It is so refreshing to realize that I am finally at the point where taking my injections and testing my blood sugar levels has become routine. Testing is the first thing that I think of when I wake up, and the last thing I think about before I go down for the night. Ok, well maybe not the last thing, but it has become part of my nightly ritual and it never fails.
Back in the horrible days of last year, I rarely tested. After a few days of peeing constantly and dry mouth, it would finally occur to me to take a look. Of course, I would be so high, that my meter would just say "high". I would take some insulin to get it down, and not think about it anymore. When I ate, I wouldn't even think of taking a shot. Not at all. Once in a great while, I would take it--but only afterwards because it was a complete after thought.
Let me tell you, I was sick all the time. I was nauseous constantly for two weeks at a time. There was never a moment when I wasn't tired. And most of all, I felt like I was starving. It crossed my mind, but hadn't fully set in that I was feeling so horribly because my sugars were high. A few times, I was actually convinced that I was pregnant. I secretly hoped I was, but of course, I was not. Two months ago, I went through a terrible stint of migraines. They were so bad that regular over-the-counter pain killers weren't cutting it, so I had to get a prescription. My eye-sight also started to get very bad. I remember, I was filling out a whole bunch of applications one night and it got so bad that at 10 o'clock at night, I told Troy that we had to run to Walmart to get a pair of magnification glasses.
When I finally decided to start getting better, I started checking my blood sugar levels again. Then, I got sick again. I was consistently in the 400 range and I would take insulin to correct it, only it wasn't working. It would not go down, no matter how much I took. I got a little scared so I called my aunt, who's a nurse. She was worried so she picked me up and took me to the Emergency Room. They gave me and IV full of fluids and anti-nausea medicine. They told me they wanted to admit me. As crazy as this sounds, I refused. They told me I might die. I did not care. Well, I did, but I had thins feeling I could get myself out of another case of DKA without any help. I signed the papers and went home. The truth is, I should have stayed, but I was so uncomfortable and depressed that I wasn't in my right mind. I told some people on a forum I am a member of, and they pretty much scolded me for what I had done. I hated that.
In the end, though, I did get myself out of the water. That one episode of DKA got me on the ball completely and for good. My blood sugar levels have changed so dramatically and I am so proud of myself. I have new goals and a new way of thinking. I feel 100% better and I am ready to take it on full force.
I now count carbs in my head while I am thinking about eating and take my shot. I test 2 hours after, then 4 hours after, just to be sure. I do realize now that I am not invincible. I do not recommend anyone doing what I did, so please, if you are reading this, do not follow in my footsteps. It will not lead to anything good.
Thanks for reading and thanks for your comments!
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Ike's Momento
Over the summer of 2010, my whole life, once again, had turned upside down. When my mother let me sleep on her couch, she gave me the chance to quit my current job (which I honestly hated) and go back to school. I took the chance and was so excited to quit, I did it within 2 weeks. Of course, I still needed a job, at least until I started school, so I found a job at a local water park for the summer. Other than that, I was doing my best to fully enjoy my time before I started school. As the end of the summer approached, I realized that I needed to find some way to make money while I went to school, so I found a place who was hiring and they called me in for an orientation, but it almost didn't happen.
A few days before I had to go in, I had a few friends over. Now, usually this was not a bad thing, but my mother's dog, Ike, decided he wasn't up for company. Ike's an English Bulldog how has a history for biting feet. When my friends came over, there was utter chaos, and Ike came charging down the stairs. He made his way into the crowd and his teeth barely brushed my friend's foot. I jumped in front of the bullet and before I knew it, he had his teeth sunk into the top of my foot and he wouldn't let go. My brother tried to pull him away, although no one realized he was gnawing on my foot until I yelled as loud as I could. What would you know? I ended up in the ER once again. They stitched me up and wrapped it and sent me on my way.
The next day, I took the wrap off and it was red, swollen, and obviously infected and for a diabetic, that is never a good thing--especially when it is on your foot. That is how limbs get amputated. I went back to the ER 2 more times until they finally admitted me. I was there for a week, again. While they were admitting me, I let them know that I had an orientation in a few days and asked if they thought if it was a possibility that I could still go. They said it was ok, and they would send the message along.
My stay at the hospital this time was less than ideal to say the least. When the day came for the orientation, I took a shower and got dressed, knowing that the day before I told 3 doctors about it and they all said ok. I called my brother to come get me and 10 minutes before I left, another doctor came in and thought I was crazy and said that it was not ok, and that no one should have told me that it was. I made a huge fuss, and he finally let me go. Talk about a communication problem.
Another huge problem I came across at the hospital was the nurses and their lack of knowledge about my condition. You see, I take Lantus, my once-a-day insulin, in the afternoon. It is just easier for me that way. The hospital decided they wanted to give it to me a night after a few days. They had given it to me at 3 one afternoon, and that night some ditzy little nurse comes in and starts to fill a syringe up with Lantus. I told her that I take it at 3 and that I already had my shot for the day. She insisted that it was doctor's orders and that they were switching me to night time. She walks over with the syringe and I told her again. She wasn't listening to me. She began to prepare me for my shot and I pushed her hand away and I was getting angry. She finally said "I'll go talk to the doctor" and left. An hour later she comes back and told me that I was right and she was wrong. Pardon my French, but that bitch could have killed me.
After a week, the swelling went down and the infection diminished. They sent me home on crutches and I was finally free. About a month later, my mother came to accept the fact that Ike had to be put down, and she set up an appointment for him to be put to sleep. As much as he was a danger at times, though, he really was a sweet dog and I still miss him sometimes. At least I have a scar on my foot to remind me of him, and I will have the scar for the rest of my life.
If you have been reading my blog and want to read more, please follow me! Thanks for reading.
A few days before I had to go in, I had a few friends over. Now, usually this was not a bad thing, but my mother's dog, Ike, decided he wasn't up for company. Ike's an English Bulldog how has a history for biting feet. When my friends came over, there was utter chaos, and Ike came charging down the stairs. He made his way into the crowd and his teeth barely brushed my friend's foot. I jumped in front of the bullet and before I knew it, he had his teeth sunk into the top of my foot and he wouldn't let go. My brother tried to pull him away, although no one realized he was gnawing on my foot until I yelled as loud as I could. What would you know? I ended up in the ER once again. They stitched me up and wrapped it and sent me on my way.
The next day, I took the wrap off and it was red, swollen, and obviously infected and for a diabetic, that is never a good thing--especially when it is on your foot. That is how limbs get amputated. I went back to the ER 2 more times until they finally admitted me. I was there for a week, again. While they were admitting me, I let them know that I had an orientation in a few days and asked if they thought if it was a possibility that I could still go. They said it was ok, and they would send the message along.
My stay at the hospital this time was less than ideal to say the least. When the day came for the orientation, I took a shower and got dressed, knowing that the day before I told 3 doctors about it and they all said ok. I called my brother to come get me and 10 minutes before I left, another doctor came in and thought I was crazy and said that it was not ok, and that no one should have told me that it was. I made a huge fuss, and he finally let me go. Talk about a communication problem.
Another huge problem I came across at the hospital was the nurses and their lack of knowledge about my condition. You see, I take Lantus, my once-a-day insulin, in the afternoon. It is just easier for me that way. The hospital decided they wanted to give it to me a night after a few days. They had given it to me at 3 one afternoon, and that night some ditzy little nurse comes in and starts to fill a syringe up with Lantus. I told her that I take it at 3 and that I already had my shot for the day. She insisted that it was doctor's orders and that they were switching me to night time. She walks over with the syringe and I told her again. She wasn't listening to me. She began to prepare me for my shot and I pushed her hand away and I was getting angry. She finally said "I'll go talk to the doctor" and left. An hour later she comes back and told me that I was right and she was wrong. Pardon my French, but that bitch could have killed me.
After a week, the swelling went down and the infection diminished. They sent me home on crutches and I was finally free. About a month later, my mother came to accept the fact that Ike had to be put down, and she set up an appointment for him to be put to sleep. As much as he was a danger at times, though, he really was a sweet dog and I still miss him sometimes. At least I have a scar on my foot to remind me of him, and I will have the scar for the rest of my life.
If you have been reading my blog and want to read more, please follow me! Thanks for reading.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
A Brief History and Introduction
Let me introduce myself. I am Mary, I am 29, and I am a diabetic mess--or at least I have been up until now. Before I get into the "now", though, let me take you back two years to where my ominous adventure began.
I was 27 and my life was going fine. All of the sudden, everything started to change. I was getting these strange symptoms that I had never experienced before. I was always thirsty and was taking more bathroom breaks than anyone at work. This went on for about a week or so and I finally decided that there was something wrong. I wasn't exactly sure what, so I went over my mother's house and talked to her about it. Being a Type 2 Diabetic, she immediately recognized the problem and quickly got her meter out and pricked my finger. Sure enough, my blood sugar was well above 500--not that I knew what that meant at the time. Concerned, she rushed my over to the Emergency Room where they did test after test. They eventually diagnosed me as a Type 2 and sent me home with a prescription for Metformin. I was very confused how this could have happened. I was a relatively healthy 27 year old woman who was not in the least obese (which I thought at the time you had to be to get Diabetes). They assured me that it was possible .
I took the Metformin for about a month, thinking "this isn't so bad". Everyone that I told said that it was a good thing I didn't get the "other type". I didn't know much about the "other type" except that it was the kind children got and it had nothing to do with lifestyle or diet. Basically, Type 1 wasn't your fault. I guess I sort of wished deep down that it had been, so that I couldn't blame myself for giving myself the disease.
During this month, I began to drop pounds like crazy. Everyone complemented me and I felt great. I figured it was because of the new diet I was on. One day at work, I had some sudden back pain. I had decided it must have been from lifting a heavy box at work and my boss sent me over to the clinic to get it checked out. It would be two weeks until I returned back to work. At the clinic, the doctor was very concerned and he admitted there was nothing he could do, and so he sent me to the ER. I was in Diabetic Ketoacidosis with an new, official diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes.
I set up residence in the hospital for a week after that. For the first 3 days, they wouldn't let me eat a thing and just gave me fluids and insulin through an IV. It was excruciating. Every hour, they came in and poked my fingers. My room was swarming with nurses, doctors, and CNAs on top of all the social workers, educators, family and friends. Everything happened so fast that I felt like a deer in headlights. I didn't even have time to feel anything--emotionally that is. It wasn't until one of my last nights there when I finally broke down and cried. I felt safe in the hospital and I was nervous to go out on my own to fend for myself. I knew that I didn't have the strength and will power to do it with no one there watching me. Nevertheless, I had to move on.
They sent me home with a goody bag of stuff, including my very own testing meter as well as pamphlet upon pamphlet of information that would end up just collecting dust. I stayed out of work another week and when I returned, everyone was my new best friend, assisting me in any way they could. I assured them I was fine, but was thankful for all the support.
This was probably one of the worst moments of my life, as you can imagine. My story goes on, though. I will continue it in my next few posts to get you up to speed with my situation. What I hope to do is help others through this blog who have gone, or are going through, the same thing as me. I am here for you, if you need me. Feel free to comment to message me with anything you want! And please, keep coming back to hear more of my story!
I was 27 and my life was going fine. All of the sudden, everything started to change. I was getting these strange symptoms that I had never experienced before. I was always thirsty and was taking more bathroom breaks than anyone at work. This went on for about a week or so and I finally decided that there was something wrong. I wasn't exactly sure what, so I went over my mother's house and talked to her about it. Being a Type 2 Diabetic, she immediately recognized the problem and quickly got her meter out and pricked my finger. Sure enough, my blood sugar was well above 500--not that I knew what that meant at the time. Concerned, she rushed my over to the Emergency Room where they did test after test. They eventually diagnosed me as a Type 2 and sent me home with a prescription for Metformin. I was very confused how this could have happened. I was a relatively healthy 27 year old woman who was not in the least obese (which I thought at the time you had to be to get Diabetes). They assured me that it was possible .
I took the Metformin for about a month, thinking "this isn't so bad". Everyone that I told said that it was a good thing I didn't get the "other type". I didn't know much about the "other type" except that it was the kind children got and it had nothing to do with lifestyle or diet. Basically, Type 1 wasn't your fault. I guess I sort of wished deep down that it had been, so that I couldn't blame myself for giving myself the disease.
During this month, I began to drop pounds like crazy. Everyone complemented me and I felt great. I figured it was because of the new diet I was on. One day at work, I had some sudden back pain. I had decided it must have been from lifting a heavy box at work and my boss sent me over to the clinic to get it checked out. It would be two weeks until I returned back to work. At the clinic, the doctor was very concerned and he admitted there was nothing he could do, and so he sent me to the ER. I was in Diabetic Ketoacidosis with an new, official diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes.
I set up residence in the hospital for a week after that. For the first 3 days, they wouldn't let me eat a thing and just gave me fluids and insulin through an IV. It was excruciating. Every hour, they came in and poked my fingers. My room was swarming with nurses, doctors, and CNAs on top of all the social workers, educators, family and friends. Everything happened so fast that I felt like a deer in headlights. I didn't even have time to feel anything--emotionally that is. It wasn't until one of my last nights there when I finally broke down and cried. I felt safe in the hospital and I was nervous to go out on my own to fend for myself. I knew that I didn't have the strength and will power to do it with no one there watching me. Nevertheless, I had to move on.
They sent me home with a goody bag of stuff, including my very own testing meter as well as pamphlet upon pamphlet of information that would end up just collecting dust. I stayed out of work another week and when I returned, everyone was my new best friend, assisting me in any way they could. I assured them I was fine, but was thankful for all the support.
This was probably one of the worst moments of my life, as you can imagine. My story goes on, though. I will continue it in my next few posts to get you up to speed with my situation. What I hope to do is help others through this blog who have gone, or are going through, the same thing as me. I am here for you, if you need me. Feel free to comment to message me with anything you want! And please, keep coming back to hear more of my story!
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