find our business here:  My Pump Gear and our diagnosis story here. 

What I really want to share is a story of connection for me, a mom of 3, whose youngest happens to have type 1 diabetes.

“Twitter? Who has time for that?”

“What can possibly be written in 140 characters that’s worthwhile?”

I remember having those exact thoughts as I set up an account.  I thought it would be good for business, although I had no idea how or why.  I went through the motions and began “following” people in relation to diabetes.  And then I noticed someone whose location was the Monterey Bay area.  This intrigued me.  That location is like my second home, so I “tweeted” @notsostilllifes.  I don’t remember exactly what I wrote.  But it started a conversation.

That was nearly a year ago.

Since that time, twitter has become my go-to source for encouragement, inspiration and answers.  It has connected me to a virtual support system.  Parenting a kid with diabetes can be lonely.  And, though family and friends offer their love and support, no one can truly relate to the constant of diabetes except those who live with it too.   This diabetes online community, via Twitter, Facebook and countless blogs fills a void.   

Last Friday, I had the opportunity to meet Melinda (aka @notsostilllifes) and her husband, Scott…live and in person!  It was a D Mom Tweet-Up, as we called it.  We got to visit for a couple hours. It was wonderful!  We talked diabetes, of course.  But we also talked about all of our kids, sports, school, our lives.  

If you’ve ever communicated with Melinda at all, you will agree that she is a wealth of information when it comes to parenting a type 1 kid (and sea glass hunting too…but that’s an entirely different post!)  Her son, Michael, will soon be off to college next year.  He has had type 1 diabetes since the age of five.  Michael was to join us that day and meet with all of us too.  But other demands prevented him from traveling around the bay that day.  We look forward to meeting Michael (aka Captain Insulin) on a future visit!  He has the perspective on diabetes that we all should have.

It was interesting … while visiting, Melinda would begin explaining something and I would think, Yes, I know that about you or I remember that story.  You see, even though we had never seen each other in person, I felt as though I was meeting an old friend for the first time.  There was a bond between us already, even before our meeting that day!

Connecting with others in similar life situations is so important.  I felt pretty isolated when it came to diabetes … for years after Claire’s diagnosis.  The type 1 families we knew were very few.  We craved interaction with people who really could understand what this disease means to our family.  Who knew that support was literally just a mouse click away?

I look forward to our next D Mom Tweet-Up!  Oh and, now, when people roll their eyes at the mention of Twitter … I just smile and nod.  : )

Source: Six Until Me.

April 29th, 2010 by

I loved D-psychologist Jessica Bernstein’s assertion that aiming to control your blood glucose levels with diabetes is a lesson in frustration. Rather, the best we can hope for is to influence our BG “by combining enough insulin and exercise to burn the sugar,” she says.
Right on, Jessica! — which is I’ll talk about [...]

Source: AmyT

April 28th, 2010 by

I wish I had the chance to meet up with Traci when Chris and I were out at Sundance in January, but our schedules never synced up.  But thankfully, she’s offered up her words as a guest post today, and I’m grateful to have her filling in with her perspectives on being the wife of a person with type 1 diabetes.

*   *   *

I remember sitting on that hard plastic chair in the doctor’s office. The list of things we had to do before the wedding just running through my head. And you, so calm, but running your thumb softly over my knuckles. You knew what he was going to say. You had been living with this disease for so many years. I only thought I knew. I had worked with patients on the floor of the hospital who had diabetes. I got this. I understood this. A quick glance from you reassured me that we were going to be okay.
 
The doctor came in and sat down in front of us, paused for a minute and then looked at the chart sitting on his desk. He cleared his throat and then said, "First off, let me give you two my congratulations. However, I wanted to meet with you both, but most especially you Traci because there are some things that you need to know–that you will want to know as your marriage progresses. Diabetes will largely be your husband’s responsibility, but you will find that it will become a family affair and you will have a large part in it as your marriage progresses."
 
And then came the lecture. The fact that Scott had had diabetes for over 20 years and had no long term effects at the time. The fact that I had to look forward to thyroid problems, kidney problems, amputations, and impotence?? (Is that word even in a soon to be newlywed’s vocabulary??) I left armed with a dictionary sized amount of carb counting materials, diabetes booklets, and the smiley and sad faced chart that showed what signs and symptoms of hypo and hyperglycemia were.

The starry filled eyes of early marriage began to wane into the look of silent long term understanding, disappointment, and joy we came to recognize when we would look at each other.
 
The silent look we gave each other when we couldn’t get health or life insurance because Scott chose to pursue his dream of owning his own business.  

The look we gave each other when we found out how much an insulin pump would cost out of our meager newlywed pocketbook wages.
 
The glance when we were told we couldn’t get pregnant for years.
 
The surprised look when we saw those two dotted lines–a few short months after going off birth control.

Our first baby girl, and a few years later our first baby boy.

Our first house.

Saying good bye to our first house.
 
And signing for the second.

The comforting look of relief when you wake up and realize that I’m sitting next to you on a bed surrounded by tubing, IV pumps and bright lights after having an insulin reaction.

The tired looks we give each other as we grab not the alarm, but the meter at 3:00 am in the morning.

The weary glances we give each other when another and another and yet another medical bill come in the mail.

The look of pain depending on who got the pleasure of sleeping on the insulin pump most of the previous night.

9 years. Two kids. Two dogs.

Also two hospital admissions, two trips in an ambulance that you don’t remember (but for some reason wish you did), and two different career moves. Looking back to 9 years ago when we sat in that same chair that sits in the doctors office today, I wouldn’t change any of it. I’m actually grateful for it. And most especially, learning that your doctor was right. Diabetes is something you deal with and manage day to day, but it is a family affair. You are the one that shows me by example everyday that diabetes isn’t something that your going to allow to take over your life. You live with it, and you learn from it. And you don’t let it define who you are. Our kids have learned lessons on compassion and love that no book, no authority could ever teach them. And I have learned that love isn’t just some word you throw around each day. It’s much, much deeper than that.
 
Has it really become a family affair? In small ways I guess. I count the carbs for my dinner or dessert creations that you either happily or willingly try to consume to be nice. I order the insurance supplies and call to question the bills that arrive in the mail. You report about your doctors appointments, manage your day to day care, pump site changes, and invite me to wake you up at 3:00 in the morning to poke you in the event that you forget (which you quite often do, even when your son turns on that bright bathroom light in the middle of the night that you don’t seem to notice). I entertain the kids when you have a sick day, hold them while you are taken away by ambulance, and check your blood sugar hourly for two days because you, yourself aren’t able to do it. But while the doctor missed a lot of what our life would be like, he missed the most important thing. He never said how much your diabetes would bring us closer together. And I thank diabetes for forcing us to tackle the hard issues we may not have wanted to face, or may have put off. For sitting us down together at a computer each day to write about how we feel. For talking about the trivial and the serious parts of diabetes. And most especially, thank you, diabetes, for making us stronger through the hard times.

*   *   *

Scott and Traci are owners of the site DiabeticParents.org and write from their separate and combined perspectives on what life with diabetes is like on their blog http://blog.diabeticparents.org. Scott has had Type 1 diabetes since the age of 4 and was diagnosed with Addison’s disease at age 19. He works as a sales manager and loves that it allows him to pursue his favorite sport of golf. Traci works with Utah Diabetes and the Faces of Diabetes and owns the site www.BurntApple.com. She teaches cooking classes and does regular appearances on her local television morning shows. They have two kids and two dogs who have this weird belief that they are kids in the family too. And are treated like it.

Source: Six Until Me.

April 28th, 2010 by

Jessica Bernstein wants to take “control” out of the diabetes vocabulary. So read the headline when she was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle last week. Jessica is a San Francisco Bay Area psychologist who was diagnosed herself with type 1 diabetes when she was just a year old. She’s spent much of her [...]

Source: AmyT