96

This is my 96th post since I began blogging over a year ago. And my last here. For awhile, at least.

I've grown from a timid person keeping her blog a secret, and vague, to a more experienced blogger with tons of blogs I read and comment on and tons of bloggers that comment on mine.

I'm ready for some change.

Yes, I know, my current blog layout is snazzy. I love it. And I've only had it for a mere month and a half. But I mean more of a change than that even.

I am trying Movable Type, courtesy of Diabetes Daily. And my blog name in changing. Again. My 3rd blog name stolen from a song, and my second Switchfoot titled blog. Yeah, I love the guys.

And on the new blog, I'm ready to focus on other parts of my life too. School. Family. My asthma and stomach problems. Yes, I know some of you may not even know I have those things.

I'm still never going to be the type of blogger that feels comfortable posting their whole life on the internet for all to read, but I'm ready to go past mere superficiality.

So come check out the new place: Nothing Is Sound.

I can see the potential Movable Type has, but I still have a lot to learn. So excuse the emptiness for now. And no guarantees we won't be back here soon, for posts 97+.

I really hate Fridays

It's true. I do.

I get home from school at 11 on Thursdays. Yes, that's 11pm. I need to leave house by 7:15 on Fridays for class. Already math doesn't work out sleep-wise. I rarely get to bed before 1am anyways. May that never.

I then sit through boring-as-hell-irrelevant-required-class. For 3 hours. 3 hours. When I'm tired. It sucks. And the girl next to meet reeks of cigarettes leaving me nauseas and wheezy by the time we get a break. And girl asks me for weight loss tips. Please. Don't.

I proceed to work job not otherwise specified. For an hour. This part doesn't suck. It pays nicely, and fits into my schedule. But it makes me at school longer. Ah well.

Then I grocery shop. Usually at no less than 2-3 stores. I drink caffeine while doing so. I finish around 6pm. I hate grocery shoping. I hate Fridays.

But on every day of the week there is another layer. My other schedule, always grueling and unrelenting. And it frequently makes me want to give up.

Wake up.
Test.
Pill.
Asthma inhaler #1- 1 puff.
Asthma inhaler #2- 4 puffs.
Rinse Mouth.
Breakfast.
Bolus.

Test.

Test.
Lunch.
Bolus.

Test.

Test.
Pill.
Other pill.
Dinner.
Bolus.

Test.
Pill.
Other pill.
Vitamin.
Acne cream.
Inhaler 1 x 1.
Inhaler 2 x 4.
Fill out log book.
Groan at inability to log neatly if testing more than 4x a day.
Bed.



I sometimes wonder if this second routine contributes to the brutality of some days.

Skittles

This post took place several weeks ago at the beginning of the semester.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Guy-Who-Crushes-On-Me greets me. My other friends do too. The professors take the stage.

I sit back in my seat and listen. Tonight is a long class. 6 hours. Professors make every indication that they intend to take up the entire time. I even take some notes. I love school, and I'm glad to be back.

Coffee break time comes and, as per my custom, I stab my finger. The drop of blood on the strip reveals a 70. Ok, a little low, but I am gonna have dinner now. I'm starved. I eat my low fat yogurt. My carrots. My string cheese. My apple. New year, new leaf diet wise. I bolus for none of it.

Back to class.

An hour passes. Then 2. My stomach cramps. I feel like I am going to get my period. But that just happened last week. And I never get it more than every 8 weeks. I do the logical thing and stab my finger again. I lean over to GWCOM, "No comments about me obsessing over diabetes, ok?" He smiles and nods. The meter counts down and reveals a 68. This isn't good. Out pop the glucose tabs. I down 4, and pray the carbohydrates I am throwing at my body kick in. This is officially Not Good.

My pump alarms. "Check BG. Your last glucose was low." It's been 20 minutes already. More cramps. I'm up to 74. My body shakes. I'm not high enough. I'm not going up fast enough. My first day of school is turning into a nightmare. I can't handle more tabs. I grab a dollar and head downstairs to the vending machine for a skittles fix. Professor-from-last-semester stops me in the hall. I try not to be a rude bitch, but some situations call for it. This is one. I call my answers to her questions to her as I walk down the stairs. I liked the professor. I feel mean. I have no choice. I'll explain later.

The vending machines have a line. I queue up in orderly fashion. I'm not that rude of a bitch. My turn comes. I pause as I try and remember how these machines I have been using for years work. I place the money in and press D9 for skittles. The skittles start their free fall to the ground where I can grab them and suck them into my mouth. They get caught. Last minute. Did I do something wrong?

I can reach them. They can't help me. I'm stuck alone with no money and a rapidly plummeting blood sugar. I'm shaking. I push my body against the machine, but my weakening body can't force the sugar down to where I can use it.

Close...but so far away. My eyes scavenge the hallways. I'm popular. I know people. And I'm open about my diabetes. There has to be someone I know. There isn't.

A tear creeps from my eye. I don't know what to do. I need help. I can't be alone right now.

I race up the stairs as fast as my spaghetti legs will carry me. I hope to see PFLS. But she's long gone. I barge back into the lecture hall. I walk in front of professor who is lecturing. I don't care. I'd say 90% of the class, and the professor who is currently lecturing know about my diabetic-status.

I climb up to my seat and without sitting down grab my wallet. I say to GWCOM, "Come with me." He gets up and walks out with me.

Without saying a word we head for the vending machines. "I have quarters, lots of them," he offers. We make it and he loads 4 quarters in the vending machine. "What do you want?"

"Skittles."

"What flavor?"

"It doesn't matter, damn it."

He makes no comments on my testy mood. He picks a number and these Skittles, too, get stuck on their way down. I feel cursed.

He yells to another guy walking down the hall, "Help me shake the machine, she needs sugar real bad."

My tears and in full force, falling to the floor faster than my skittles. The two strangers shake the machine together, and GWCOM reaches down and grabs both packets now in the bottom of the machine. He ribs one open and hands it to me. I shovel a load in my mouth. We sit down. He offers me up tissue, "It's crinkled, but clean." I accept.

"We're missing class."

"I don't care. Take your time."

We sit in silence.

"I effing hate diabetes."

"I know, no one wouldn't. But I do think you do a good job."

We sit more.

"That was a big mouth full all at once- I'm impressed you didn't gag."

We laugh. We walk back to class.

Rate My Diet

I had half a chocolate bar and an entire bag of baby carrots for dinner tonight. 2 hours post-prandial? Why...that would be 108, thank you very much. Granted it's hard to judge, cause it took me an hour to eat the carrots. Maybe I needed vitamin A.