The needle returneth

I’m very bored with writing about my health. Is this akin to the malaise expressed by Kerri here? I think kinda sorta.

But anyway: I’m now on injections for possible B12 deficiency. Dr. Keeper says they cannot, regrettably, be self-administered. Must go to clinic to receive. It’s one per day for 4 days, one per week for 4 weeks, 1 per month for…well, forever.

It’s a little strange to be on a permanent medication for something that only might be wrong with me, but Dr. K says it’s much wiser to treat than to disregard, as a B12 deficiency can cause all manner of permanent damage to multiple systems if left to its own devices. This coincides with my research on the subject, so I’ll trot myself to the clinic like a good little possible pernicious anemic.

There’s stuff all over the web about oral treatment for B12 def. rather than injections. Dr. K says we can consider that down the road.

She also says I need an MRI. That’s because this neuropathy sounds a little funny to her. The pain doesn’t stay put in my limbs, which (she says) it generally does with B12 problems. I get the pinpricks mostly in the feet and hands, but also legs, arms, side, face, head. Now and then. Not a lot. But noticeably. And that is weird enough that Dr. K says we ought to rule out MS, which can cause abnormal sensation in all manner of places and ways.

Oh, good.

Of course, having been completely bamboozled by this information when I set up the test, I scheduled it for the ONLY time next week when I CANNOT leave my office. Now I must reschedule. So who knows when it will be or when I’ll get results.

On a considerably lighter note, kudos to Tekakwitha, who has rescued much my summer wardrobe from Goodwill with this comment. I got the Minimed thigh thing T mentions, and it does NOT fall down or require additional contraptions to hold it up. Indeed, it’s so adjustable that one can inflict whatever level of circulatory disruption to the thigh one likes, all in the name of fashion bliss. So Charlotte and I are at peace once again.

Now I just need to decide which dress is appropriate to wear to an MRI. Ahem.

Charlotte vs. the Summer Wardrobe

She’s winning.

I know the tricks: the thigh thing, the bra thing, the cutesie pouches. I’ve shopped the accessory websites. But there’s a certain category of sundress for which none of the tricks work. I can’t do the bra clippie thing because I’m not, errr, properly built. With many of my clothes I can hide the pump under my arm, in the side of my bra, but with some dresses it sticks out horribly there. Depends on how the dress is cut. And the thigh thing falls down unless I wear it with a garter belt, which shows under lots of fabrics in a very obvious, look-at-me-I’m-wearing-sexually-charged-lingerie-and-might-be-a-harlot-would-you-care-to-find-out? kinda way.

I own, like, six dresses in this category. They are (were) my favorites. Whine, whine, whine.

There’s one thing I haven’t tried. It’s an adjustable garter thingie. Maybe this would stay up without a garter belt? It even comes in two sizes, a brilliant acknowledgment that women do not, in fact, have made-to-order thighs. I will invest the 30 bucks and report back.

In which I have little to say

EMG = normal. Yay! I still have the symptoms, though. I need to talk to the doctor but can't find the wherewithal to do it. Low low energy on the self-care front right now. The only thing I've accomplished all week is one little tiny bout of exercise. On the plus side, I'm eating like a responsible diabetic again. (The bionic bagels, incidentally, prevailed...That third hour nails me every time. Maybe I have to take an extra bolus then? Hmm, dangerous.)

Aha, I do have one positive story to relate. This will seem like nothing to longtimers, but for me it felt bold: I went dancing while I was in New York. I hadn't been dancing since before my dx six months ago; I was worried about going too low or too high (in an attempt not to go too low) from the funny bits of intense exercise. Actually, Mr. Brooklyn had tried to take me dancing on my birthday, but I messed up my fancy-dinner bolus and wound up at 330, too high for safe physical activity...

Anyhow, I didn't go low, just a smidge high from dropping my basal more than I needed to. And we had a great time. Diabetes, I fart in your general direction! (We also saw Spamalot last week...)

Charlotte vs. the Bionic Bagel

Well, last week I ran out of time to write about the Evil Matron Glaring who subsequently became Egregiously Mollifed & Gentle--this would be the tech, of course, who performed my EMG and whose behavior during same has contributed to my DUH w/r/t nerve damage. She was quite mean to me at the onset of the exam (I was late and that was NOT okay) but became startingly kind and friendly by the end, without apparent cause. A number of rational, non-DUH-stricken folks have pointed out logical explanations for this shift that have nothing at all to do with the tech having discovered, as I fear she did, that something Extremely Morbid & Grim is occurring within my nervous system. She probably, for example, realized she had behaved inappropriately toward me and figured she'd better compensate in case I decided to complain. Or, even more likely, she was initially upset that I had put her off schedule but calmed down as the test proceeded smoothly and she regained her lost time.

Okay. Sure. Makes sense. I'll keep trying to buy into that.

Meanwhile, the reason I ran out of time last week is that I was getting ready to visit Mr. Brooklyn, hooray. Am now here. I have yet to learn how to behave as well as I should with my eating when I'm in New York. There are many more temptations than I typically encounter during my staid culinary life in Minneapolis. At home, for example, my main stress over carbohydrates is deciding whether I should microwave Amy's Tamale Pie for 27 grams (minus 5 g fiber) or Amy's Shepherd's Pie for 27 grams (minus 4 g fiber). Here it's more like: should I eat delicious but inappropriate restaurant foods for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or all three?

Consider, for example, that quintessential New York pleasure, the bagel. I never believed until I ate one myself that it's true what they say: the bagels here are beyond compare. (Mr. Brooklyn theorizes that there's some magical ingredient in NYC water that makes the difference.) Alas, bagels are especially cruel to the diabetic system. Made of highly refined flour, they hit the BG aggressively. Yet no human I've met can resist consuming them with generous amounts of cream cheese, a fat that slows down digetive processes and results in a sort of double whammy: you get nailed right away AND later, sometimes much later, by the refined carbs.

One of the fine things about modern insulin pumps is they come equipped with tools for addressing problems like these. You can spread out part or all of your insulin over an hour or two or three, for example, to try to cover foods that bite you back later. This requires experimentation, as it's an individualized process. It is my mission to make productive use of my vacation time by deriving a formula for healthful (ahem) bagel consumption.

Mr. Brooklyn buys his bagels at an appropriately named shop called Bionic Bagels. What better opponent for Charlotte's sophisticated gadgetry? Already three encounters have taken place. The first ended in clear victory for the enemy: 2 hours post-bagel 176, 3 hours post-bagel 246, argh. Undaunted, Charlotte and I sent for reinforcements and renewed the attack. We have since gained considerable ground: 2 hours 138, quite respectable, 3 hours 179. The current battle plan is to weigh the bagel, compute insulin, add half a unit, take 60% with bagel and 40% over the next hour. Our strategy for the next engagement is to spread out the 40% over a longer span of time.

My friends, we shall prevail, and the rewards will be great.