Hi y'all! How's everyone doing?
Life has been pretty hectic lately, but I'm stealing a bit of time to post because, ya know, who needs homework anyway? (I'll probably do 2 posts this week because there's a lot to talk about. We'll see how much sleep I'm willing to sacrifice.)
If you have T1D, or have a friend with T1D, you know the overwhelming mix of emotions that accompanies every endocrinologist visit. And if you don't have much experience with T1D, then you're probably pretty confused because that word looks way too big to actually have a real meaning.
Basically, an endocrinologist is a special doctor who cares for patients with T1D and other endocrine (hormonal) issues. Most PWD go to the endo every 3 months. While we're there, we get our A1C checked (more about that in a minute) and discuss how our blood sugar trends are looking. If you're responsible about managing your condition and your blood sugar is in control, endo visits aren't too scary. But if you're someone like me who sometimes conveniently forgets to check Dex for a few hours or so, they can be a liiiiiittle intimidating.
The most important thing about every endo visit is getting your A1C. That's basically a measure of what your blood sugar has been over the past 3 months. In a non-PWD, A1C should be about 5.5. For a PWD, it's supposed to be anywhere under 7.5, although I try to keep mine lower. This time, it was 6.2--exactly the same as my previous one, which made me pretty happy.
I'm lucky to have pretty much the greatest care team on the planet. I've worked with 3 different endos in my 9 years of T1D, and my current one is by far the best--he's always super positive and has really great suggestions for improving my ratios and keeping my blood sugars where they should be. He handles all topics, even the scary ones, with the same rational calmness that helps keep me from freaking out.
All in all, I'm happy with how my endo visit went. I didn't have to get any blood work done--we're saving that for the summer--so that was a huuuge relief. (You would think I wouldn't mind blood work by now, but here we are!) I did find out that I have to get some other tests done (more about that in my next post) but I'm not gonna think about that for a while.
Hope y'all have a great week!
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Sunday, April 21, 2019
My Story
Hey y'all!
Today is my 9th diaversary--9 years ago today, I was officially diagnosed with T1D. Today's full of a lot of emotions for me, and I figure the best way to work through those is to write down the thing that keeps running on repeat through my mind: my diagnosis story. I've never written it all out before, so bear with me; it'll be kinda messy. (Also--mild trigger warning for mentions of illness/hospitals. Stay safe, kiddos.)
When I was a kid, I thought I was invincible. I had a supportive family, an easy life, and a can-do attitude. There were no problems that couldn't be solved, and I knew it. I was independent and so, so stubborn. I thought I could do everything on my own.
So when I got sick, I didn't tell anyone. Heck, I didn't even let myself believe that I was really sick. I just went about my day, ignoring the persistent feeling that something was horribly wrong. When my mom asked me if I was feeling ok, I blamed my lack of appetite and energy on other things--school, stress, I don't really know. I lasted nearly a month before she figured out that I was hiding it. And even when she confronted me, I swore I was fine. Did I really believe that? I'm not sure. But thank God she saw through it and called the doctor.
Quite honestly, I've blocked out much of the days that followed. I know that on Wednesday, April 21, my mom picked me up from school and took me straight to the doctor's office. I know that we went from there to the hospital. I remember crying, and I remember my mom crying. If I try, I can uncover other memories. Doctors hooking me up to machines and monitors. My dad walking into my hospital room and then immediately walking out, covering his face with his hands. There's more, too, that I'm still not able to think about, even 9 years later. Looking back at the papers in my medical records, I've learned that when I was diagnosed, I had lost 30% of my body weight and my organs were shutting down. But I don't know how much of that I knew at the time.
I don't remember who explained my condition to me. I don't remember how long it took me to fully process how my life had changed. I do remember being angry--I, the kid who was infamous at the doctor's office for throwing a tantrum every time I needed a shot, now depended on needles to keep me alive? It didn't feel fair, and in my mind, that made it wrong.
Looking back, I think the reason it took me so long to adjust was because I kept waiting for things to go back to normal again. Obviously, that never happened. In the first year after my diagnosis, I cried all the time. I couldn't wrap my brain around the concept that this was forever. Childish, yes, but probably natural.
It's been 9 years. More than half my life. Quite honestly, I don't know who I would be without this condition. It's impossible at this point to separate me from my diabetes. That scares me a little, but in a weird way, I'm grateful for it. My condition has made me the person I am today. Has it made me better? I think so. I was forced to grow up pretty quickly when I was diagnosed, and that experience taught me a lot. It's led me to make new friends and to appreciate the ones who stuck with me after everything changed.
But more than that, T1D has taught me not to take life for granted. I've known people who didn't survive long enough to be diagnosed. I've known people who survived diagnosis, only for the condition to claim their lives later, when they least expected it. But I'm still here, and even if I don't know why, I intend to keep going until I figure it out.
Today is my 9th diaversary--9 years ago today, I was officially diagnosed with T1D. Today's full of a lot of emotions for me, and I figure the best way to work through those is to write down the thing that keeps running on repeat through my mind: my diagnosis story. I've never written it all out before, so bear with me; it'll be kinda messy. (Also--mild trigger warning for mentions of illness/hospitals. Stay safe, kiddos.)
When I was a kid, I thought I was invincible. I had a supportive family, an easy life, and a can-do attitude. There were no problems that couldn't be solved, and I knew it. I was independent and so, so stubborn. I thought I could do everything on my own.
So when I got sick, I didn't tell anyone. Heck, I didn't even let myself believe that I was really sick. I just went about my day, ignoring the persistent feeling that something was horribly wrong. When my mom asked me if I was feeling ok, I blamed my lack of appetite and energy on other things--school, stress, I don't really know. I lasted nearly a month before she figured out that I was hiding it. And even when she confronted me, I swore I was fine. Did I really believe that? I'm not sure. But thank God she saw through it and called the doctor.
Quite honestly, I've blocked out much of the days that followed. I know that on Wednesday, April 21, my mom picked me up from school and took me straight to the doctor's office. I know that we went from there to the hospital. I remember crying, and I remember my mom crying. If I try, I can uncover other memories. Doctors hooking me up to machines and monitors. My dad walking into my hospital room and then immediately walking out, covering his face with his hands. There's more, too, that I'm still not able to think about, even 9 years later. Looking back at the papers in my medical records, I've learned that when I was diagnosed, I had lost 30% of my body weight and my organs were shutting down. But I don't know how much of that I knew at the time.
I don't remember who explained my condition to me. I don't remember how long it took me to fully process how my life had changed. I do remember being angry--I, the kid who was infamous at the doctor's office for throwing a tantrum every time I needed a shot, now depended on needles to keep me alive? It didn't feel fair, and in my mind, that made it wrong.
Looking back, I think the reason it took me so long to adjust was because I kept waiting for things to go back to normal again. Obviously, that never happened. In the first year after my diagnosis, I cried all the time. I couldn't wrap my brain around the concept that this was forever. Childish, yes, but probably natural.
It's been 9 years. More than half my life. Quite honestly, I don't know who I would be without this condition. It's impossible at this point to separate me from my diabetes. That scares me a little, but in a weird way, I'm grateful for it. My condition has made me the person I am today. Has it made me better? I think so. I was forced to grow up pretty quickly when I was diagnosed, and that experience taught me a lot. It's led me to make new friends and to appreciate the ones who stuck with me after everything changed.
But more than that, T1D has taught me not to take life for granted. I've known people who didn't survive long enough to be diagnosed. I've known people who survived diagnosis, only for the condition to claim their lives later, when they least expected it. But I'm still here, and even if I don't know why, I intend to keep going until I figure it out.
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