The Flu Shot

We're getting flu shots today.

The First Flu Bug w/Diabetes

answer:  "At least it's manageable."

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It was summertime, 2003...the first summer with diabetes for our family. C had received the diagnosis in December. It was now August. We had been coping with this beast for several months now. And except for a few sniffles here and there, we had managed to stay fairly healthy since that time.

Summer activities were in full swing. Both the boys were in VBS (Vacation Bible School) at our church. This left a little time each morning for just C and me.

Day 3 of the week -- I picked up the younger from his group time. We raced around doing some errands. Picked up the dog from the vet. As we left to go home for lunch, middle C announced that he was "going to throw up!" Got the dog in the car, C strapped in, and gave middle C a baggie, just in case.

We made it home.  I rushed everybody inside.  Middle C proceeded to do exactly what he told us he was going to do.  Needless to say, there was no lunch for him...just a wet washcloth and trash can by his bed. After settling him in his room, I turned my attention to C's lunch.

Only two years old at the time, she crawled up into her high chair.  I checked her finger.  As C munched away on lunch, I drew up the insulin for the carbohydrates she was consuming.  Back then we, almost always, gave her the injection after she finished her meal.  It was so hard to know if she would actually eat everything in front of her or not...she was a two year old!  When she was close to finishing, I gave her the shot.  Honestly, the way I remember it...it wasn't 5 minutes later that she hopped down from the chair, began to fuss and threw up all over the kitchen floor.

Did you get that?  She just ate lunch.  I just gave her an injection of insulin.  And she just threw up all over the kitchen floor.

I scooped her up, took her upstairs and began cleaning her up, all the while, she was fussing and crying.  I remember catching a glimpse of the two of us in the bathroom mirror.  C...with vomit all over her cute little outfit and strung through her hair.  And, me...with a look of terror in my eyes.  My thoughts raced.  She just ate lunch.  I gave her insulin.  And, she threw up.  Those were the phrases swirling through my brain.  I had to get a hold of myself and, the situation. 

While I put C in her room, middle C needed help.  The poor kid would have to fend for himself for a while.  I was panicking big time.  I ran to get C's meter.  I remember checking her blood glucose frantically.  It was somewhere in the 70s.  This was not good.  No food in her tummy.  Lots of insulin at work.  All I could do was hold her and rock her and wipe up the next round of vomit. 

BG check.  She was dropping and fast.  62.  Juice.  Vomit.  BG check, 54.  Juice.  Vomit.  Oh, my God!  What was happening??  Lord help me!

I cannot clearly explain the desperation I was feeling.  I ran to get the phone.  I called the emergency hotline for CHLA.  Thankfully, I got through quickly.  A lovely nurse was on the other end of the line with me in an instant.  I'm certain that I was quite incoherent, but I tried my best to tell her what was happening.

Vomit.  Oh Lord!

"Okay, dear," the lovely nurse said.  "Okay, I want you to put me on speaker and check C's blood glucose again."

"Okay," I said.  I know I was blubbering at this point. 

I hit the speaker button and dropped the phone.  BG, 41.  My hands were shaking.  "41," I cried.

"Okay," the lovely nurse said.  In such a calm, sweet manner she asked me, "do you have a glucagon kit handy?"

"Uh, uh...yes.  Wait, it's downstairs," I muttered.

"Now, leave C and go down and get it and come right back to me, okay?"

"Okay."

I got back to C's room, dropped to the floor.  "Okay," I said.  "Got it."

By this time, C was quiet, laying on the floor, next to me.  I checked her once again.  37.  I felt like the world was caving in on us.

The nurse gave me specific, detail by detail, directions.  "I'm going to walk you through giving C small doses of the glucagon, okay?"

"Okay."

"I want you to go get a few syringes and come right back," she said.

"I've got some right here in her bag," my voice was so shaky.

The lovely nurse continued to direct me in mixing the solution, drawing it up and giving tiny doses of it to C.  After every 5 minutes or so, she would tell me to check C's glucose.  I remember repeating the cycle over the next couple hours.  Her number would rise to 54.  Then it would drop to 47.  60.  And then 58.  It was like a cruel game.

After an eternity, her numbers came up above 70.  When the lovely nurse felt C was in a good range.  She told me to let her sleep.  Then, I should check on her every 15 minutes and call the lovely nurse back.  I did.

Of course, after C hadn't vomitted for several hours, we went back to using juice to correct the lows.

I know my memory is foggy at best, but I can remember camping out on the floor in her room for about 2 days, ready to do whatever was necessary for my baby.
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question:  What is the number one thing a mom of a newly diagnosed 2 year old doesn't want to hear?

Invisible Illness Awareness Week - September 14 - 20th

So, today is the beginning of Invisible Illness Awareness Week.  Who knew?  I guess I wouldn't have either if I hadn't read Kerri's post from Six Until Me this morning.  I had another post all polished up and ready to go.  But then I began pondering...invisible illnesses...
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I've always felt that diabetes is an invisible illness.  If C wasn't checking her blood glucose or manipulating her pump, the average passer-by would never know of her disease, to just glance at her.  She's the epitome of a 7 year old girl.  In my opinion, she's cute!  Flowing blond hair, blue eyes, a hint of freckles...her body - fit and proportioned.  She looks healthy, happy and energetic.  In fact, that's the response I receive sometimes when people find out about her type 1 diabetes..."But she looks so healthy!"
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Then there's Middle C.  He is the typical 10 year old boy.  He plays baseball, nearly year-round.  And if he's not on the field he's riding his bike with friends, jumping everything in sight.  He's lean and looks healthy.  However, he had a severe episode with his asthma this past June.  It kind of caught us off guard, really.  He hadn't needed an inhaler or nebulizer for years.  But when we had heavy, moist weather throughout May and June a while back, coupled with a new little feathered friend in the house, it made for miserable breathing conditions for him.  It was scary.  And it shook us up a bit, reminding us to be prepared.  But to look at him now..."He looks so healthy!"
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Okay, me next.  I am four years out from my breast cancer diagnosis.  My hair's back in full force.  I don't look gaunt and "chemo-ed" out anymore.  I had a great plastic surgeon and others to help me look pretty-darn-near the same as I did before cancer (fully clothed of course).  And, except for about 25 extra pounds (ahem), you'd probably think..."She looks so healthy!"

I bet if you thought about it, you or someone close to you also lives with an invisible illness.

Day in and day out, moment by moment even, C's diabetes must be monitored and balanced for her to live.  Middle C's asthma?  Well, thankfully it's not an everyday ordeal.  But it is something about which to be mindful.  To hear your little kid tell you that he can't breathe well, puts an extra beat in your heart rate.  And, my cancer?  At the time being, it's taken care of and I do feel healthy.  But I feel different.  I will forever experience the side effects of the treatments.  And I live daily with the possibility of recurrence.

So...what is the point of Invisible Illness Awareness Week?  I believe it's to help all of us realize that just because someone "looks" healthy, doesn't mean they don't struggle with something.  Everybody's got their stuff.  And, as a friend, sometimes the best and most powerful thing you can do for someone is simply be there.  Show an interest, a sincere gesture to learn and understand.  Because chances are, if you haven't been touched by illness already, you or someone you love will be.  And, it's in those times when we can all use a good friend who understands.

Remembering...

September 11, 2001

THE 504

The last post was all about preparing for our 504 plan...tweeking it and preparing for it mentally.

Well, we finally met yesterday after school...the principal, teacher, me, nurse, health aide, and of course, C. We went over the plan quite quickly since there really weren't too many changes except for recess and lunch times. We also included that C would be able to work her pump and punch in carb numbers with the supervision of the health aide during times when the nurse may not be on campus. I was fine with all of it. But I was on edge throughout the whole meeting.

When the principal asked me if there were any other issues I needed to address, I said "yes" before she could even finish the question.

I told her, "I brought several old, expired glucagon kits with me. And I really want to personally walk the entire 2nd grade team through the process of why and how you would use it." (At this time, I told C to go out to the front office and start on her homework.)

"Oh," she said. "There's such a remote possibil..." I didn't even allow her to finish the sentence. Rude, I know. But for the last two years I have been carrying around this weight...this heavy, awkward thought "I don't know if anyone here, caring for C, really knows how to administer glucagon or not."

Now, don't get me wrong. They say they know. And common sense tells me that the nurse has the knowledge. And the sweet health aide says she's practiced with it before. But what about the teachers? And what if one of them were absent? Or two of them? What if there were a true emergency...a lockdown...for hours? What if C simply didn't eat the carbs at lunch that were inserted into the pump? I could go on and on. Hypotheticals all day long. I'm good at it!

Well before you could say "hypoglycemia," the two other 2nd grade teachers were in the office too. I pulled out some expired kits and an orange. And, as the talk about syringes and needles began, I started feeling very overwhelmed. There were some giggles of discomfort. The nurse caught my eyes, which were now beginning to fill with tears. I don't know what came over me. She quieted everyone down and made the point that this was serious stuff. "This is your child we're talking about. I understand how you must feel about putting this trust in us for her safety." The room was silent.

"Yes," I said. "It's very hard...unexplainable, really." I told all 6 people in the room now, that I need to show them how to use this and watch them open the kit, hold the syringe and practice giving a shot to an orange. I need to do this because it's the only thing I can do to help myself feel better about leaving C at school all day. How many times have I heard people say "Oh, I don't think I could ever give someone a shot!" And, I told them, right then and there, "If someone is taking responsibility for my daughter, whoever they are, they'd better be willing and able to do this." And, of course they all agreed. They are actually a bunch of wonderful people.

And, so, briefly, I described the situation in which glucagon would be needed. A remote possibility? I suppose. But I remember it like yesterday, the time that C did need it. She was only 2 1/2. It leaves a lump in my throat to think about it, still.

As we filed out of the principal's office, the health aide gave me a hug. And in that hug, I felt as if a fifty-pound vest was taken from me. My head felt a little clearer. I hadn't noticed, until that moment, how consumed I had been with these thoughts.

Diabetes. Constant management. Constant stress. Maybe just a tiny bit less now.