Flashback Friday; T1D Day

If you came here looking for an “inspiring tale of hope” a’la Nick Jonas or Hallie Barry, GTFO.

I keep it real, and if I read one more smarmy, syrupy, sugar-coated (pun intended) “journey of faith” by some billionaire who doesn’t have to worry about costs of insulin, I’m gonna start setting shit on fire.

Us T1Ds need to band together, and make the functioning pancreas owners of the world realize how much this shit sucks donkey balls, and quit with the flowery bullshit. We’re gonna die before our time if we keep letting NASCAR drivers speak for us.

I’ve mentioned my diabetes before, and though I understand this is a public blog, and anyone with internet access can read it, I fucking hate explaining diabetes to strangers, so if you have additional questions after reading this, carry your ass on over to mayo clinic.

Those with bum pancreases like me can relate to the following dumb-ass comments:

“DERRRRRR how’d you contract diabetes?”

(Obviously, I had unprotected sex with a candy bar.)

“DERRRRR you should be low carb and gluten free”

(You should be dead.)

“DERRRRRR do you have to give yourself shots?!?! OMG! GROSS!”

(Nope. The autoimmune fairy rides in on a rainbow kittencorn with butterfly wings and infuses me with insulin via glittery orgasmic osmosis.)

I have an order of insulin and pot of gold for Nikki motherfuckin Wooden

I have an order of insulin and pot of gold for Nikki motherfuckin Wooden

“DERRRRR do the shots hurt?”

(Only if you’re a weak ass, bitch ass, weeniebuttt.)

“DERRRRRRRR I could never give myself shots!”

(Good. Go have unprotected sex with the aforementioned candy bar, contract diabetes, and die a slow and painful death, likely in a puddle of your own urine and vomit.)

If you’ve made any of the above comments, you’re a prick and you need to be stopped. Check your pancreatic privilege, asswipe. Consider this your crash course in diabetiquet. You’re welcome.

1)If someone discloses their health status to you, it’s because they want you to understand why they sometimes need to pee 100 times a day and/or stop working to eat. Don’t make idle conversation of their misfortune, and don’t make their misfortune about you.

2)If you see someone with diabetes eating something you perceive as “bad”, shut the fuck up.

3) If you know for certain your acquaintance with diabetes is experiencing hypoglycemia, and they already have a snack, leave. Them. The. Fuck. Alone!

Isn’t it amazing how the same fuckwits who accuse you of using diabetes for attention, are also the same ones who make a big fucking deal about your diabetes?

It’s okay to ask if they need anything, but if the answer’s “no”, then back the fuck up, and shut the fuck up.

4) Unless they’re incapacitated, NEVER call an ambulance for someone with diabetes without their knowledge or consent. It’s rude, tacky, condescending, and obvious that you need to feel like a hero for a day

5) NEVER give unsolicited advice. From one diabetic to another, saying something like “mentos helps me bring my sugar up the fastest” is fine. However if you don’t have diabetes, we don’t give a flying, furry, rat’s ass what you read on MindBodyGreen.

6) Support stem cell research, or get the fuck out. Don’t you fucking dare call yourself “pro-life”, then deny people like me lifesaving treatments. You people are vile, disgusting heaps of ignorance, and I hope you die slowly and painfully of flesh eating virus starting in your junk, and that your children are forced to watch.

As awful as strangers are, endocrinologists are 100000% worse. 99.9% of endocrinologists are pricks. If you’re seeing an endocrinologist for reasons other than diabetes, don’t come here defending them, because they treat diabetics like shit. They’re condescending, ignorant, and they grossly overgeneralize. For example, a woman my height and weight “should” need no more than 32 units of long acting insulin daily, I need 70. Most diabetics need a corrective dose of insulin for glucose numbers over 150 mg/dl, but if I correct for numbers below 300, I’ll crash to dangerous lows within an hour. When endocrinologists learn this about me, they lose their shit.

I don’t even bother bringing in log books or food diaries because I learned 21 years ago they’ll accuse you of lying, not checking your glucose, (whose blood do they think is all over my logbook?!) and if you’re a woman, skipping injections to lose weight.

*Just want to make abundantly clear that the endo I’m currently seeing is AMAZING! I’m not sure if the clinic would want their info connected to my blog, but PM for his name and office* 

Male endos tend to be pervs, and good luck trying to file a complaint, because you will literally be laughed at to your face.

FYI; no degree in the world entitles you to a woman’s body. No means NO.

And flying spaghetti monster help you if you’re diagnosed as a child, because they’ll scare the fuck out of your parents by telling them one missed snack will lead to certain death, while telling you to expect to live a “relatively normal life”, as long as you:

wake up everyday at 5am for glucose checks,

eat the same thing at the same time everyday, because one extra blueberry will send you into a coma,

exercise regularly, but don’t engage in anything that’s fun, so no summer camp or dirt biking for you. Stay inside sweatin’ to the oldies with Richard Simmons and watch your cousins out the window having fun,

no sleepovers because the junk food will be too tempting and no one will know what to do if you need insulin, never mind that I KNOW HOW TO GIVE MYSELF INSULIN!

wear this hideous pump which is about as subtle as a boner in leggings because you’re not already being bullied enough for your asthma, scoliosis, and needing to take remedial classes,

leave in the middle of class for glucose checks and and snacks, (while teachers and students accuse you of using diabetes for attention, and later, coworkers and bosses)

have your first-place award for your essay about diabetes revoked because other kids’ parents felt you had an “unfair advantage” (yeah, that actually happened)

live a sheltered life of fear until you turn 22 and realize you’ll be kicked off your parents’ insurance in a year, and because the universe feels you haven’t suffered enough, strikes you with congestive heart failure, leaving you unable to work or finish school, and thus marry a dickwad with benefits. (BTW, after four years of this shit, I realized keeping both my feet is just frivolous.)

Oh! And stay positive! Don’t let diabetes slow you down! Live the fuck out of your “relatively normal life”! Low glucose while a client’s in your chair with her free haircut groupon, yelling at you to re-flat-iron her hair after you’ve already styled it exactly the way the non-tipping cuntsicle instructed?

Harness the powers of magical thinking!

And now the flashback:

April 10, 1995 was the day I was diagnosed. My mom had been called to the school to pick me up because I wasn’t “participating” in PE class.

My bullies never faced disciplinary action for any of the homophobic and racist slurs used against me, but who cares?! I wasn’t kicking the goddamn soccer ball.

(SN; FUCK Prince George County Schools!)

I already had an appointment for my weekly allergy shot that day, (have I mentioned that god hates me?) so we headed straight to the doctor’s office.

In an effort to diffuse mom’s fury over me “misbehaving” (I later learned it was the teacher she was mad at, not me) I mentioned that my symptoms seemed a lot like Stacey’s from The Babysitter’s Club series.

Just as we were walking out the door of the office, she asked the nurse if there was a quick way to check for diabetes. (FYI; mention “god’s plan” or some other bullshit, and I’ll kick you square in the taco.)

One drop of blood, and 30 seconds later, the meter read “Hi”, and it wasn’t trying to greet me.

I was rushed to John Randolph hospital, (NEVER go there unless you want to die, btw) where further test revealed my blood glucose was 1200 ml/dl (150 ml/dl is considered diabetic, but as y’all might have already surmised, I work in extremes).

I was admitted, and held hostage until I mastered the art of the injection, and since it was a Good Friday, there would be no one available to teach me until the following Tuesday. So for 4 days, I subsisted on broth, carcass, and sugarfree jello.

Being that I was being held against my will in conditions that would make inmates at Red Onion take pity on me, I assumed this injection lesson must be a terribly difficult concept.

So imagine my surprise when Tuesday rolled around, and my mulleted certified diabetes educator announced she was here to “learn you up on yer inswrin”.

She then handed me an orange, a vial of saline, and a syringe, and instructed me to “drawr er up ten units, and put er in the orange”.

Had I seriously been imprisoned for five days to “learn” how to count to ten?! The numbers are right there on the needle!

I thought “cool, I can count to 10, we can go home now.” but noooOOOooo, there was more profit to be made off my devastation, and it would be another two days before I was released.

The “logic” was they couldn’t free me until I was capable of giving myself injections, but before they’d “learn me up” on that, I had to spend an entire day practicing on a goddamn orange.

My “educator” failed to “learn me” that I’d need a new syringe for each injection, so after 12 hours of shooting up the orange, I waited until my mom fell asleep, stabbed myself in the leg with the same needle, then called the nurse in to see it and demanded an end to my confinement.

Rather than the “oohs and ahhs” I expected, I instead earned myself a lecture on how the other kids in the pediatric ward had it “much worse”, how I was being a “baby” about my diagnosis, (because babies take the initiative to give themselves shots when those who’re being paid to teach *ahem* “learn me” fail to do their fucking job?!?!).

I was also given a punitive extra day in the hoozcal.

Upon my release, since I’d missed Easter, and the T1D diet was much stricter back then, which meant no candy, Mom took me to get a cartilage piercing, so now not only was I the baddest bitch in the 6th grade, I looked like the baddest bitch 🙂

When I returned to school, I wasn’t ready to disclose my diagnosis to my asshole classmates, so I told them I’d been in prison (not much of a stretch, btw)  for “brandishing a weapon” on “some Dinwiddie bitch who got in my grill and ain’t even have a plate”, (phrases learned from watching Cops and Fresh Prince) and it was there I’d obtained my newest piercing.

The bullying subsided for the rest of the school year.

My “diabersary” is this Sunday, and each year, I’m only getting bad-assier, mostly on account of having a mama who ain’t afraid to shutdown the “martyrmoms”.














Because I’m a Wooden, and thus inherently bad-ass, I laugh in the  face of tragedy, while giving the middle finger to the Universe.

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