Wherein I Whine About Being Sick

It's been a long time. I've been in hiding, both here on the blog and in my own life. I've been in pain, been anxious and depressed. I'm currently waiting to feel well enough to go and help one of my cousins with a dehoarding project. Ironic, that I'm the one trying pull myself together to help someone else clean their house when my house looks like someone dropped a small bomb in the living room.

There was a SCENE last night. In capital words with screaming and tears and accusations. We've had this weekend in the works for awhile, my cousin collects stuff in a major way...clothes, movies, crap...just tons of stuff. Shoes she doesn't and will never wear, clothes in sizes way too small that she hopes to fit one day. It's depressing. And this, from me, the queen of the messy house. My mess, though is of a life lived now...not for the someday, "if" future.

Anyway, earlier this week there was an accident...Lily, the rat terrier I've been fostering for months pushed Charlie under the car as I was coming down the hill from my aunt's house. He has a broken pelvis, but with rest he should make a complete recovery. However, it was touch and go, and because the emergency vet didn't get a great x-ray, I spent the weekend thinking I was going to have put Charlie to sleep. It was so scary and awful. Charlie is my baby, my boy...my best friend (well, after the Archeaogoddess, of course). He got me through the break up with the EG. He's the one who is there at night when I'm hurting, when I'm up all night testing the midget's blood sugar, when I have a panic attack and can't find my pills. I love him, and the thought of losing him was killing me.

So, as I've mentioned before stress makes everything worse. Stress causes major flares. I've been flaring all week, and then on Thursday night, the midget had soaring blood sugars that wouldn't correct (fucking adolescent hormones collide with fucking diabetes) and I was up all night...so by Friday morning, I was done in. I slept nearly all day. I was supposed to do my grocery shopping for the meals for this dehoarding weekend, but since I couldn't hardly walk to my bathroom, grocery shopping was out.

So, that led to yesterday, which was nearly as bad as Friday. I was in agony (oh and did I mention the part where my doctor took two days too long to refill my pain meds, so I spent a day in narcotic withdrawal this week, too) and exhausted, but I finally dragged my ass out of the house at around 2 in the afternoon and headed to the grocery store and did not only my shopping, but shopping for the cousin we are dehoarding as well. I had sent a note to my other cousin and my sister-in-law who were coming to help dehoard telling them that they'd better not back out, and I can't say that it was a nice note. I'm not in a good place, and I panicked because I thought that they weren't going to show up, and I've felt so responsible for the one cousin for so long, and I just can't take it anymore. I'm not making it on my own, and feeling responsible for someone besides the midget is wearing on me.

So, of course, the fact that I made a big fuss and then wasn't able to come through didn't go over well. I walked in to a very hostile situation. My cousin was furious that I hadn't made it there earlier, that I didn't call all day and let her know that I wasn't going to be there until then. (Not the cousin we're trying to dehoard, but the other one.) She called me a liar, said I wasn't sick, that I just chose to flake, that I could never be counted on, that I take advantage of everyone.

I flipped. I told her she was a selfish bitch who takes advantage of her sister, and only cares about herself and that I was done. I wanted to leave. I was hysterical at that point. It was an echo of everything that the EG had said to me. It's my constant fear...that people think I'm making this up, that I'm choosing to stay in bed, choosing to not do all the things I want to do.

And then I wonder, how the hell can anyone think that. I was always a flaky bitch, it's true...but I was a flaky bitch who did stuff. I hiked and camped and went on road trips and cleaned my house and went out for dinner with friends. And I'd sell my soul to be that girl again. It kills me when I have to cancel on something because my body defies me. I'm so tired...and it's not the good tired of knowing you've accomplished something. It's an exhaustion that is painful. Breathing takes effort. Typing hurts...not just my joints, but the tips of my fingers, my skin actually hurts.

My sister-in-law made me stay, insisted we all talk it out. And we did, for an hour...but I don't think I made any headway making it clear that I'm sick. That Lupus is real...that I don't choose to stay in bed, that I don't choose to give up everything that matters in my life. There were lots of tears and accusations.

Following, as it did, on this hell of a week, needless to say it didn't help the flare. I'm beyond useless today. The pain pills aren't touching the pain today. I want to scream and cry and I'm holding it together for the midget's sake. I'm contemplating a trip to the ER for a pain shot, but I am terrified to ask anyone for a ride. I can't bear to hear again how I let them down, how I let everyone down all the time, and that even this is just to make people believe me.

And it's stupid. My doctors verify that I'm sick. I know I'm sick, but it took so long to get anyone to believe me that I'm still scared that I'm just crazy, that it's all in my head. This is what chronic illness is, this is what invisible diseases do. I want to wear a sign that says I have Lupus, and Fibromyalgia and RA and no thyroid, and bipolar disorder and panic disorder and it causes me extreme pain and fatigue and a million other symptoms. And the worst part of it...the very worst thing is that I'm never going to get better. I mean, hopefully someday I'll have some sort of remission, or I'll find the right cocktail of drugs to get my symptoms under control, but I'm not ever going to be healed, it will always be a part of me, and looking into the future 30, 40, 50 years down the road and knowing that it'll always be this way...that alone is enough to make me want to burrow down into the bed and never come out...but I do.

Anytime I have any strength I do get out of bed, and I do what I can. I try to live my life the best I can in the gaps between the bad days, the bad weeks, the bad months. I hate that I can't be a good friend, a good cousin, a good mom. I want to apologize for myself all the time, to apologize for the disease, and then I feel like, I'm the sick one, shouldn't someone apologize to me, shouldn't someone come and help me?

I hate being sick, I really fucking hate being sick.

Where the hell have I been?

I know my regular readers are down to checking once a week or so to see if I've written (well, those who don't have a blogroll which tells them when I've done so), but since you are regular readers, then this doesn't surprise you. I'm a flaky bastard on a good day, and since good days haven't been too numerous around here, lately, mostly what I've done is deal with the midget's insulin pump start and look at pictures of cute puppies on my computer.

Anyway...to bring you (all five or six of you) up to speed, the midget is on an insulin pump now, and I love that thing more than...well, there are no words to tell you howm\ much I love that damn thing. It looks like a pager (you remember pagers, right?) and it's attached to my kid, or else I'd dry hump the damn thing I love it so much. It has made such a difference in the way we handle her diabetes, and it's only been on her body for two weeks, and I'm not yet as savvy about its software as I will be at some point. First and foremost, I only poke a needle in to the midget's skin once every three days (well, less if a site fails or we have some other issue, but usually three days). I don't give her long acting insulin any more, which is fantastic because the long acting insulin burns. We are also able to tell, at any given moment, just how much insulin is active in her system...and since we know how much one unit of insulin brings her blood sugar down, we've avoided numerous low blood sugars. It's brilliant!

The diabetes care isn't the reason I haven't been blogging, well, not the main reason. If the midget didn't have diabetes that requires my attention, I might have used the little energy I had for blogging, but then, I might not have. When I feel like crap, I only do what I have to do and these days, the only thing that falls under that heading is taking care of the midget. As parents everywhere will tell you, parenting is a full time job...you don't get to take time off even when your body is screaming for you to do so. So, the midget got taken care of, but very little else got done. It's been a pretty bad summer, which means all my lovely plans of spending nearly every day at the pool were vanquished. We had a few pool days,and even one water park (I prayed for death the next day) but, summer's over and I can safely say we didn't spend even a quarter of it at the pool. Or the lake. And the one day we did make it to the lake, I felt to crappy to even try to swim.

I've been fighting a very nasty chest pain off and on since March. The CT scan done before I got my gall bladder removed showed fluid around my heart, which was goodish, since I'd had several EKGs and knew I wasn't having a heart attack. But, obviously, fluid around the heart is bad. It's not terrible, but definitely not good...and my regular doctor, who while not anyone's vote for sweetheart of the year, is good enough, at least, to know when he doesn't know something. So, off the cardiologist I went. The cardiologist ordered another ECG (different from an EKG) and said that in his opinion, the inflammation, and resulting fluid, he saw were text book examples of Lupus. He also said that at this time, there is no need for surgery (Yay!) but that he wants me to go back to the rheumatologist and get started on treatment, which, since I'm already on high doses of NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatories)which are clearly having no effect on the inflammation, will be steroids. I've taken short courses of steroids in the past, and while I hate them, they are preferable to any long term, lasting damage to my heart.

I so meant to write a longer, more entertaining post, but I've run out of energy, and if I don't just put this up now, it'll go into the huge pile of drafts I've already got and it will never be done. So, pretend I said something funny...

I'm Not Even Breastfeeding....

...and yet I feel compelled to jump into the fray. Because it's a big deal, apparently, this whole breastfeeding/formula fracas.

That's right...I haven't posted anything in over a month, and rather than write about something relevant to my life...you know, like about how I have pericardial effusion (fancy-schmancy term for fluid around the heart), and am now waiting to see a cardiologist. Instead, I'm going to write about this breastfeeding stuff.

When I was breastfeeding, the internet was still in it's fairly early days, and hardly anyone had blogs or got all their medical information online. Now everyone has a blog, and half of us diagnose ourselves via WebMD before we even make our doctor's appointments.

I was 22 when I had the midget. Young enough that I wasn't really prepared to be a mom, but old enough that no one saw me and went "Oh Em Gee, babies having babies!" Or whatever judgmental thing people say about teen moms. I was pretty big into the natural stuff, natural childbirth, breastfeeding. I figured I would have a baby the old fashioned way and feed her the old fashioned way.

I went ahead with the natural childbirth, but only because I got to the hospital four hours before the midget passed through my birth canal. About 30 seconds into pushing, I turned to the midget's father and said "I don't want to do this anymore." It didn't help that during the hours leading up to the pushing stage the midget's father would look at the monitor and say, "Oh, you're having a contraction, and it's a big one!" And I was all...no shit, Asshole. Because being in labor makes you say stuff like that. And frankly, being me makes you say stuff like that.

So, there I was set to breastfeed this child. I'd read a couple of books, so I totally knew how to do it, right? Wrong. First of all, the midget had low blood sugar at birth and so she needed to be fed...and even if we had been able to manage that whole breast feeding thing, the first couple of days after the birth, a woman's body only produces colostrum, which isn't high in sugar. So, she had formula, and they brought a breast pump in for me to use. Only this was nearly 12 years ago, so it was huge, not one of these cute "comfortable" pumps. It was a monstrosity. But we got through it and by the time she left the hospital her blood sugar was fine and we were breastfeeding sort of. We got through it, especially once my milk came in and we both got the hang of it...only...

I hated breastfeeding. It was "icky." I was 22 and breasts were for fun, not for producing dairy products. But, I persevered. I figured we'd get to a point where I was having those beautiful bonding moments mentioned in every book I read. But it never happened. Every day that I breastfed the midget, I hated it. I was grumpy, and uncomfortable. I had a nasty case of the baby blues, which I still haven't really ever talked about with anyone. I've alluded to it with a few friends, but it was dark. I imagined driving away and leaving my baby with somebody, anybody, sometimes even nobody, as long as I could leave...and that was on good days. I can't bring myself to type the thoughts that went through my mind on bad days. Some day, maybe with therapy...but not now.

Needless to say, the postpartum depression didn't help the breastfeeding challenge. Which is why, when I read this little article tonight, I got furious. When the midget's doctor decided to switch her to soy formula because she was lactose intolerant and that meant no more breast milk, I was thrilled...and I felt like the worst mother in the world. What was wrong with me that I didn't love breastfeeding? Didn't I love my kid?

I just don't get articles like the one I linked to above. How does choosing to feed your child something that is perfectly healthy and formulated perfectly for infant nutrition wrong? Yes, I get it that breastfeeding imparts natural immunities and I'm sure there are women right now judging me and blaming the midget's Type 1 diabetes on her not being breastfed (despite there being no link between formula or breast milk and Type 1 diabetes...so neither is to blame for diabetes, though not breastfeeding does seem to be linked to obesity rates in older children which can lead to type 2 diabetes). But I agonized over hating breastfeeding. I hated that I hated it...that and my not infrequent wish that the squalling midget was far, far away and I was a footloose woman with lots of freedom made me insecure about my parenting for years.

Perhaps not coincidentally, the postpartum depression disappeared not long after I stopped breastfeeding. Once I had no choice but to bottle feed the midget, I could enjoy her feeding times (well, except for the smell of that god-awful soy formula...blech), and because I didn't feel like a walking dairy, I didn't resent her as much. But I couldn't admit to other people that I was glad not to have to breastfeed anymore, because I knew how they'd judge me.

Since then, my most beloved Archaeogoddess has had a child, and we've discussed breastfeeding, including the fact that I hated it. She found an article that showed that there may be a hormonal imbalance that causes some women to dislike breastfeeding. See, because in the natural order of things, breastfeeding is supposed to trigger a hormonal response that causes mother/infant bonding. I was clearly a freak because that didn't happen for me. Or so I thought. And, frankly, the Archaeogoddess is the first person I ever told about my dislike of breastfeeding that didn't automatically think "Bad Mother." Of course, the Archaeogoddess is my go-to person any time I need to talk about something that could potentially cause someone to judge me. Because she doesn't. She doesn't look at me and think "Bad Mother" because I hated breastfeeding...she thought, huh, that's different, maybe there's a reason for that...and it's one of the eight gazillion reasons I'm blessed to have her as my best friend.

Mental illness issues are difficult, but when you don't have someone like the Archaeogoddess in your corner, not judging you it's even worse. I know I'm lucky...I cannot imagine how many women read articles like the one I linked to above and think, what the fuck is wrong with me, and I should just keep my damn mouth shut about hating breastfeeding, or even the idea of it, and unlike me, they don't have a best friend who will simply say, "OK" when being presented with clear evidence that according to the La Leche League their best friend is THE. WORST. MOTHER. EVER.

I get the judging thing, I do...there are times when I see parents giving their tiny monsters everything they want and never saying no, and never disciplining and I think they are the worst parents in the world...or the parents who do just about anything that's going to have a long term impact on a child's ability to function in society, I totally judge them. But judging a parent because they give their child a perfectly healthy substitute for something I choose to feed my kid? No fucking way. And frankly, since I get people evaluating the midget's general diet all the time now (because you know, they are experts on Type 1 diabetes, and they are sure that my kid can't have that diet soda I just gave her, or that candy I just gave her), I almost think I'm more sensitive about the breastfeeding issue now than I was then.

Yes, in a perfect world, every baby would have breast milk, and mothers who have an aversion to breastfeeding could buy or get breast milk donated to them easily. But, we don't live in a perfect world, and there are plenty of mothers who have to choose between their antidepressants and breastfeeding, or other medications and breastfeeding, and they shouldn't be judged for that. It isn't as though they are depriving their child of adequate nutrition. So, shut the fuck up about it. It isn't any one's business what nutritionally sound food you are giving your child. I mean, fine, if you know someone who is filling their kid's bottle with vodka, go ahead and get involved, but even if you think formula is the last thing that would ever cross your baby's lips, it's not your fucking business what that other mother is feeding her kid, or why. Let's focus on the babies who are getting nothing to eat, or the mothers who are watering down formula because they can't afford enough formula, but let's educate them, not judge them, or even better, if you are breastfeeding and you think it's essential for all babies to get breast milk, make yourself part of the solution, find someone in your community raising an infant that's addicted to crack, or a mother who has HIV, and can't breastfeed, and donate your breast milk. And don't go around thinking that the ability to produce milk makes you a better mother than I am...any fucking mammal can produce breast milk, so doing so doesn't make you a good parent, any more than it makes an alley cat a good mother.

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...

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

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.

Really, Universe?

My poor midget...Type 1 Diabetes??? In the latest Lifetime movie of the week twist in my life, my sweet (haha, bad pun..) midget has been diagnosed as a Type 1 diabetic. We are in the hospital learning how to test blood sugars and give shots.

Thankfully, I tend to overreact rather than underreact, so I caught that something was wrong before she got seriously ill. Her numbers are high, and not at all under control and won't be for a few more weeks at least, but she's nowhere near as sick as she could be or as sick most kids are at diagnosis. She's the toughest, bravest, most amazing kid, and I'm so damn proud of her.

As a parent, it's damn important to trust that voice in the back of your head that says, "Hey, something's not right." Don't feel like a freak if you're worried about your kid and you want to get something checked out. It is so much better to be the neurotic Mom who worries too much than the Mom who wishes she'd listened to her gut...