Passed Out on the Bathroom Floor

I've made jokes about being passed out on the bathroom floor...I've been there a few times in the past. Mostly in the past when I could drink enough to get drunk. And it's a funny little anecdote or embarrassing story to tell when I've run out of stories about how I forget shit that I really should remember...you know, like fifty percent of the things my best friend tells me. I'm starting to think I should keep notes.

But I digress. (How unusual for me, right?)

Today I had the scariest fucking moment of my life. I thought it was last year when the midget was diagnosed, but I was totally fucking wrong. Today, when the midget passed out on the bathroom floor because of a nasty low blood sugar, that was pretty much it.

I've read about diabetic lows that result in black outs and seizures. I knew it would happen one day. It's impossible for a Type 1 diabetic with reasonable control of blood sugars to not experience a low blood sugar. Because no matter how precisely I count carbs and calculate insulin dosages, shit happens. Hormones play their fucked up little games, illness plays a part, exercise, rest, even temperature screws with insulin. I am not a machine, and I am not perfect. Unlike you and me, my daughter doesn't have a pancreas that does what it's supposed to do. I am her pancreas.

Let me repeat that for you: I am my daughter's pancreas.

Me...the woman who literally cannot remember ANYTHING! And I'm in charge of something as complex as regulating a hormone in my kid's body. Through math. This is a fucking joke, right? I have to keep my kid alive using math? Me? Seriously? This is someone's idea of a joke right?

I talked to her doctor...we went over what happened today, the carbs eaten and the insulin dispensed...and there's no clear mistake. There isn't something I can point to and say "Aha! Fucked up there, and I won't do it again." I spoke to some other Type 1 parents on an online group I'm a member of, and they each told me their story of how it happened to their kid, how bad they felt, and assured me that it wasn't my fault. The doctor assured me it wasn't my fault.

But I'm my kid's pancreas. My pancreas doesn't land me on the bathroom floor. Neither does yours.

I'm a shit pancreas.

It took hours tonight to convince the midget that she could sleep, that she would be safe, and that she shouldn't be afraid of the insulin shot I had to give her. She's finally sleeping now, and slept through the last blood sugar check...the blood sugar that told me I had to give more insulin, which means I won't sleep until we pass the three hour mark, the moment when the insulin peaks, and I can test her to make sure that the insulin didn't send her too low.

Fuck you, diabetes...fuck you...

Drugs

I think I mentioned that the my regular doc prescribed me some decent pain pills and referred me back to Stanford with some very real hopes of a definitive diagnosis, beyond the ones I already have, of course. So, for the last month or so I've been taking fairly high doses of narcotics, and yesterday I started getting panicked about addiction.

I've taken pain meds in the past and never had an issue, but what I'm taking now is higher dosages, and more frequent. Of course, my pain levels are significantly higher these days, as well...but that doesn't mean it's not a concern of mine, the possibility of narcotic abuse.

I spent some time on the phone today with my therapist, my doctor and a good deal of time on some internet forums I frequent for sufferers of chronic illness. My concern is becoming addicted...having an addiction, which of course, at this point I technically have. I have a physiological dependence on the narcotics at the moment. That became very clear to me today when I woke up in a pretty nasty state of withdrawal, because since I was panicking yesterday about addiction, I didn't take my pain meds. Which was a mistake. A big one.

I'm trying to readjust my thinking that being dependent on the narcotics right now is okay, that, yes my I have a physical addiction to them that would make it hard to stop cold turkey, but the same can be said of my antidepressants or mood stabilizers and I don't view that as a bad thing. In fact, the withdrawal from antidepressants is nearly as awful from narcotics. The difference, of course, is that you never hear about someone robbing banks or turning tricks to finance their antidepressant habit.

It's ironic, because I've labeled drug seeking in the past. I always laugh at that because there was a time when I did drugs...a very short time, long ago...but I did drugs. And my go to drug wasn't something that made me tired or loopy like narcotics do...it was speed, aka meth. I loved speed. I loved the rush, the energy, the clarity...I loved everything about speed...until I didn't. Until one weekend when I pushed it too far and realized that there was an ugly side, and it would be easy as fuck to end up an addict, and that wouldn't be fun. That was the weekend that I could easily see myself becoming someone I just couldn't bear to inflict upon the people I love. So, I quit...just like that, no rehab, no detox...I just stopped. I did it again one other time after the midget was born, while she was at her dad's, and thought...yeah I don't really miss this...well, the kitchen got really, really clean and I kinda miss that, but coming down was hell, and a damn good reminder that I wasn't 19 anymore.

Even when I did drugs, even when I was younger and actually thought an evening of getting drunk was worth the hangover, it was always in the back of my mind that my DNA was heavily loaded towards addiction. Both bioparents are addicts, now recovered addicts, but addicts nonetheless...and they came by their tendency toward addiction honestly, via their shared Irish heritage. So, I was never an every day drinker or druggie. I was too scared. And once the midget came along...I won't say I never touched anything again, but it's been seven or eight years since I ingested an illegal substance and over four years since I drank enough to be drunk.

So, yeah. I love the pain meds. I love that it gives me some relief from the constant, unbearable pain. But, what I would love even more is a pain relief treatment that didn't mean a chemical dependence. I don't want to trade one set of problems for another. And there's a second side to having access to these pain meds that isn't very fun. When people know you have narcotics, they want them...not necessarily because they're in pain, but because they want to get high, so you constantly get people "jokingly" asking you for drugs...and I have a hard time telling anyone no, but I do it, and they still bug me. It's frustrating in the extreme. I get the drugs I get because I am in legitimate pain. And, yeah, I think this country's drug laws are stupid and that if people want to do drugs, the government doesn't really have the right to tell them no, but I get these drugs because I need them, and if I run out early, I don't get more, and being without pain meds when you need them is hell. So, giving them to someone who doesn't need them would be just plain stupid on my part...

And while I am prone to stupidity, I'm really trying to limit my stupidity to things that will eventually be amusing anecdotes...and sitting on the couch, crying in pain because I gave my drugs away...well...that just doesn't sound like it'll ever be that funny...

Baby, baby, baby...

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I don't like other people's children. I never have. I'm the girl who doesn't think your little darling throwing himself on the floor in the middle of the store to get that toy is cute. And I think you're a jerk for subjecting me to his screams and his dirty, snotty face.

So, I was always like that...I babysat a few times, and my BFF the Archaeogoddess had a little brother ten years younger that I saw from time to time, and I didn't have the desire to punch him. So, given that I didn't really like kids, I didn't really plan on having them. But, then...uh...whoops...and there was the midget. And she was awesome. But I knew a lot of that is that built in biology thing, that moms are sort of programmed to love their kids. Which is good, because she wasn't an easy baby, and I'm not a patient woman. But I learned. I learned when to walk away, undeniably the single most important lesson I learned as a new mom.

But falling in love with the midget didn't mean I fell in love with all kids. I was still one of those women who didn't really like other people's kids. And since I was youngish when the midget was born, it wasn't like my friends had kids or anything. So, I loved the midget...but that was it. I liked the midget and other people's kids were annoying and frequently smelly and rude.

Okay, so then...I had a niece, and then another one, and then another one, and then a pair of nephews. And I finally fell in love with kids, at least these kids. I love them because they're my babies as much as the midget is my baby. I comfort them when they skin their knees, put them on time out when they bop their cousins, and make sure they talk to their mommas with the respect a mom deserves. In return, I get sticky hugs, pre-chewed food in my hand and that beautiful feeling when I walk into a room and one of them shrieks delightedly, "Auntie Doda!"

I've got babies on the brain tonight, in part because my beloved Archaeogoddess is getting closer to her due date, and it's killing me more than ever to be so far away, because I'm already in love with that baby, and I want to be there to see her come into the world, but also because my youngest niece is coming to visit with the fam this weekend with her grandma. Because her momma, my baby cousin who has been in some pretty dark places, stopped taking the medication that makes her capable of functioning and she's back in the hospital, and I don't know for how long, but I'm so beyond thankful that she checked herself into the hospital and that she's getting the help she needs, because that baby needs a momma, and I'm not interested in losing one of my cousins.

I still don't know if I like kids, necessarily, but I do know that certain kids have the power to steal my heart. I know that I'm thankful that my youngest niece has the family she has to shield her and cocoon her now while her momma is going through the dark times again. I know that I love a baby who hasn't even been born yet, just as I love the midget and her cousins and I know that my life would be a sadder, darker place without the babies I love so much, and I know from my own struggles with the darkness, that there's no better incentive in the world to fight the depression than your children. So, while I'm thankful for my baby niece for her own precious little self, I'm beyond thankful that she is here to give her momma a damn good reason to fight and get through this, get the help and get better.

Just Another Manic Monday...erm...Tuesday...

Let’s talk mania, my friends. The flipside of my bipolar coin. When I was healthy, before walking was a tortuous task, I’d use my mania somewhat productively…clean something while listening to my iPod, do something, anything. I’d do anything to keep my mind from torturing myself…shop, talk, eat, have sex…anything.

But, now, with this body of mine that betrays me, with my responsibilities toward Cass, know I can’t just take off and do something crazy, even if my body cooperated. So now, I lay in bed at three in the morning, my mind racing, replaying conversations from years ago, thinking of all the things I’ve said, or should have said, or wish I hadn’t said.

I lay here in my bed, my brain racing, my body tensing slowly, insidiously, until every muscle is locked, every joint Is tensed and I’m nearly crying from the pain. So, I breathe, try to clear my mind, and relax minutely, and then before I know it, I’m tensed again…teeth grinding, every muscle locked in agony.

I hate it, I hate this. I hate going over and over the end of the relationship with the exgirlfriend, I hate replaying conversations with the midget’s father over and over. I hate remembering every hateful word anyone has ever said to me, but I do it. I dwell on fights I’ve had, I dwell on the ways I’ve hurt people or people have hurt me. I hate remembering every dirty horrible moment of my childhood, I hate remembering being scared and dirty and sad. But my brain won’t shut up. I can’t even read when I’m like this. Forming complete thoughts is nearly impossible. It makes me crazy. I just want it to stop.

In the past I’ve hurt myself, taken drugs, eaten everything I could get my hands on, just to spend an hour in the bathroom purging it from my body. I can’t do those things anymore, but I wish I could find a way to make it stop. I know hurting myself isn’t an option, but it makes it stop, makes my brain slow down so I can breathe, I can think and feel like myself again. I know I shouldn’t hurt myself…I know I shouldn’t, but I want to. So, instead I grabbed my laptop and I’m writing this…trying to reach out, trying to be out and open and honest so that maybe someone somewhere will read this and know that they aren’t alone, that it doesn’t just happen to them, and that each wretched manic night has an end, and it’s a reminder to myself that I am loved and deserving of that love, that people who love me will read this and understand me a little more.

Oh, Finally....

It's been a million years since I wrote a blog post, and even longer since I actually published one. Between Christmas, New Year's and the holiday hang over blues and nasty inflammatory flare, the last thing I've wanted to do was try to come up with pithy and amusing anecdotes about my sad little life.

I had a doctor's appointment about a week ago, and he FINALLY fucking got it...that I'm actually, truly in pain, that there really and truly is wrong (thank you, for something finally showing up in the lab work) and he gave me drugs, and referred me back to Stanford's rheumatology clinic. Which is good for him because if he hadn't I was going to cut that motherfucker.

So, I'm trying to take the drugs as little as possible because, after all, I'm a mom to kid with Type 1 diabetes, and I'm a full time student. (Well, hello, spring semester, where the hell did you come from?) And I'm awaiting the late February rheumatology appointment rather impatiently. I would give just about anything to feel normal again...to not have to psych myself up for five minutes just to endure the pain of standing up...to not be so tired that getting dressed lays me out flat.

I want to talk about something The Bloggess put up the other day...about not being ashamed of mental illness, and "coming out" and letting others who are suffering know that it's okay to get help. I'm bipolar and it took me years to get properly diagnosed because I only ever sought treatment when I was so depressed that someone forced me to admit that I needed help. I'm damn lucky that the years of being prescribed antidepressants that were not intended to treat bipolar disorder didn't send me over the brink and land me in the hospital or worse. It's not that I didn't know that not being able to sleep and talking a million words a minute and spending the rent money on frivolous crap were abnormal, it's that being manic feels good...until it doesn't. I also have anxiety disorder and suffer from panic attacks...it's why I'm awake right now, actually. I woke up in the middle of the night in a full blown panic attack, and though the Ativan has brought me down from the ledge, I have had so many nights when there were no drugs and I was too ashamed or scared to ask for help, and only the thought of what it would do the midget and the Archaeogoddess has kept me from hurting myself.

What prompted The Bloggess to "come out" was the breakdown and subsequent suicide of the husband of a fellow blogger. It's heartbreaking that it ever gets that far, that someone, for whatever reason, is too ashamed or frightened to seek help when something's not right. There's such a stigma attached to mental illness, and there fucking shouldn't be. My bipolar disorder is no less a disease than my Fibro, or my arthritis, but that doesn't mean other people accept it as such, or that I've always treated it as such.

My point? If something's wrong...get help. Staying quiet and suffering nobly is bullshit. And you aren't saving your family and friends by suffering in silence. Hiding that shit from them will hurt them and scare them far more than telling them and letting them help you. Trust me on this.

Come out. Get help.

Arthritis robbed me of my Christmas spirit

I'm trying to find my Christmas spirit. I've had it as I did all of my Christmas shopping online. I had it when I was sobbing over this amazing miracle The Bloggess inspired in so many people. I had it this weekend while I was making dough ornaments with the midgets and her cousins. I even had it as I was wrapping presents last night.

This morning, though, I woke up with a raging motherfucking arthritis flare. I can barely walk and there isn't a single position that feels comfortable or pain free. It's some bullshit, yo! I'm taking massive doses of NSAIDs and Tramadol and from time to time Vicodin and it's still agony. Makes it hard to think about Christmas and Santa and all that bullshit.

The only thing that's helping at all is singing this song at the top of my lungs, I don't know why...maybe it's the beat, which is truly groovy...or maybe it's yelling "Fuck You" at the top of my lungs.

Poor, neglected blog...

I'm such a bad, bad blogger. I haven't been able to find a few moments to write more than a thought or two at a time, certainly nothing that would even vaguely resemble a blog post.

My life is so full these days. The midget, school, family, doctor's appointments...it's a whirlwind. I'm supposed to be doing homework right now and instead I'm hopping around the interwebs like a squirrel on crack and listening to music with my younger sis.

I'm posting this song because it popped up on my iPod and I was struck again with the message. It's so totally how I feel about love and relationships. It's unfortunate that being honest and saying I don't use words like "forever" and "only" in reference to love means that I have spent years defending my decisions to never get married, or promise monogamy.

One of the exgirlfriend's many complaints about me was that I refused to get married. I never promised her forever, and that was wrong to her. The irony? She promised forever, and then left. I always took her promises with a grain of salt, because I think everyone wants to believe in forever, and think it's going to happen. I don't think she made the promises knowing that someday we would not be together. The things I've been through have taught me that your entire universe can change with no notice whatsoever. Everything you know and believe is ever evolving and adaptable. It is easy to say that you will love forever, but the reality of loving forever means that you love when the shit hits the fan, and that's so much easier said than done. It takes guts to stick it out when life hands you a crap hand, as it often does. It takes more strength than I have to love someone when you find out your vision of that person is very different from who she really is inside.

So, if you can't promise forever, does that mean that there's no point to loving at all? If you're more cynical than I am, then I suppose the answer is yes, but for me love is always valuable, even love that has an expiration date. I am a better person for loving the people I have loved in my life. And, frankly, just because someone you love stops being who you thought she was, that doesn't mean the love goes away, it just becomes something else. If you throw away everything you've learned and been because the love turns out to be something different than you envisioned, you're robbing yourself of all the glorious beauty life offers.

Anyway, this song always makes me think of people I've loved in my life, makes me wish that my "love you today" philosophy was better understood, and shared by more people.

Reason #862 I love the Archeaogoddess

A year or so ago, I got an e-mail from my most beloved Archaeogoddess with a link to a blog she thought I would enjoy. As usual, she was totally fucking right. And I fell in love immediately with The Bloggess.

This was the post that started it all. I was laughing so hard I was in tears. I spent the rest of that day reading through her archives and have been hooked since. Jenny, The Bloggess, is an amazingly funny, brilliant and irreverent writer. She has a beautiful soul, and a gorgeous smile. I love this woman. If it wouldn't require so much time and energy (since she lives in Texas of all the godforsaken places) I would totally stalk her. Though, since she's not a social butterfly and has a tendency to hide in bathrooms, it probably wouldn't be so difficult, come to think of it.

Anyway, since I'm doing my best to stalk her in the only ways available to me at the moment, I was totally on it when she made a Twitter request for favorite blog posts about Victor, the luckiest man in the world her husband. This was the blog post I immediately wanted to nominate, because it's fucking hilarious. Of course, I was in a pain induced fog, so I couldn't remember the name of the blog post or when it was posted, so I spent the day reading through her archives, and it kept me from crying. Because, seriously, the pain was that bad yesterday, but she's made of the awesome and can make anything better. Seriously, if I could bottle the woman, I would.

If you are unfamiliar with her blog, go there now and fall in love, and share her with all of your friends and family. Friends and family who can take a joke, because amongst some of her more memorable jokes are things like dead kitten mittens for the homeless. She also has an advice column and a sex column, both of which are equally hilarious.

Well, what the fuck are you still doing on this rinky dink little blog...go...spend the whole day reading The Bloggess' archives and fall in love.

Oh, Demerol...how I've missed you...

I ended up at the ER tonight...well, actually I guess it would be technically last night since it is now the wee hours of the morning, but since I have yet to sleep, we're going to call it tonight. Back off, okay, bitches? I'm on drugs...

Ahem...where was I? Oh, ER...that's right.

So, I awoke this morning feeling like roadkill, and not even fresh roadkill, more like two day old roadkill. Upon entering the bathroom and inspecting myself in the mirror (which, I now admit was a really bad idea) I noticed that apparently someone had filled me up like a water balloon while I was sleeping. My entire self was puffy...it was not pretty.

I noticed right off the bat that my hands were in more pain than usual and the knee pain...well, if I tell you that it took me about five minutes to get up the courage to stand up, would that give you an idea of how much pain I was in? Not pretty.

But, I'm a lone wolf these days...single caregiver of a Type 1 child. That means sticking it out as long as I can. I called and made an appointment with my doctor, but the earliest he could get me in was on Thursday and he didn't want to prescribe anything without seeing me. Fair enough, but I was in motherfucking pain.

Now, if you're new here, and you got here by googling "snake poo" you probably don't know (or care) that I have a host of health issues. The bottom line is that my immune system is a lifelong charter member the I Hate the Queen of the Universe fan club. It doesn't like me much and for reasons of it's own it attacks perfectly healthy tissue, pretty much at whim. It's already claimed my thyroid, wreaked havoc on my intestines and done irreparable damage to my knee joints. Basically, my immune system is an asshole.

What that means is that an infection...any infection...is going to fuck up my entire body. A normal person gets a cold and their immune system happily sends out little cold specific antibodies and that's that. My immune system goes haywire and while it fights the infection it also fights the healthy tissue. Like..."Hey, her bladder has bacteria and we should do something about that..and while we're at it, let's take out this tissue here, because it is totally time to remodel."

At about five this evening it became apparent that whatever was going on was going to need intervention, preferably intervention that involved a morphine drip and a bottomless margarita.

My regular doc (who is totally pissed at me because I've been very remiss in regards to my own health because of the midget's diabetes) was not going to do anything, so I called my cousin, and she came and drove the midget and I to the hospital where a very nice doctor took one look at me and said the most beautiful words a girl can hear.."would you like a pain shot while we wait for test results?" Um...does a motherfucking bear shit in the motherfucking woods? Hell yeah I want a pain shot...and can I get a couple in a doggie bag?

So, an hour and a bit of demerol later, the results came back that I'm suffering from a particularly nasty UTI (which, by the way, I had no symptoms of) and the resulting inflammation from my very over active immune system.

The nice doctor man, who at that was kind of fuzzy around the edges and who totally deserves some kick ass theme music...I'm thinking "Chariots of Fire"...gave me antibiotics and prednisone and percocet. I left the ER actually smiling and not in pain. I then went to Taco Bell and had the best motherfucking quesadilla ever.

It was decided by all present (meaning me, my cousin, the midget and my four year old niece) that it was probably not a great idea to send me home alone with the midget while I was hopped up on demerol, so I'm staying the night at my cousin's house and Charlie is totally fucking bent out of shape and keeps trying to get me to go home.

Of course, it doesn't mean that someone else is doing middle of the night checks for high blood sugars, no that's all me...but at least if she is high or low, there's another adult around who can supervise me and make sure I administer insulin, instead of say...vodka...which is also a clear liquid, but would be considerably harder to draw up into an insulin syringe...

Ah...it's 2am at last which means it's time to test the midget and then, hopefully, get some sleep. I sincerely hope this post makes sense...if not just disregard it, and I apologize for the five minutes of your life you wasted reading this. Five minutes that probably could have been better used watching internet porn or trolling Craigslist for meth or goats or hookers or some combination of the three...

Better...

This song got me through some very rough moments after the exgirlfriend left.




I am better. Happier. Just plain happy. I am strong again, for myself and for the midget. I am planning for a future that includes my family and my friends and the people I love so much who got me through those dark days.

Last night the midget had another of her breakdowns about missing the exgirlfriend. This after coming back from her dad's house and having had a similar breakdown in front of her dad. And I wish there was some way I could promise the midget that it won't hurt some day.

But, I can't. I lost a girlfriend, a lover, a friend...but she lost a parent, and I know how that feels, when you have a parent walk out on you. I know that for the rest of your life you wonder what you have done to make them stop loving you and what you could have done differently to make them love you.

I've spent years in therapy going over how it was never my fault, that my biodad bailing had nothing to do with me. I've discussed it with my friends, my new family...and I've even discussed it with my biodad. I know intellectually that it wasn't my fault...but, emotionally? Well, that's a whole other ball of wax. I know that so much of my self hatred comes from that feeling...that "how can anyone ever want me, when my own parents didn't?"

And I know it's different for the midget. She is surrounded by love daily. There has never been a moment in her life that she has been alone, or that she has doubted that she had people who loved her. But there is a part of me that asks...is this going to screw her up? Is this going to be the thing that breaks her so that she's constantly seeking approval from outside sources, like I am?

The hardest part for the midget is that the exgirlfriend is there peripherally. So, she sees the exgirlfriend for five minutes here and ten minutes there, but never alone and never in the parenting role. This is a woman she knew as her mother all of her fucking life, and now she gets to watch her be a parent to someone else's kid while she is pining for her mom. I could forgive the exgirlfriend for everything she did, the lies she's told the drama she caused...all of it. But, this? Watching my daughter go through her diagnosis and all of the hell she's gone through without her other mom? I can never forgive this.

I can only hope that my love, my family's love, her father's love will be enough for the midget. That she will be able to see and understand that the exgirlfriend's choices have absolutely nothing to do with her, but that instead the exgirlfriend is irretrievably broken in some deep way she cannot understand and I cannot explain. I can only hope that as the midget faces down the next few years of her life, arguably the most difficult years for any girl, that she doesn't internalize the exgirlfriend's choice to walk away as some sort of proof that she is not good enough, or that she is in some way undeserving of love.

I just wish there was a way that I could heal this for her and make it better, but I can't. I've tried. I've begged the exgirlfriend a million times to make time for the midget. I've offered to set up diabetes education so that she can have one on one time with the midget, and I've gotten no response. This is the one thing that never gets better.

Fuck off, Diabetes...

There will be no funny or witty in this post. I'm warning you now, and I'll likely take it down, but I need to get this out, need to know that someone in the universe is hearing me, and I need to do it in a place the midget can't see it. She doesn't read my blog. It's not allowed, and it's blocked on her computer. I do that so I can say nasty things about her other parents, post not so appropriate pictures of myself and have a corner of the universe that I don't have to censor myself in relation to her.

It's 1:30 in the morning, and we're having the worst diabetes week we've had since diagnosis. Insane blood glucose numbers, ever increasing insulin needs, ketone testing...and the endless blood sugar testing. My daughter is a pin cushion, and I hate myself each time I jam another needle into her skin, when she winces, but doesn't say anything, when it hurts badly enough that she says "Ow, that one hurt," it feels like razors cutting my heart to ribbons.

170 days since diagnosis. 170 days since I leaned against the wall in the hallway outside the emergency room and allowed myself the luxury of five minutes of tears. 170 days since I called the exgirlfriend and the midget's father in the middle of the night and told them to get to the hospital NOW! 170 days since I watched them strap my daughter to a gurney and load her into an ambulance. 170 days since I heard the term "PICU" and realized that's where my daughter was going. 170 days of trying to readjust to normal, and realize that nothing was ever going to be normal again.

170 means at least 700 finger pricks and 700 injections. And that's assuming that every day we only test four times and give four injections. Which never, ever happens. When she runs high, I give corrections, then check again to see if she's come down. When she runs low, I give sugar, then recheck to make sure she's gone back up. Not even six months in and she's had 1500 holes poked into her body.

I'm sitting here at 1:30 in the morning waiting for it to be 2am so that I can test her again, and then lay down and try to sleep, but I know that I will instead spend the rest of the night waking up every thirty minutes to make sure she hasn't gone low in her sleep, because she doesn't wake up when she goes low while sleeping, which could mean...I can't even bring myself to type the word, can't bring myself to use it in conjunction with my beautiful, precious daughter...but it would be bad, very bad.

On the other hand...when she runs high all night like she has all this week, I think about all that sugar in her blood, and the damage it's doing to her body, knowing that it's coating the blood vessels in her heart and her eyes and her kidneys, another layer of damage, bringing her that much closer irreparable harm. It sickens me, makes me physically ill, makes me want to scream and cry.

170 days of wishing that I could take her place for each finger stick and injection. 170 of wishing I could take away her diabetes. 170 of wishing there was a cure...

Exciting? I'll pass....

What's that saying about the worst thing you can do to someone is wish them an "exciting life?" Yeah, I tried to google it, but google's being an asshole and gave me NOTHING. It kind of fits in with the theme I've got going on this week.

Recent Events (in no special order, because that would require brain function I just don't have):

My Mom has been diagnosed with a Thymoma (tumor of the Thymus) and is now awaiting her appointment with the surgeon so they can cut open her chest and remove it.

The midget has been ill and has accordingly had the worst blood sugar readings she's had since diagnosis, including a meter reading which said HI...and yeah it said it all cheerful, like with big letters like it was an old friend I hadn't seen in a long time. Glucose meters are kind of assholey.

My younger sister had a birthday party at her house which I did not get to attend, due to the midget's illness and the havoc it's wreaking on it's illness.

I have been dealing with difficult blood sugar readings and am trying to complete three Excel spread sheets in four hours but due to my sleep deprivation, I keep surfing the web like a squirrel on crack.

Charlie erased about half of one the spreadsheets I was working on. Charlie's kind of an asshole sometimes...

I have become addicted to the show Veronica Mars three years after it was canceled thanks to the beauty that is Netflix.

I've discovered, through the aforementioned Veronica Mars addiction, a fantastic band called The Dandy Warhols and am currently obsessed with their music.

The midget's father has decided (finally) to go to AA and stop drinking. Said decision came the day after I spent an hour on Facebook chat trying to talk him down while I waited for the midget's blood sugar to drop under 400.

I didn't take my antidepressant for a day and I missed a dose of my thyroid med, too...and I was a total asshole for the subsequent two days, much to the dismay of everyone around me.


So, yeah...I'm kinda flailing here at the moment. I'm hoping this bug, whatever it is, that has the midget's numbers all wonky will resolve itself quickly.

Anyway, here's the song that got me hooked on The Dandy Warhols. You must love it, as I have loved it, and there will be joy.

See...I'm paraphrasing The Princess Bride. Clearly a sign of sleep deprivation.

We Used to be Friends-The Dandy Warhols

Enjoy this musical interlude

I've been a busy girl lately. School, teaching the midget, life...damn diabetes. All of that.

I don't have the time and energy for a real post, so here's some music to while away a few moments.



I'm currently obsessed with this song and it's driving the midget crazy. But it's awesome!!

Brand New Key by Melanie


And this, too. Though the midget likes this one, so it doesn't bother her that it's on constant replay.

Secret by the Pierces


And last but by no means least...this one.

Love the Way You Lie by Eminem feat. Rhianna

Can't Sleep...The Christians will get me...?

So, last night the midget slept with me. Her blood sugar was high and I had to give her a correction at bedtime. She's gone low at night a couple of times, which is scary because she doesn't wake up and feel the low.

Anyway, she was not falling asleep, so I put a documentary on (Love that Netflix streaming on the Wii) and she was out in five minutes flat. I left it on for background noise while I trolled the message boards for parents of children with diabetes. Not trolled in the Craigslist sense of the word. I WAS NOT looking for hookers or meth or goats...I just wanted to talk to someone else who was also not sleeping because of diabetes (Damn you, Diabetes!!). But, I got sucked into the documentary.

It was the stuff of nightmares. "Jesus Camp" is a look at the complete and utter mindwashing that goes on amongst children in Evangelical churches. These kids are crying about their sins, having convulsions as "the spirit moves them" and speaking in tongues. It made me physically ill. Small children, who should be worrying about how much money the tooth fairy is going to leave them, are crying because they "sinned." They used a bad word or had a mean thought.

Now, I'm all for religious freedom. I'm not religious myself, but if someone else wants to have faith, and chooses to live his or her life according to that faith...Hey, knock yourself out. Your faith says you need to pick up the poisonous snakes to prove that you have faith?...Umm...okay, but I'll be over here out of reach of the fangs, 'kay?

However, this goes beyond having faith and teaching children about that faith and crosses the line into child abuse. Pulling kids out of schools so you can teach them that evolution is a "belief" while creationism is "fact" is simply wrong, but you have the freedom to do it. But when you start telling kids they are bad for having mean thoughts, that they are bad for thinking about sex, that they are bad for doing doing any number of things that are natural and normal parts of child development you are warping their fragile minds. You are teaching them to hate themselves at a fundamental level. A developing boy can no sooner stop thinking about his female friend's developing body than he can stop breathing. Human beings have natural, inherent behaviors and instincts and labeling them as wrong does nothing but set a child up for the worst kind of self-loathing imaginable.

And this movement, the movement aimed at these children, was designed with a purpose. The ministers themselves admit to designing this movement with the sole intention of "reclaiming our Christian nation." These are the children who are supposed to grow up, become our nation's leaders and lead the country into the path of light. Furthermore, these ministers make it clear they want these children trained, as the children of Islamic extremists and terrorists are trained, to fight and die for their faith. Even when there is no threat to their faith besides the fact that there are people in this world that don't have the same faith. They want all Americans to be Christian and to be Christian in their way, and frankly, they don't care about the children themselves, about what the price is for these children who will be raised being told that the world is this "one way" and then venture out into that world to find out that there is no "one way."

These people are making these children into fanatic Christian zombies. When the zombie apocalypse comes it's not going to be decaying corpses shambling after you craving your brain...it's going to be neatly dressed white kids in khakis and button down shirts...but they'll still be after your brain.

I'm investing in a sturdy helmet and reruns of The Family Guy. Hey, when the Christian zombies attack...at least I'll be safe on my mountain with dirty cartoons to fight the mind melting attacks of the Christian Right.

I'm procrastination's bitch...

I should be getting ready for bed. If I was smart, and did things that made sense, I'd be done with the two chapters I'm supposed to read and I'd be all snuggled in bed and sleeping already. Tomorrow is a big day...the midget and two of her cousins have birthdays in a 6 week span, and being that we moms aren't as young as we used to be, a couple of years ago, we looked at each other and said...you know what's a great idea? One party for these three...saves us time and money and keeps us from going insane and duct taping our kids to walls.

Which, reminds me...the other day, my sister-in-law was putting my niece to bed and said niece was being a complete pain in the ass, and my sister-in-law wanted to put her in time out, but the kid was already in bed, so she wasn't sure if she should get her out of bed just for a time out, so my precious angel niece looked her mother in the face and asked "Are you going to tape me to the wall like Auntie Laura always says?" It brought a tear to my eye when I heard that story, and also, since it involved no outside humiliation, I didn't have to apologize. Unlike last week when one of my nieces told my cousin B's friend that she was going to "Punch her in the face." I apologized for teaching my niece that particular phrase, but since the midget threatened to kick me in the taco last week, I don't know why B was so bent out of shape about the punch in the face thing.

Anyway...I was saying something, wasn't I? Oh, that's right...procrastination. So, yeah, big brunch birthday bash tomorrow and then an anniversary party for my aunt and uncle in the evening, so even though the assignment technically isn't due until 11PM tomorrow, there is clearly no way I'm going to be able to do it tomorrow, and sleep needs to happen because if sleep doesn't happen, I cannot be my usual sparkling self (as in I will not be threatening to punch people or kick them in the taco) and I might fall asleep in the middle of the pinata portion of tomorrow's agenda.

And if there's one thing I know when it comes to these kids and candy, it's that you need to be on your guard. And holy crap...whose idea was it to give these children candy in a game that involves a baseball bat...it's all going to end in tears...

I Cain't Say No...

I'm a giver by nature. It's in my blood. Someone says "Can you-" and before they can finish their sentence, I'm all..."Fuck yeah, I can...now who did you want me to hold down so you can shave your initials in their pubic hair?" The problem is...that the whole giving thing is actually something I do because somehow, somewhere in my twisted history, I got some wires mixed up and my brain interprets the needs of others as the way to find my own value.

And secretly, deep inside me, there's a grouchy, shriveled shrew who is pissed off at this automatic agreement to do whatever anyone asks me. It makes me whiny and not at all attractive even to myself. I'm all "Boohoo...Why does everyone always want something from me." And I'm surly and as anyone who knows me can attest, if I don't want to do something, it either doesn't get done, or it gets done in the most half-assed fashion you can imagine. And I bitch about it the whole time.

This is not to say that there aren't times when I joyfully do things for people I love because I love them and I want the best for them. Because that happens. Sometimes. When the planets are alligned just so...

I was talking to my cousin (and friend) B the other day, and she asked me to do something, and though I didn't want to, didn't really have time to, and probably would have bailed at the last moment, anyway, I said yes. But I said it half-heartedly and she knew I didn't really mean it...so she yelled at me for saying yes. She was all, "Why didn't you just say no? Didn't you just spend hours bitching about how you're going to be assertive and say no? Grow a spine, woman." So, I said no. And the sky didn't fall. And she called me later to make sure I was okay, so obviously I didn't hurt our relationship any.

This week, the midget was visiting her father. And I had plans...plans which included staying in bed, resting and relaxing and not do anything for anyone, besides feeding my dogs and being their doorman. Which I did. And I am struggling with the guilt of it, because my other cousin called me about 50 times asking me for help with this or that or the other thing. And she's not a girl who can manage for herself. So not doing things for her feels like kicking a puppy. Except that doing things for her becomes drudgery and I build up boatloads of resentment. It gets so that I don't want to answer the phone when she calls, I just want to curl up in my bed with the blankets over my head and pretend like I'm not here.

It's a bad combination...a girl who can't do anything for herself and a girl who can't say no.

Which brings me to this...I love this song, it's on my iPod and I'm only half-joking when I say it's my theme song.

Charlie Bit Me

So...the other night, I spent ages and ages combing burrs out of Charlie's fur. He didn't like it...he really didn't like it. Now, usually when I comb him out, there's some growling on his part. Basically it's grumbling that lets me know he doesn't like what I'm doing. This time, however...he was super matted and despite my best efforts to not inflict any pain, there was a fair amount of tugging and hair pulling. And...the little fucker bit me.

He felt bad about it right away, and hung his head and everything...But...Charlie bit me. It was shocking. And slightly funny. Because I'm weird, and I maybe think a bit too much about our relationship, I couldn't get over the whole "Charlie bit me" thing...and it made me think of this video on Youtube that I saw a while back.

Bad Blogger: Revisited...

Gah...this whole living a real life thing is really eating into my computer time. Between family and school stuff and cooking and cleaning and unpacking, I'm down to just a few hours a day on my computer, and since most of my favorite people live in the internet, that really bums me out.

School starts for me on Monday...I'm excited and nervous and hoping that nothing derails the semester. I won't bore you with the details, but I'm sure to be bringing you humorous anecdotes about the morons who inhabit online courses and their complete disregard for the rules of grammar...or, you know...you'll hear about it on your nightly news when I lose my shit and start shooting from the tallest building in town...which is, like, three whole stories tall...

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

So, remember that post where I was all zen and happy and shit...yeah...I ran out of time and gas money and didn't get to the pharmacy to pick up my meds and today has been such a fucking roller coaster it's ridiculous. Woke up happy, got sad, got happy, felt serene for about five minutes, then got irritated. My mind has been hopping from subject to subject without actually finishing a single thought. I've been grumpy and teary since the midget went to bed.

I watched an episode of Whale Wars and then half an episode of Pit Boss, and when I started sobbing and cuddling my dogs and trying to figure out how to justify adopting a pit bull, I said...Um...Fuck this...and turned off the television and turned on my iPod and did dishes and some more unpacking and cleaning. I've since taken a sleeping pill and am now trying to shut my brain down with mindless facebook games.

However, while listening to my iPod and singing (screaming) really badly, I decided I really, really wanted to share this song with you, gentle reader. I think if I could just play this on an internal loop 24/7 I'd be so much easier to withstand...

Don't Make Me Get All Dictionary On Your Ass

For those of you who don't know me in real life...all two of you out there who got here by googling "snake poo" or "Craigslist hookers and goats" (so not kidding...) I'm a bit of an English freak. Particularly as it pertains to grammar and spelling, but punctuation is a subject that gets me all testy as well. So, needless to say, the angrier I get, the colder and more precise my English gets...well, until I reach the point of hysteria and then I'm just shouting gibberish and at that point, it's probably best to back out of the room slowly and return an hour or two later with a Coke to appease my murderous rage.

About a week ago, one of my favorite bloggers, Dee of Curvaceous Dee Twittered that a troll was lurking on her site. The comment the idiot left was ridiculously lame. So lame in fact, that I won't even bother to repeat it here. However, as I have more than a slight internet crush on Dee and I think she's fucking kickass, I was totally offended. And what happens when I get pissed? Other people shout, swear, ignore or laugh at idiots. I, however, pull out a dictionary and cut them to pieces with my favorite weapon...words.

Another thing you won't know about me unless you know me in real life is that I'm fiercely protective of people I love or admire. I once jumped into a lake to save the Archaeogoddess' sandal (true story)...even though of all the people on the boat I was the worst swimmer (still am) but the Archaeogoddess had stuck her finger in a cheese shredder and couldn't get her hand wet. Oh, and the sandal was totally floating so it wasn't even an emergency...but it was the Archaeogoddess' sandal for fuck sake! So, yes, even though I know that it's better to ignore the trolls, that feeding the trolls only encourages them, I let him (well, probably not him, since I doubt he returned to view the venom spewed in his direction) know in no uncertain terms what I thought of his comment, and idiots like him in general.

But that wasn't the best part...the best part is that Dee did a round up of the incident (because I wasn't her only reader to tell the troll to fuck off) and the ensuing reader comments in which she thanked each one of us for defending her loveliness. When mentioning my comment she said "Laura got all dictionary on his ass" which may be the most kickass description of my English fascism to date. I love it. It is totally going to be my new threat when someone pisses me off.

I highly recommend checking out Dee's site, though you should be warned that it's totally NSFW.

Also, I should totally get out more...