Why I Didn’t Die During Nursing School…

I was 19 years old when I started RN school.  And a very young nineteen.  I’d grown up in a conservative church, and was an only child.  I really wanted to be a nurse, and was determined to get through it, but I’m not sure how that actually ended up happening.  I was horribly shy when it came to dealing with the patients when I was a student.  My first semester of clinical classes began in September 1983.  A lot has changed since then…

My first several patients during clinicals were hemorrhoidectomy  patients.  There I was, never  having seen a naked person, and I had to look at their butts.  WAY into their butts.  Uh huh.  I’m sure nothing about me exuded confidence, so starting with the butt was probably a safe place to put me, but I was mortified, especially since most of them were men.  Butts and balls to a naive nineteen year old was almost the death of me.  I finally had a chat with my instructor (a very nice instructor, but she was also intimidating with her knowledge).   I needed a different view.

I asked if I could possibly have a different type of patient.  She said sure. No problem. So when I picked up my next assignment to prepare my careplan, I saw the words ‘esophageal varices’ in an elderly woman.  That meant that blood vessels in her esophagus had ‘blown’ and she’d likely been critically sick from blood loss.  I was sure my mere presence in the room would have her spewing forth all that kept her alive, and I’d kill her within minutes, even if indirectly.  I was terrified.  I asked my neighbor (a pediatric cardiologist) about said varices. He told me that it was possible she could bleed to death in minutes if they reopened.  Not helpful.  I got busy with my careplan,  and  every horrible thing I’d already heard or read was confirmed.  The woman was doomed.

The morning came for me to actually go talk to this lady (this was back  in the day when we did all care for the morning for our assigned patient- not following someone  else around while they did it).  I stood in the doorway trying not to pass out.  My instructor came up behind me and physically pushed me into the room, whispering “You actually have to talk to them”…. I was thinking ‘ just shoot me now’.

What I found was a very alert, sweet woman who was cooperative, and didn’t have any signs of getting ready to exsanguinate in front of me.  I said hello, and she didn’t die.  I did my nursing student assessment, and the woman didn’t seem to suffer any ill effects.  Huh.  So I’d been a bit more freaked out than necessary.  I had the same lady three different days. I even ended up washing and rolling her hair- which she loved.  Anybody who knows me is rolling over in hysterical laughter at the thought of me doing anything positive for someone’s hair. I can barely keep mine brushed.

The next horrifying event was bathing a comatose MAN.  I’d have to TOUCH him.  My instructor seemed to sense my incomprehensible stupidity (inexperience?) and was in the room during the whole process. I didn’t kill him either.  The familiar lightheadedness was with ME the whole time, but most importantly the patient didn’t get worse.  OK. Check that off the list.

On to the big stuff.  I had to give an enema. The ‘serious’  kind with the little soap packet and the big bag that got hung on an IV pole.  My instructor was in on this as well.  I got the soap into the bag, and was getting the water to the right temperature before I filled said bag. I had the clamp on, so nothing would leak before it was supposed to find its way into the lady’s back door.  I put the little packet of lube on the  business end of the tubing.  Gee, this was going well !

Then my instructor suggested it might be more comfortable for the patient  if I let the air out of the tubing before I brought it out to the patient.  Well, that sure seemed like a good idea- no point in giving the woman gas. SO, I unclamped the clamp on the tubing, and waited for the air to exit.  What I didn’t expect was the lube packet being shot across the room from the force of an entire length of tubing full of air.  It was like sniper training in its force and trajectory.  I don’t know where that packet ended up, but I know I was ready to die.  My instructor was very professional, but I think I remember a slight grin. The patient looked a bit nervous, along with slightly relieved to know that everything was being supervised, and this nineteen year old pre-rookie wasn’t being turned loose on anyone.  I got more lube, and the enema went in, and came out, just fine.

I got through my fundamentals class  without killing anyone.  THAT is why I didn’t die in nursing school.  Nobody got worse as a result of my care.  I started out with a negative confidence score, and got to the point where I didn’t anticipate disaster.  That was the biggest perk in getting through fundies.  I had a shot at becoming competent !  All nursing school really teaches is how not to kill someone on purpose.  The experience and finesse come later.  I was at least on track !  I’d gotten through the checklist of skills, and passed tests with solid grades (anything below %85 was a D; I was usually in the %90s).

In the 20 years I worked as an RN before becoming disabled, I got past the shyness fairly quickly.  I just didn’t have time for it.  I needed to get in, get information, give care, and get out.  On to the next patient.  Asking about the color and consistency of someone’s poop was as much a part of my day as parking the car.  I had entered an ‘intimate’ profession.  I had to know things about the patients that they didn’t tell anyone but their closest friends and relatives- and some things that they didn’t even (or especially) tell them.  I had the book knowledge, and I fairly quickly got through the ‘people skills’ that make nursing work.  Without them, there’s no chance at giving good care.  Without getting up in someone’s business, I couldn’t know what they needed.  That trumped my insecurities EVERY time.  🙂

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The Rest of The World Moves On…If I’m Sick or Not !

Even before the leukemia I was a medical train wreck.  I still am.  It bugged me when people would almost apologize for telling me about stuff they were struggling with.  First, I’m not the only person on the planet going through stuff; I get that.  And second,  I’m a nurse (I’m disabled, but I’m still licensed as an RN).  If I can be of use to someone, I’m a happy camper !  It helped me if I could help them.  Still does.

There are times when I’ve felt almost guilty for not being healthy, as if I could fix the stuff that limits me.  And at the same time, I have to know my limits, or it can cause other people hassles.  That was one of the worst things when I was still working; I caused other people extra work.  I hated that.

I don’t ever want to  put my struggles ‘above’ anyone else’s.  Everybody has ‘stuff’, and it’s not a competition. It’s all relative.  For someone who has had a fairly sedate life, having a flat tire on a dark, lonely road is traumatic !  For someone who has had multiple health issues, another one is like “well, what now?”.  Both still have to deal with the situation at the time.  And being grateful for the things in my life that are going OK, or that I still can do makes a big difference in how I see just about everything. 🙂

I think of my figure skating coach when I was 14– her husband murdered their six children.  I can’t imagine having something like that to survive, and then go on with some sort of life.  The survivors of the various natural disasters around the world also come to mind. Someone else always has it worse.  That doesn’t  invalidate what I’m going through, but it does put life in general in perspective.

If my head ever gets so crowded with my own stuff that there’s no room to hear someone else’s struggles,  I’m staying in it too much !

So, friends and family, I’m still here for you!

Hannah’s Last Day

Hannah was my present to myself for my 25th birthday.  She was a salt and pepper miniature schnauzer.  I’d gone and picked her out from her litter when she was about 4 weeks old. When she was ‘ready’ at 7 weeks old, I drove out to Lake Travis (near Austin, TX) in a raging thunderstorm in November 1988, and got her. She and her littermates were all standing up on the covered patio with their dog mama, peeking in the French doors into the house. They were all so cute, but she walked over to me first when the door  was opened.  She seemed to remember!

She was so funny when she was little.  I didn’t have the heart to make her sleep by herself, and since she was a ‘baby’ didn’t want her peeing in my bed.  I put her into a regular baby bassinet that a neighbor had given to me, and put it next to my bed.  She’d give a good puppy howl if she was scared, and as soon as I draped my hand into the bassinet, she’d quiet down and go back to sleep. After a couple of nights, she seemed to understand that I wasn’t going anywhere. As soon as she was potty trained, she slept in bed with me.

Hannah was about 2  years old when she had her first ‘seizure’. By the time I got her to the vet, the vet looked at me like I was a bit on the overprotective side. Hannah was fine, and just stared at both of us.  Back home… She continued to have these ‘seizures’ on and off for years.  They never happened more than 2-3 times a year, so from what the vet had said about risk/benefits of medication, I opted to keep her off of meds. She always bounced back as if nothing had happened.

When Hannah was 11 1/2  years old, she scared me out of my mind.  One single night, she passed out  seven times.  I was up all night with her. She’d get sort of woozy and stagger a bit and, then fall over on her side, twitching.  She’d then stagger to her feet and have to go out to pee immediately. Like right now.  I thought for sure she was dying.  She slept on the couch next to me that whole night between episodes.  She had stopped eating the day before (which was very unlike her), but initially I thought it was some bug.  I watched her, and she didn’t have any vomiting or diarrhea… but then that night. Oy. I thought it was the end.

As soon as the vet’s office opened I called, and got her right in.  We lived in a small town from the time she was 7 years old; they didn’t have an emergency animal hospital there at the the time.  I was glad her regular vet saw her.  He asked me to leave her there for a few hours so he could figure out what was going on.  I agreed, but I hated leaving her.  She was my only companion.  My best friend.

I got the call to come and get her (good news) and when I got there the vet told me that she was in heart failure.  Grade 4 murmur ( a ‘5’ is the worst). He’d given her oxygen and a shot of a strong diuretic (water pill medicine), and she’d peed off a bunch of fluid her heart couldn’t circulate through her body normally, to be eliminated through her kidneys.  I got prescription dog food, three medicines to give her by mouth, and a bottle of the diuretic medicine to give her as a shot if she needed a ‘booster’ to help her breathing, and the syringes and needles for her shots.  He knew I was an RN, so giving shots wasn’t a problem.  He just showed me where on the back of her neck to give them.

She also couldn’t have regular dog treats, or anything with a ‘normal’ sodium level.  I got her some low-sodium peanut butter (to hide her pills in).  She didn’t like it.  She also didn’t like the prescription ‘heart’ diet food, so the rest of that  case of cans was returned, and she got the ‘kidney’ food. It had limited sodium like the ‘heart’ diet.   And she got grapes (this was about 10 years before I found out that dogs shouldn’t have grapes). She LOVED those grapes.  I’d sneak her pills into them, and she acted like I’d given her filet mignon and truffles.

Hannah and GRAPES !!!

She did very well, and had many, many days where she was playing, and acting like she felt really good.  She knew the names of her individual toys, and would get them, and enjoy chasing them.  She still howled when I was on the phone to my folks; my mom had dementia, and one thing SHE still enjoyed was Hannah howling at her on the phone when I said “woof”, or “bow wow”.  I just had to say the words, and she’d do her howling bit.  Mom loved it !

Hannah, and the toy named “Weirdo”- feeling better !

Hannah still had an occasional fainting episode, but within a few minutes (and a quick trip outside to pee) was back to her normal self.   I had told the vet that  I would NOT put my best friend through  a miserable year just because I couldn’t say goodbye.  If she wasn’t going to have any quality of life, forget it.  But he was right- she had some very good months left in her.

About 11 months later, I noticed her start to change  not long after moving to a different apartment in the same complex.  She started not wanting to eat, and her breathing was getting funky.  I gave her the shots to get rid of the fluid (and it did). But it wasn’t working as well.  I had told myself when she was diagnosed that if she started to refuse food completely, that was it.  We were done.  The shots were only helping for about a half a day, and I had to give them to her a couple of times a day for 4-5 days.  Then she completely stopped eating.  My heart started to break.  That night, her breathing was horrible. I knew what was coming.

In the morning, she got off of the bed, and peed on the floor. Then she went and hid in my closet, as if to say she was so ashamed.  I couldn’t get mad at her, she was sick !  It was pitiful to see her hiding from her accident.  She NEVER peed on the floor- she was so good about waiting to go outside, or using the pee pads when I left her in the kitchen to go to work.  I knew I had to take her to the vet.

I sat on the couch before getting ready to load her into the car.   She got up on the couch with me, and climbed on my lap. She ended up sitting on my thigh, and then putting her head on my shoulder.  I think she was saying goodbye, and  it was easier for her to breathe if she was upright, but didn’t have to support herself.  I loaded her into a laundry basket to put in the car, since her balance was a little iffy.  When I took her in to the vet, he said he’d like to try some more oxygen and medications, and he’d call me.  I told him that I could be back there in minutes if it looked like she was getting worse (she was already bad), and he agreed that he’d call me if I needed to come.  I did not want her dying without knowing I was there, and I hadn’t  just dropped her off and deserted her.

I got the call around 11:30 a.m.  I had the kind of desk nursing job where there was flexibility for such things. I’d told my boss ahead of time what was going on, so when I told the receptionist I had to leave I could just go.

When I got there, Hannah was hooked up to an IV, oxygen, rectal probe (temperature), and  heart monitor. She looked spent.  But she also lifted her head a little when she heard my voice. She knew I was there.  I was told to take whatever time I needed, but I think when she put her head on my shoulder earlier that morning, that was our time.  Right then, I had to do what was best for her, so I started taking the equipment off of her, and just holding her.   I was satisfied she knew I was there, and that  it was OK  for her to stop fighting.  I told the vet to just ‘do it’.

She slowly dropped her head as the ‘go to sleep’ stuff took effect. I could feel her full weight against my arms, and then she took her last breath.  It was over. My best friend was gone.  I was told that I could spend time with her.  (the vet’s office had cleared out for lunch, aside from those who were helping Hannah… and they were all in tears as well).  I could hardly see her through the tears, but I did want to hold her for just a few minutes.  They let me take her to one of the exam rooms where it was quiet, and private.  I just cried, and told her how much I loved her, and how wonderful she’d been as my best friend.  I wasn’t in that little room with her for very long.  I’d had 12 1/2 years with her to remember… those were gifts. But I got to say ‘goodbye’, just her and me.

I just hope she knew how much I loved her.

And You People WORK In The Emergency Room?

Early on when I was starting insulin I had some learning curves in the area of low blood sugars (hypoglycemia). I’d been given the diabetic teaching about what to do, and I’d been an RN for 22 years by the time I started on insulin.  Generally, I did well at home getting my blood sugars back up with regular soda or glucose tablets/gel.  One day, nothing was working. I had to call 911 when I hit 37mg/dl, and couldn’t get it to go up no matter what I did.

The paramedics got there, and I was still in the upper 30s.  They gave me more gel, and got an IV going in the ambulance.  I was still conscious and able to talk to them, but I felt BAD. They  radioed ahead that I was coming, and unfortunately I had to go to the closest ER which was notoriously horrible. En route, they gave me an amp of IV dextrose (D50). I had my purse with me that had my backup glucose meter and change for the vending machines. That proved to be incredibly important.

I was given another amp of D50 , and my blood sugar went up to 128mg/dl.  The nurse  (who rarely made eye contact, and just muttered as if I were the most ridiculous thing she’d seen come through the door all day) said she’d called a cab for me; they’d be there in 45 minutes.  I knew that I had to have some source of protein and/or fat to keep my blood sugar from tanking again. The basic information for hypoglycemia says that a snack is needed if the next meal is more than 30  minutes away.  Evidently the EMERGENCY room people didn’t know that basic information.  Straight glucose will spike and then drop. That’s just how it works.  I was sent to the lobby to wait.

Within about 10 minutes, I could feel my blood sugar drop.  I checked it, and it was in the 70s. I got a Coke and some Starburst candy from the vending machines. It wasn’t helping. I got some peanuts to help my blood sugar stay put.  The peanuts didn’t help.  My blood sugar was in the 50s by then.  I went to the triage desk and told them what was going on. I was told I’d already been seen, and a nurse might be able to get out and check on me in a while. Really?  I’d been brought in by ambulance for hypoglycemia, I was bottoming out again, and I was thrown to the whim of some nurse who might get to me?  I was safer in the cab.

I managed to stay in the 50s until the cab got there, and got home where I could work on evening out my blood sugar on my own.  The ER obviously wasn’t going to complete the process with protein/fat sources.  I got some peanut butter, and that helped.  Now when I go anywhere I take glucose tablets or gel and portable peanut butter.  I make sure my blood sugar is in a range that lets me function before I eat the peanut butter, or it will slow down the glucose’s ability to work. The duration of action of D50 is dependent on the degree of hypoglycemia (and the symptoms of low blood sugar are different for everyone at different levels of hypoglycemia).  One person can be unconscious at 40 mg/dl, while someone else can be talking at 30 mg/dl…both are in severe hypoglycemia and need immediate treatment.

I learned a lesson about the emergency personnel’s lack of comprehension on how fully to deal with hypoglycemia.  I have to take care of myself even IN the emergency department at a hospital. At least the shoddy one.  I can’t depend on anyone to help me; I have to be prepared and advocate for myself.

What Do You Mean I’m Diabetic?

As an RN for 10 years in the summer of 1995, I knew the symptoms of diabetes.  I had them all. And I ignored them.  I peed a lot, couldn’t get enough to drink (non-alcoholic, thank you), was losing weight (a good thing), and had times when my vision was so blurred that I couldn’t differentiate the words on a page- it was all just gray blur.  I figured it was just because of a recent diet change (to lose weight), and I’d be fine.  *palm forehead*

I started (or restarted) a job at a community hospital in the Texas Hill Country.  It was their practice to do a urinalysis, drug test,  back x-rays, and have one of the ER docs do a viability check once the offer of employment tentatively had been made (adjusted if anything came back on the back x-rays, or drug test in particular).  I’d worked there before; I knew the drill.  I got a call to go talk to the employee health nurse. That was odd.  I knew Patsy (pseudonym) and she didn’t just call people to her office to chat.  She had something to tell me.

I got to her office, and she was her usual friendly self, but had a look of ‘this is business’ on her face.  She had me sit down across from her desk, and handed me my urinalysis.  She asked me if I saw anything wrong.  It was glaring.  There should be no glucose in urine.  I had a level over 2000.  There was only one logical deduction. I had diabetes.   I just looked up and started bawling.

She told me they’d get me into the diabetic teaching classes; being a nurse taking care of someone was way different than having the disease (boy, she wasn’t kidding).  She’d get me in contact with Charlene (not her real name, either), the in-house diabetic support person (who also taught the classes). And, they’d get me an appointment with a family practice doctor to get this all seen and verified with fasting lab work.  My random fingerstick was 389mg/dl- with no symptoms, and on a basic, ordinary day. Not good.

I saw the doctor, who ordered a fasting blood sugar (240mg/dl) and A1C- 10.2 (should be below 6 for a non-diabetic, and ideally below 7 for a diabetic).  She didn’t want to start insulin until a trial of diet and exercise was done.  She also didn’t want to start any oral diabetic meds.  I was fine with that.  I did well on diet and exercise- and before long had my blood sugars in the normal range for a non-diabetic.

I went to the classes and learned a LOT.  Charlene was a major advocate for diabetics, and knew a lot from having a diabetic son.  She had invaluable information.  She taught the day to day living stuff. As a nurse, I knew the clinical stuff. There’s a huge difference.

I’d been taught the signs and symptoms of low blood sugars, and one of my supervisors would go running for a half of a pimento cheese sandwich if I ever said I felt tired, edgy, shaky, had a headache, or felt my heart racing (never mind I’d be running around all over the hospital floor where I was the charge RN).  She was taking NO chances 🙂

I lost weight to the tune of about 100 pounds total, from the weight loss before being diagnosed, and then by not so healthy ways when I tried to lose weight after being diagnosed (focusing on food and weight loss had been an additional factor in relapsing into eating disorders about 5 months later).   My blood sugars were normal nearly all of the time.

I want to emphasize that this didn’t mean I was no longer diabetic.  I was in control of the diabetes.  There’s a huge difference.  I still had to monitor my blood sugars (though not as often), and let doctors know I was diabetic if I had to have any medical testing done.  I couldn’t go back to my pre-diagnosis state, and just ignore that it was there.  I did have episodic lows, which isn’t that common, but can happen in type IIs not on medication.

It took 12  years before I needed to start medication. That pill made my stomach a mess.  I started insulin later in 2007 ( a few months after the cruddy pill) , and that was the best thing ever for my blood sugar control.  It was some work initially to figure out the dosage of the long-acting ‘basal’ insulin (Lantus for me), and the rapid acting (NovoLog) for before meals.  I had to do a lot of testing before and after meals to get the right ratio down, and I found that the more tightly I calculated my carbohydrates, the more flexibility I actually had.  Things were going well until I was diagnosed with leukemia, and have had bizarre blood sugars on, and now off,  chemo.  I’m still working on getting it back to a reasonable level.  It gets frustrating.

I’m a stickler for numbers. When I saw my AIC going up prior to starting insulin, I wanted something done. I didn’t want to wait until it got into the ‘bad’ range.  I saw no reason not to  be proactive, and waiting around for bad numbers made me mad.  The endocrinologist I saw was dragging her feet so I talked to my Coumadin nurse (a nurse practitioner) who had no problem starting me on Lantus.  My numbers almost immediately got better.  I had to be my own advocate.  The fired endocrinologist wasn’t doing anything productive.

I also learned that having diabetes is so different than taking care of patients with diabetes as a nurse.  There is no connection.  Those sliding scale doses of insulin are useless unless they are very specific for the specific patient’s numbers. If I didn’t tell the doctors and nurses  I have my ratios figured out, I would have gotten some ridiculously low dose when in the hospital.  I had to speak up.  I also know what foods make my blood sugars weird- they’re different for each person.  I know to have proteins and/or fat with carbs to level things out. Some emergency room folks don’t have a clue about that when treating lows.  There was a lot to learn, and in the process I learned to look at each diabetic person I took care of as what they were- an individual.

Now, just to get things back to normal after chemo…that was a game changer.

I’m Not Mad At God…

…but I am mad at the narrow view of the world I was taught by my church.  Don’t get me wrong- it was a great church to grow up in, and I’m incredibly thankful for a Christian upbringing.  Most of my friends as a kid and teenager were church friends.  Most of my social life  (like %90) was through the church, and I loved it. I went to church camp for one week each summer from 4th – 11th grades (summers before that year).   I worked at the church camp for 2 1/2 summers, and those summers were the best !  I still love that camp.

But then I had to go out into the world as a young adult, and be ready for life.  I wasn’t.  I had moved 1200+ miles away from home essentially on my own. It was a bigger city with a very diverse population. That was eye-opening at times, but not anything that caused me any sort of turmoil.  What I wasn’t prepared for was how to deal with crime and keeping myself safe.

Yes, it’s also a parents’ responsibility, but when you are immersed in a church subculture, most of your social interactions and social knowledge/mores come through the youth groups.  Or at least it did. Maybe things have changed since I left high school in 1981.  I left home for good in late 1985.

I wasn’t prepared to assess my own safety in a situation, and protect myself by knowing when it was OK not to  help someone.  I was taught that you help your ‘neighbors’ (that was basically everyone). I wasn’t taught that people can be really nuts, and dangerous.  I got the ‘stranger danger’ talk when I was 6, but I wasn’t told that even people who were known to people I knew can be very harmful.  So, I didn’t have the skills to avoid getting raped and beaten for hours.

I’d been lied to by the brother of the mother of a baby I took care of.  He made up some story about needing my help  to come and get the baby because of a family emergency. My other posts go into more details, but the bottom line was I didn’t have the skills- or permissionto say no to this guy I didn’t know.  I did know he’d gotten out of prison, but I didn’t know anything about crime and criminals, or what his story was.  I was very naive because of my church upbringing.  We were sheltered from the real world in many ways.  I did know that I could say no to the sexual perversions he did (and ignored my pleas to stop), but a lot of that was also because of NO sex before marriage. I felt a funky gut feeling about him before he got to my apartment (longer story)  that wasn’t good, but didn’t think it was OK to refuse to help.  That nearly got me killed.

There are many reasons I won’t go back to my old church now that I’ve moved back here.  I tried it several times, and in several different ‘groups’ (regular service, Sunday singles, Wednesday singles, special events- the special events were OK).  It’s not the same place, and quite frankly, it’s not welcoming. It’s not for ‘new’ people.  I still value my church upbringing, and my core values have never changed. But I’m angry that as a teenager, when I was forming my view of the world, and my place in it, I was given the sugar-coated view of how people behave only in a church setting/belief system.  I got no information about how to assess my safety.  Nothing about what can happen when evil compels a person to commit a crime – or that Christians can be targeted (simply because they’re humans).  It’s not possible to pray away all things that can happen in life.  Christians can have horrible things happen to them.  That doesn’t make them ‘weak’ Christians.

Churches have a responsibility to teach how not to stray from their beliefs, but how to deal with people who don’t share their beliefs, and  what to do with actual evil. It’s fine to pray, but some sort of action also needs to be taught.   They need to teach that there are times when it is foolish to reach out to people.   It is Biblical to assess a situation before jumping in with both feet.

Proverbs 27:12 … “The prudent see danger and take refuge, but the simple keep going and suffer for it.”

Churches breed simple thinking, and following the standard ‘love your neighbor’ and ‘do unto others’ belief system.  Those are great when there is no possibility of encountering evil. And I don’t know  on what planet that is  really possible. But it’s not realistic in this world.

I do believe that God can use what I went through to be of value and purpose to others (Romans 8:28…”For we know that all things happen for good, to them that love God and are called according to His purpose.”).  I have no issue with that, and that verse was actually my ‘mantra’ during the rape.  I had to believe that it happened for some reason that I didn’t know at the time.  I had to believe that God was still with me, and for some reason was allowing the rape to happen.   But I also believe that God could use me not getting raped as well.

For the most part, I’ve come to terms with the rape/beating. I’ve forgiven the man who raped me (God will deal with him).  I’m just now realizing my anger at my church not teaching me how to deal with REAL life in the world.  I’m sure I’ll get over it.  But I hope someone will see this and consider preparing upstanding Christian kids to protect themselves and avoid what I went through.  I still love the Lord with all I am… but I’m not fond of any religious institution that ignores the presence of the real world when educating its youth.

Yes- it’s true we are not of this world, but boy howdy, we’re sure in it.

Diabetes After Chemo

I woke up this morning with a blood sugar of 205mg/dl.  Very NOT OK.  Before chemo it was between 65-85 mg/dl nearly every day, and rarely over 100 mg/dl (where it’s still tolerable).  After getting off of all chemo, it’s been around 140; sometimes lower.  I don’t know what’s going on this morning.

Ever since being on chemo, my blood sugar control has been totally nuts. There has been no control, but oddly, my A1C in February was 6.7, or around there. I was amazed. I expected it to be over 7 for sure. Usually it’s well below 6.  I’ve had great control, with a fair amount of effort.  My body is still figuring out it’s new normal since the leukemia.  The blood sugars (and need for more insulin) don’t help the weight loss issue.  Insulin stores fat. I need to lose the forty pounds I gained while on chemo.

I have to admit, my carb counting has been ‘fair’.  I know the carb counts of most things, and do look at labels, but I’m not doing the extensive counting that I did before. I need to get back to doing that.   I don’t want to go blind, lose a leg, or have kidney failure.  Nope.  Don’t want those on top of what’s already wrong with me; I’d end up in assisted living before I’m 50 years old.

I took the usual amount of NovoLog insulin this morning, and added a bit because of the psycho fasting blood sugar.  Now (2 hours later), my blood sugar is 135mg/dl.  I’m glad it’s going down, but not sure I’d planned for it to drop that fast.  It still needs to get considerably lower before it’s a problem.  I’ll be sticking my fingers a lot today.  It’s sort of a ‘sick day’, except I can’t figure out what is ‘sick’…

Chemo changed a lot of what had been controlled: my weight, my blood sugars, and my insulin dose.  I’ve been off of chemo for nearly a year (11 months).  I’m going to have to go back to the rigid counting and figure out the new insulin:carb ratios.  My I:C ratios had been so steady before.   It’s been nearly 2 1/2 years since the initial diagnosis.  I have to remember my ‘old normal’ way of dealing with the diabetes, and apply it again to this ‘new normal’… which isn’t normal at all.  It’s a lot like starting from square one.

My physical situation is such that sitting exercises are all I can do.  If I walk more than the distances inside my apartment, I have to use a walker. Or shopping cart.  My balance gets iffy. So exercising is a problem.  I’d love to walk around the neighborhood on cooler days.   That IS my ‘old normal’ and ‘usual decrepit’ – LOL.  That is back to ‘normal’, which hasn’t been ‘normal’ for a long time.  I’d torn my left ACL and meniscus (mildly) the summer before the leukemia diagnosis, and because of beginning to feel lousy (thinking I was just being a slug) I postponed the knee replacement that was recommended.  When those big ball players roll around whimpering or screaming on the field after their knees go out, they aren’t being weenies- that HURTS. I’d been using a walker in my apartment up until the morning I was admitted to the hospital when I was diagnosed with leukemia.  Being physically limited is nothing new.  Anyway, I’d like to exercise more, but it isn’t generally safe.

So, I’ve got to buckle down and get these blood sugars under control.   I’ve got to lose weight. And I’ve got to get it done without triggering old eating disorder habits.  Sometimes it seems overwhelming.  Sigh.  But I’ve got to do something.