Pump Up The Jam!

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This particular blog will intimately and ultimately refer to my personal use of various and popularly known insulin pumps. 

The phrase “Pump Up The Jam,” has become a personal cliché that I have used for many years dealing with diabetes.  Before insulin pumps came into flamboyant popularity, a particular song entitled “Pump Up The Jam by Technotronic, 1989,  was adopted through a need for self-expression.  Technotronic helped me to achieve this.

Pumping on to a present-day conundrum, I have quit the pump.  You see, my original purchase was glorified and its machinations remained faithful for eleven years.  At one time, an endocrinologist begged me to try a competitor.  I did.  He earned a trip to Hawaii and that particular pump ceased its service(s) and sent me to the hospital with ketosis.  Not good. Another story. 

With that drama aside, I was able to return to my original and beloved insulin pump and its organization.  Thinking that I was comfortably back to my original brand after insurance tedium,  this company sold out to another well-known diabetes tool supplier.  The next three years brought off-and-on havoc.  For instance, necessary insets and tubings were changed, battery types were changed, my blood sugars became a daily roller-coaster, my HbA1C levels rose, my give-a-care waned, and this particular company blamed me for “having too much scar tissue” and that is why the pump did not work.  Well, after over fifty years of needling and pricking myself in one way or another, of course I have too much scar tissue! 

Onto my THIRD insulin pump manufacturer, this relationship lasted four weeks, tops. 

Weeks passed as I volleyed between plastic and stainless steel cannulae (aka: infusion sets), constantly and consistently rotating my body target sites.  The pump’s “error” messages and vibrations were unending, ceaseless day and night, and became embarrassing.  The required AA batteries lasted less than ten days, the clip to hold the pump on my waistband broke, and that was it!  The last straw!  I decided to care for myself and my disease with insulin injections.

Chaos brings change and change brings chaos.

Presently, I am in my fifth week of ‘shooting up the jam’ as opposed to ‘pumping up the jam’ with multiple (six) injections per day.  This many injections per day is due to the fact that I use Apidra and Levemir insulins that cannot be mixed together. 

Acceptance breeds tolerance.    

At this writing, I have not notified my endocrinologist, nor my internist, nor my general medical practitioner.  I know what to do, how to do it,  where to do it and why to do it.  After all, I have been diabetic longer than they have been alive and longer than they have been medical practitioners!  They will all find out soon enough – when I need refills.

 Do widzenia.

A. K. Buckroth (aka: Andrea K. Roth), www.mydiabeticsoul.com.

 

Clinitest Tablets

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OMG!  Clinitest Tablets!  Who remembers these, raise your hands?!  Writer/Author Kelly Rawlings flashed me wa-aa-ay back to my past, to my childhood, when I had  to use this product to test the glucose amount in my urine.  Yuck! That was all we diabetics had back in the day!

By prescription, these highly poisonous tablets were in a dark-colored glass bottle.  Heck, if my memory serves me right, there could have been twenty-five tablets in any particular bottle.   I would handle these things every day, at least four times a day, for glucose testing in order to regulate my daily insulin injection amounts.  Such a tablet was the size of a modern day daily supplement; either dark blue or dark gray in color, they had white speckles on them.  The overpowering, nasty smell alone caused me to hate them, caused me to hate that testing procedure!  More often than not, my mother had to yell at me to get it done, especially since she was the ‘insulin drawer.’  After reading Ms. Rawlings’ twitter, that old smell, from thirty-five years ago, came wafting to my olfactory memory membranes once again.  Yuck. 

To further enlighten your senses, let me share an excerpt from my book, page 15:

 “Returning to the topic of my initial care when first diagnosed [with diabetes] in 1959, I had to continue to use a “potty seat.”  In fact, I continued to have to use a variety of potty seats until I was 15 years old.  Who knew?  This was the easiest way to collect urine for absolute and necessary testing for glucose four times a day.  However, due to school hours, it was done twice a day.

“Using what is known as a “Clinitest kit” that was stored in the bathroom medicine cabinet, it smelled funny – horribly bad – and distinctive.   

“Five drops of urine with ten drops of water in a glass tube [vial]; drop in a [Clinitest] tablet and watch it fizz, fizz, fizz as it turned colors: colors from bright blue, timid green, bright yellow or burning orange were displayed. Either of these colors indicated the level of glucose – sugar – in my bloodstream albeit through my urine. Yellow and orange gave the impression that the glucose level was high; whereas, green and blue were good, implying that the glucose level was low. The process was scary to see as a child and I certainly never ever wanted to touch one, afraid it would burn me.

“Yes, quite odd, albeit historic, compared to the machination processes of today. In my mind, yellow and orange signified “bad” colors. This meant I did something wrong. Maybe I ate too much. Or maybe I ate something I wasn’t supposed to eat. Those colors told me something was wrong with my body, my diabetes. Did I have an infection? Was my body giving me a signal for something? Fear. Fear introduced itself to me before I even knew what fear was. ”

“Ironically, … the colors yellow and orange are my favorite colors to this day.  This type of testing, … would continue for many years to come.”

I realize now that yellow and orange are my favorite colors because I refuse to give in to negativity.  It just as simple as that.  Thank you, Ms. Rawlings, for reminding me.

A. K. Buckroth, “My Diabetic Soul – An Autobiography,” 2010, www.mydiabeticsoul.com.

“Cyborg Rights”

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Continuing with this newly acclaimed title not of my creation, I will allude to a recent Twitter by Alasdar Wilkins.  Although his blog article subjects the reader to in-depth thinking, I have, nonetheless,  become more comfortable by publicly admitting to being a cyborg.

Wilkins writes “Though creatures like the Terminator are still scifi dreams, cyborgs already exist in real life. Millions of people use mechanical implants to improve their lives. That opens up urgent questions about cyborg rights, particularly in athletics.”  I find the keyword here to be “rights.”

I am an insulin pump user.  Have been for fifteen years.  In my recently published autobiography, page 215, I bring up the fact of being a cyborg as follows:  “Thus, I claim fame to being a cyborg.  I walk around in life with a 3.5 ounce machine clipped to by belt, bra, waistband, or in a pant or skirt pocket that is both comfortable and big enough to hold it.  A clear plastic tube no more than 24 inches in length dangles between the pump and my body site.  This allows a life-giving and necessary human hormone to drip [insulin] into my person every three minutes.  If that’s not a cyborg, I don’t know what is!”  Etcetera, etcetera.

I not only credit Mr. Wilkins for this recent article, but the term “cyborgization” will now be adopted, at least by me.   Having seen this specific word for the first time, it brought a smile to my face.  

Just more food for thought.  It is what it is and that’s all there is.

A. K. Buckroth, “My Diabetic Soul – An Autobiography,” 2010, www.mydiabeticsoul.com.

The Illusive Conclusive Raccoon

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 http://buckroth.wordpress.com/2010/05/03/a-raccoon-in-the-attic/

This is the conclusive follow-up to a story written in May, 2010, entitled “A Raccoon In the Attic” by A. K. Buckroth – me!

To refresh your memories, a soft spot in the ceiling of my husband’s wood shop had given way.  Black mold due to extended and ignored moisture caused part of the ceiling to cave in.   The resultant hole in the ceiling became a hole in the roof that granted easy access for any type of rascal to gain comfortable entry.   Our particular rascal happened to be a raccoon. 
As the story went, a trap was set: a specific type of metal ‘racoon trap’ with dog food and peanut butter in it because that is what his brother told him to use, and then he ingeniously rigged the trap to the roof of the building using  yellow nylon rope.  This rope was purposely wrapped inside the door of the trap and then each end of it extended ten feet in both directions – from the north side of the wood shop to the south.  Can you see it?  Visualize it?
  
Day-after-day I was directed and reminded to “watch the rope.  If it becomes taut, that means we got ‘im.”  Or “her,” whichever the case may be; I suspected the raccoon to be a nesting female.  
 
Thinking for sure that a loud crash, bang, boom would awaken us after we settled in for a night, meaning that the raccoon was caught, that did not happen.   Instead, six days later, during a bright Saturday’s mid-morning rope check, the rope was indeed taut.  “Hon,” I yelled and scurried through the back door.  “The rope is taut.  Come see.”
Hearing this news, such excitement in this particular grown man was comparable to a child on Christmas morning!  Quickly donning his dirt/work boots, gloves, flashlight and safety glasses, once again he climbed the carefully positioned ladder.  Sure enough, the raccoon was in the cage.  Having not only eaten the dog food and peanut butter, but the plastic cup that held it was gnawed apart and eaten as well.  Poor thing was mighty hungry.
Untying the rope ends, hubby lifted the caged animal through the roof hole. Delicately climbing down the awaiting ladder with it in one hand, the raccoon seemed to playfully paw at my husband.  Rather docile, I got the immediate impression that it was used to humans.  No, we had no intentions of playing back!
   
Gently placing its caged self in the back of the pick-’em-up truck, we purposely drove it to the nearby river for release.  Once there, the raccoon had to be coaxed to leave the cage.  Strange.  After a few long seconds, my husband tilted the cage forward and tapped it with a stick.  I ran twenty feet in the opposite direction, of course, chicken that I am.   The raccoon darted out of there in such a quick blur of motion with air, it could not be seen.  Straight through the trees, over the rocks and boulders, down hill to the river, we know it will be fine.
Glad that we were responsible for its proper entrapment and release, work on the roof and the ceiling is under way.  The comfortable nest area made from the existing fiberglass insulation will be replaced along with dry-wall, plywood and shingles.  Such is life in our rustic suburbia.  Ahh, it is good.
 
A. K. Buckroth
 

U. S. Naval EOD

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Having been unfamiliar with the United States Naval EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) until recently, my daughter  has excitedly informed me and her father that she has been accepted into this prestigious program. 

“The United States Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal technicians render safe all types of ordnance, including improvised, chemical, biological, and nuclear.  [Ordnance is artillery; all weapons and ammunition used in warfare.]  The technicians perform land and underwater location, identification, render-safe, and recovery (or disposal) of foreign and domestic ordnance [aka: bombs].”  (http://en.wikipedia.org)  If you are a parent, would not such facts raise hairs on the back of your neck?!   

“What do you think?  How do you feel about this?’  have been the first remarks from others.  Well, I have always been excited when she was excited, happy when she is happy, etc.   That hasn’t changed and never will.  After all, one of my life-time duties as a mother is to pray and then be concerned on the verge of worrying.  I accept that she always wanted to enter a U. S. military organization; I accept that she is mature enough to make her own decisions without regret; I know that she is an extremely intelligent young woman, empowered with already having made mature and lifetime decisions.  She is responsible, she is dependable.  She is all good things.  She is my heart.  She is my daughter.

It is my selfishness that would hold her back and I will not allow that to happen.  It is my selfish love that does not want to be without her for years at a time.   With all this in and on my mind, I wanted to share – vent – with you, dear readers. 

Simply and unending, God Bless our Military, their Families that stand FOR each end every soldier, with each and every Citizen of these United States.  Amen.

A. K. Buckroth. MA, Author, www.mydiabeticsoul.com

Ah. Three-day Weekend(s)

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The throes of my former three-day weekends have begun many weeks beforehand with planning: reservations, food supplies, first aid to include mosquito repellents and SPF-50 creams, does my bathing suit fit (the way I want it to?!), cleaning the house before I leave, the comfortable clothes packing through a 5-day weather watch, check book balancing to make sure bills are covered, an automotive check list (tires, fluids, trunk room), house light timers, and so forth.  Add whatever else you personally prepare and  we’re on our way.  Don’t forget animal care, which in itself is quite detailed.

Having gone through this routine for several years, I quit.  The tasks-to-goals for comfort and care to get from point A to point B have become unabashedly tiresome.   Viewed as a ‘vacation,’ I think it is anything but!  Highways, byways, parking lots, airports, etc., are too overcrowded for my tastes.   Motorhomes, campers, trailers, ‘toy boxes,’ motorcycles, 4-wheelers and ski-doos, have slowly covered my hi-way journey, blotting out scenery.

Enough is enough!  We stay home.  Glorifying in the relaxed atmosphere of home has been gratifying.  Sure, we still take part in ‘going places far far away’ for extra-ordinary activities, but not on a three-day weekend!  The weekend before or the weekend after is when we plan to escape the home scene.  In this way, our final destination is always more relaxed, there is more room to enjoy all the sights, and we do not have to be so alert, anxious, and careful of the multitudes! 

Ah, three-day weekends – national holidays – are appreciated humbly as we raise our American flag, outside our front door in gratitude and remembrance.  God Bless America and all its citizens!

Cowboys

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Mm, mm, mm.  To me, cowboys are rated right there among firemen, policemen, men in uniform.  Yep, so I’m easy.  Through my experiences with camping (earlier blog), I have become acquainted with a few real-life cowboys.  As rustic and rugged when days of old, the characteristic stereotype of each cowboy I have met remains the same. 

Here’s a little story I found from a Physicians’ Mutual pamphlet I recently received and wanted  to share with you about cowboys.  For instance, “American cowboys get their roots from the Mexican ‘vaqueros.’  All the way back to the 1500’s, vaqueros were hired by ranchers to herd cattle from Mexico to what is now New Mexico and Texas.  When American settlers moved into the area, they were influenced by the vaqueros’ culture, including the way they dressed, spoke and drove cattle.  This influence was the start of the traditional cowboy image.

“With the building of railroads in the 1860s and after the Civil War, cowboys became important figures in the Wild West.  As herding routes changed and expanded, many towns were founded in their wake.  These settlements often benefited from cowboys who came to spend their hard-earned money, although most settlers considered cowboys to be troublemakers.  In reality, cowboys were young (normally in their 20s), hardworking men whose life was often exhausting and lonely.  They lived a life based on self-reliance and individualism.

“By the end of the 1800s and into the early 1900s, the cowboy way of life changed.  As more ranchers sectioned land with barbed wire and railroads moved farther west, the cowboys were not needed as much.  However, while the life af the cowboy changed, their culture began to be idolized by the rest of America.  With popular movies like High Noon and Gunfight at the O. K. Corral and famous TV shows like The Lone Ranger, Bonanza, and Gunsmoke, cowboys became heroes in the public eye.  There was also the birth of the “singing cowboy” portrayed by Gene Autry and Rex Allen, as well as rising star actors such as Roy Rogers, Dale Evans and John Wayne.  So, even though the real cowboys saw themselves as survivors just doing their job, Hollywood portrayed them as romantic, hero figures.

“In some aspects, the cowboys’ way of life today isn’t much different than it was 100 years ago.  For example, it is still hard work requiring long hours watching over large herds of cattle.  But other aspects have completely changed.  Some cowboys and ranchers use modern technology to make the work easier, like using helicopters to watch over the land and cattle (instead of relying solely on horses).  Though times are changing, the cowboy continues to live on as a symbol of persistence, independence and hard work.”

Ah, I repeat: a symbol of persistence, independence and hard work, very analogous to many of our life’s daily situations.  Take care!  A. K. Buckroth.

Camping

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What comes to your mind when someone mentions “camping” or says “I’m going camping?” Visions of tent setups and sleeping inside one in a ‘sleeping bag?’  A fire hole built with stone and wood, allowing the roasting of hot dogs and marshmallows?  Gazing at the universe of stars on a clear night?  Any number of positive visualizations come forth, right?  Well, that is where I was for the last five days – ‘camping.’ 

Not ever thinking of the adage “expect the unexpected,” I went forth headlong through many preparations a week beforehand until arriving at the final destination.  Grateful to own a ‘pop-up’ trailer, that in itself took two hours to set up.  The weather did not help.  Knowing in advance that the temperature would not be above 60 degrees fahrenheit, that came and went quickly at three o’clock in one afternoon. 

Then the unexpected arrived: hail, rain, more hail, wind, a temperature high of 27 degrees, more rain then snow.  Too wet to light a match to, the wood pile remained in the mud.  The portable heater ran 24/7; even the dogs shivered.  Having to walk them, I did so, pleasantly.  But they did not want to eat due to the strange environ.  Oh well.  After four days, we made it home safely, to the warmth and comfort of our home.

With all that being done, I became ever-so-grateful for what I have and what I do not have.  That concept of thought is really quite simple.  Think about it.   Use it.  Be grateful.  I am.

A. K. Buckroth

Judy’s Update III (RE: Kidney Transplant)

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Judy goes home today!  Excited to share this with you, such news does not come without apprehension and fright.

After undergoing a kidney transplant on March 12th, ironically her surgeon’s birthday, her progress is delightful!  Besides having to maintain a minute strategizing of her body, mind and soul through insulin shots, pain medication and immuno-suppressant drugs, her attitude is upbeat and anxious.  I do not blame her.  Eight days in a hopital environment is plenty!  Although her overall care was excellent at UMASS (University of Massachusetts), her 40+ years of diabetes knowledge and stubborn independence will blossom once again.  I believe.  I am proud of her.

Until next time, I remain a big sister.

A. K. Buckroth, MA, Author

“Signs of Cancer…”

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An Eye-Opener On Ovarian Cancer
THIS IS A MUST TO READ TO THE END   

I hope you all take the time to read this and pass it on to all you can. Send this to the women in your life that you care about…. 

Years ago, Gilda Radner died of ovarian cancer. Her symptoms were inconclusive, and she was treated for everything under the sun until it was too late. This blood test finally identified her illness but alas, too late. She wrote a book to heighten awareness. Gene Wilder is her widower. 

Kathy’s Story: this is the story of Kathy West 
“I have Primary Peritoneal Cancer. This cancer has only recently been identified as its OWN type of cancer, but it is essentially Ovarian Cancer. 

“Both types of cancer are diagnosed in the same way, with the ‘tumor marker’ CA-125 BLOOD TEST, and they are treated in the same way – surgery to remove the primary tumor and then chemotherapy with Taxol and Carboplatin. 

“Having gone through this ordeal, I want to save others from the same fate That is why I am sending this message to you and hope you will print it and give it or send it via E-mail to everybody you know. 

“One thing I have learned is that each of us must take TOTAL responsibility for our own health care. I thought I had done that because I always had an annual physical and PAP smear, did a monthly Self-Breast Exam, went to the dentist at least twice a year, etc. I even insisted on a sigmoidoscopy and a bone density test last year. When I had a total hysterectomy in 1993, I thought that I did not have to worry about getting any of the female reproductive organ cancers. 
“LITTLE DID I KNOW. I don’t have ovaries (and they were HEALTHY when they were removed), but I have what is essentially ovarian cancer. Strange, isn’t it?

“These are just SOME of the things our Doctors never tell us: ONE out of every 55 women will get OVARIAN or PRIMARY PERITONEAL CANCER. 
The ‘CLASSIC’ symptoms are an ABDOMEN that rather SUDDENLY ENLARGES and CONSTIPATION and/or DIARRHEA . 

“I had these classic symptoms and went to the doctor. Because these symptoms seemed to be ‘abdominal’, I went to a gastroenterologist. He ran tests that were designed to determine whether there was a bacteria infection; these tests were negative, and I was diagnosed with ‘Irritable Bowel Syndrome’. I guess I would have accepted this diagnosis had it not been for my enlarged abdomen. I swear to you, it looked like I was 4-5 months pregnant! I therefore insisted on more tests.  They took an X-ray of my abdomen; it was negative. I was again assured that I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome and was encouraged to go on my scheduled month-long trip to Europe . I couldn’t wear any of my slacks or shorts because I couldn’t get them buttoned, and I KNEW something was radically wrong. I INSISTED on more tests, and they reluctantly) scheduled me for a CT-Scan (just to shut me up, I think). This is what I mean by ‘taking charge of our own health care.’

“The CT-Scan showed a lot of fluid in my abdomen (NOT normal). Needless to say, I had to cancel my trip and have FIVE POUNDS of fluid drawn off at the hospital (not a pleasant experience I assure you), but NOTHING compared to what was ahead of me. 

“Tests revealed cancer cells in the fluid. Finally, finally, finally, the doctor ran a CA-125 blood test, and I was properly diagnosed. 

“I HAD THE CLASSIC SYMPTOMS FOR OVARIAN CANCER, AND YET THIS SIMPLE CA-125 BLOOD TEST HAD NEVER BEEN RUN ON ME, not as part of my annual physical exam and not when I was symptomatic. This is an inexpensive and simple blood test!

“PLEASE, PLEASE TELL ALL YOUR FEMALE FRIENDS AND RELATIVES TO INSIST ON A CA-125 BLOOD TEST EVERY YEAR AS PART OF THEIR ANNUAL PHYSICAL EXAMS. 

“Be forewarned that their doctors might try to talk them out of it, saying, ‘IT ISN’T NECESSARY.’ Believe me, had I known then what I know now, we would have caught my cancer much earlier (before it was a stage 3 cancer). Insist on the CA-125 BLOOD TEST; DO NOT take ‘NO’ for an answer!

“The normal range for a CA-125 BLOOD TEST is between zero and 35. MINE WAS 754. (That’s right, 754!). If the number is slightly above 35, you can have another done in three or six months and keep a close eye on it, just as women do when they have fibroid tumors or when men have a slightly elevated PSA test (Prostatic Specific Antigens) that helps diagnose prostate cancer. 

“Having the CA-125 test done annually can alert you early, and that’s the goal in diagnosing any type of cancer – catching it early. 

“Do you know 55 women? If so, at least one of them will have this VERY AGGRESSIVE cancer. Please, go to your doctor and insist on a CA-125 test and have one EVERY YEAR for the rest of your life. 

Please forward this message to every woman you know, and tell all of your female family members and friends. Though the median age for this cancer is 56, (and, guess what, I’m exactly 56, women as young as 22 have it. Age is no factor. ”

A NOTE FROM A Registered Nurse: 

“Well , after reading this, I made some calls. I found that the CA-125 test is an ovarian screening test equivalent to a man’s PSA test prostate screen (which my husband’s doctor automatically gives him in his physical each year and insurance pays for it). I called the general practitioner’s office about having the test done. The nurse had never heard of it. She told me that she doubted that insurance would pay for it. So I called Prudential Insurance Co, and got the same response. Never heard of it – it won’t be covered. I explained that it was the same as the PSA test they had paid for my husband for years. After conferring with whomever they confer with, she told me that the CA-125 would be covered. 

“It is $75 in a GP’s office and $125 at the GYN’s. This is a screening test that should be required just like a PAP smear (a PAP smear cannot detect problems with your ovaries). And you must insist that your insurance company pay for it. 

“Gene Wilder and Pierce Brosnan (his wife had it, too) are lobbying for women’s health issues, saying that this test should be required in our physicals, just like the PAP and the mammogram. PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO SEND THIS OUT TO ALL THOSE YOU CAN. BE IT MALE OR FEMALE, IT SHOULD NOT MATTER, AS THEY CAN FORWARD IT ALSO TO THOSE LOVED ONES THEY KNOW.”

Thank you!