Years Rolled On

 

Quicksilver Moments

Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides

On the Precipice of Six

- Lois Lowry, The Giver 

Roots

Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

If There Were Only Joy

We could never learn to be brave and patient, 
if there were only joy in the world.

-Helen Keller

A Word Before School

It is the mark of an educated mind 
to be able to entertain a thought 
without accepting it. 

-Aristotle 

Girl Power

A Tale of Two Cake Pops

The Alto's Journey

Reagan & I spent a day about town last week, Tuesday, to be precise.  I thought we both needed to get out of the house & focus on things other than Frozen acclimating to her new insulin pump, & plus there were some things I had to get done.  The oil doesn't change itself.  We don't grow toilet paper on trees.  Well, you know what I mean.

The day began well.  My dad recently returned from a mission trip to Guatemala, & he brought me this:

I'm not sure why Guatemala has the economic issues it does; I'd pay a high price for more of this stuff.  I have to now point out (because he has so many, many times) that yes, while my father was in Guatemala doing the Lord's work, I was rocking with Queen & Adam Lambert & buying shirts on sale at Macy's.  I have a friend at church who was in Costa Rica doing mission work recently & he has promised me a bag of Costa Rican coffee beans that he says make some of the best coffee he's ever had.  He's a hardcore coffee drinker, & also one of the few males (that I know of) who read & enjoyed my book, so I value his judgment & am eager to grind my foreign beans & enjoy the Costa Rican coffee.  It's amazing how the Lord's work is paying dividends in my life lately.

When my Guatemalan coffee was drained, I asked Reagan where she wanted to eat lunch, knowing full well where we were headed.  She loves Newk's.  Admittedly, they do have a great grilled cheese sandwich; it's a lot fancier than the grilled cheese sandwiches she gets everywhere else.  They also have good, fresh fruit, her side of choice, & tea pre-sweetened with Splenda, so I can't complain too much.  Plus, I know exactly how many carbs are in a Newk's grilled cheese with a side of fruit, so it makes the dosing easy.   

With full stomachs, we headed to the nearest Rocket Lube to have the Highlander's oil changed.  If there's one thing that will make me jump, it's a persistent warning light reminding me it's past time to have the oil in my car changed.  Oddly, it's not the idea that I might be destroying the car's engine that bothers me.  What ushers me right to Rapid Lube every time is being stared down by the light that will not go away & obfuscates my otherwise clean, pretty dash, but regardless, it serves its purpose.    

The oil change was a first for Reagan (aside from the time her father changed his own oil).  She was highly skeptical of the men waving me forward, motioning for me to veer to the left a little as I attempted to line up the car for them while explaining to her that they weren't going to do anything while we were still in the car.  She did not enjoy stepping out onto the large gray metal plates with holes in them that allude to dark spaces below, but I coaxed her into the indoor waiting area with promises of Altoids (they're very strong, curiously strong even, but she loves them & they have few carbs, so we go with it).    

There's a lot of things I don't understand.  Admittedly, in some cases I am satisfied being ignorant because were I truly interested in enlightening myself, I could.  I don't understand why synthetic oil costs more than real oil.  Doesn't synthetic mean fake?  I know we're not talking about diamonds, but generally the 'real' version of something is more expensive than a synthetic version.  The first time I had the oil changed in my Highlander, a kind man came in the waiting area where I was sipping old, stale coffee & explained that the Highlander needs synthetic oil, & was that okay?  Well I have no idea.  I just said, "Sure, that's fine."  I am the woman they spot a mile away.  They whip out the new air filter before I've put the car in park because they know I'll say, "Sure, change it," if they so much as hint it's dirty.  Even without a new air filter, my oil changes run around $70 now in the synthetic-era.  I'd at least like a fresh cup of coffee with that $70 oil change.  Yes, I know it would be less expensive if I didn't use the Rapid Lube guys, but I don't have the luxury of waiting hours at Goodyear, where they take slightly less time than Trey to change a vehicle's oil.   

With new, albeit synthetic, oil in place, it was finally time to head to the promised land: Target.  

After I grabbed a few of the boring household items we absolutely had to have (toilet paper, kleenex, baby wipes . . . the bodily fluid trifecta), I escorted Reagan to the back of the store where the many toy aisles are located.

For all her bravado, Reagan almost always selects toys that are inexpensive.  We were specifically searching for a pair of gloves like Elsa's.  A few Sundays ago, Reagan came home from church, removed her frilly white socks, put them on her hands, & announced they were her gloves, & they were only to be removed for her coronation.  Had I known how tricky it would be to get all ten of her little fingers in a set of actual gloves, I'd have been more than satisfied with the frilly white Sunday socks. 

After some serious stalking of the toy aisles, we left Target with a pair of purple gloves, a few things of nail polish (displayed above), & some new Frozen dinnerware, pictured below. 

The Frozen dinnerware coordinates with the Frozen figurines her Grandmama bought her, & (not pictured) her Frozen T-shirt, & her collection of Frozen coloring books.   

When we left Target, we still had one mandatory stop (the grocery store), but I wasn't ready to face it yet.  I headed to Chick-fil-A, where I ordered a coffee & a Coke Zero.  I was sitting & sipping my coffee when Reagan made a face & asked, "What kind of coke is this?"  It was more like, "What kind of coke is thiiiiIIIIsss?"  I realized I hadn't taken a sip of her drink before handing it to her, something I usually do to avoid her unknowingly downing a regular soft drink.  I took a sip of her drink, which was obviously Root Beer.  I looked at my ticket, which clearly read 'Coke Zero,' & headed back to the counter.  I was kind . . . but admittedly mainly because the lady who helped me was not the individual who'd served my daughter a day's worth of carbs in a cup.  Seriously, food service employees, people have allergies, people have diabetes, people have crazy mothers, so when they order a Coke Zero, give them a Coke Zero.    

With her Coke Zero in my hand for real this time, & her new purple Elsa gloves in her hands, we headed to the elusive back end of Chick-fil-A, the play area.  I can't admit to you how often we go through the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, but it's a lot, & Reagan always asks about the play area, & I always say no, & so last Tuesday I let her have the run of the place.  

We did eventually make it to the grocery store, which was as boring as it sounds.  

A few shots of Reagan with her Elsa gloves:

She's concerned about the power she'll unleash if she removes the gloves:

I'm ready to talk about Frozen now.  As you can tell from the above riveting rundown of a typical day for me, Frozen is very much an intricate part of my psyche.  I need to talk about it.  

I first saw Frozen last December when my mom & I took the kids to see it.  Reagan enjoyed it; Henry saw the first ten minutes & fell asleep, which is nearly identical to my dad's one experience with the film.  I've tried to impress upon him that he needs to watch it again while conscious because if there's anyone who appreciates great music & intricately woven vocals, it's Gordon.  Seriously.  I became immensely more interested in the movie when I realized Princess Elsa is voiced by none other than Idina Menzel.  I have to give props to the Disney folks for Frozen.  They might also in turn give props to Gregory Maguire, author of Wicked, the book about the witches of Oz turned into a broadway sensation.  

The similarities in Wicked the musical & Frozen don't end with Idina Menzel.  Both are centered not on a romantic relationship, but on the relationship between two women, one with a sugary soprano voice, the other an alto born with powers she doesn't understand that force her into a life of isolation.  In both musicals, there's an early number establishing the oddity of the alto-voiced lead, while also serving to solidify the syrupy goodness of the soprano lead.  The next act features a duet between the sweet but naive soprano & a man she's just met five minutes ago, but whom she loves & intends to marry.  Whether dancing through life or walking through love's open door, it is clear to everyone but the betrothed soprano that she won't be living happily ever after with her prince of the day.

What I adore about both Wicked & Frozen is the journey of the alto, & not just because both are voiced by the wonderful Idina Menzel, & not just because I prefer an alto to a soprano.  After struggling to find her place in a world that isn't welcoming of her & her power (after all, no one mourns the wicked . . . conceal, don't feel!), the alto inevitably flees, setting the scene for her big moment of triumph, which in a musical or Disney film translates to a fantastic musical number.  It should be noted that she always flees in a specific direction, such as to the Western sky, or up the North Mountain.

The theme of the alto's journey, & thus her big musical number, is freedom.  Whether her line is, I may be flying solo, but at least I'm flying free, or Yes I'm alone but I'm alone and free, it's obvious she feels she can finally breathe.  Or feel, rather than conceal, or defy gravity, whichever.  She is willing to embrace solitude for freedom, specifically freedom from judgment.  Yes, I may be green & labelled a witch, but I can deal as long as I am free.  I may turn everything in my path to icy stone when I lose my tempter, but I just don't care anymore who knows.  I think that's every mom's anthem at some point, Yes I'm alone but I'm alone and FREE!  No doubt the Disney geniuses are aware of who pays for the movie tickets, & the DVD, & the soundtrack.  And the figurines.  And the plates.  And the gloves.  And the coloring books.  

Both Wicked the musical & Frozen are modern in that they are female-centered, rather than prince-centered.  There are handsome men milling about, occasionally breaking into song, but the central  relationship in both musicals is the bond between the alto & the soprano.  They compliment each other, musically & otherwise.  The flighty soprano's redemption is her defense of the alto; whether her sister or her friend, their relationship shifts from distant to warm & loving, & the soprano, having made an attempt to understand the alto's desire for isolation, guards her against the onslaught of the raging villagers.  Obviously the Disney film ends happily, & Elsa is returned to her kingdom, her relationship with her sister & her subjects restored.  Elphaba's story doesn't end as well, but her parting of ways with the good witch makes for one of the best duets ever, EVER!, For Good, originally sung on Broadway by Idina Menzel & Kristin Chenoweth.  My favorites lines are, of course, a section sung by the alto:  

It well may be, that we will never meet again in this lifetime.

So, let me say before we part: 

so much of me is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart.

And now whatever way our stories end, 

I know you have rewritten mine by being my friend.            

Reagan, be an alto in life.  Guard your heart, don't assume you'll marry the first man you meet, & learn the virtues of solitude.  Gravitate to people who accept you & are willing to defend you against the mob.  Learn the value in letting go of the past.  For a gripping & well written lesson on the perils of living in the past, read The Great Gatsby.  Finally, accept & appreciate your mother's ability to work a reference to American literature into any context.  

It needs to be said that Disney made one major mistake with Frozen.  It's not so obvious if all you've done is watch the film (repeatedly), but spend some time listening to the soundtrack, & their misstep is glaring.  I try to leave you with at least one piece of sound advice when I write, so here's today's: there is never, ever a reason to have Demi Lovato record a song sung by Idina Menzel.  There are two versions of "Let It Go" on the soundtrack, the one Idina sings that's featured during the film, & another version that I think plays as the credits roll on the movie.  If you're unsure of who Demi Lovato is, don't worry, as I'm not sure myself.  She is not Idina Menzel, & that's really all you need to know. 

Idina was voicing a misunderstood, powerful protagonist long before Elsa, & I'm trying to get Reagan to embrace Elphaba's story, to no avail.  I've only seen Wicked once live, but I love the soundtrack; it tells the story.  I am trying to teach Reagan the value of a soundtrack as well, that if you listen to it from beginning to end (rather than switching between the two versions of "Let It Go" & skipping every other song) you can enjoy the story over & over.  And over & over & over.  And over.  She has learned the word duet, so we're making progress.

Clearly, my brain needs a distraction from basal rates (which I am on the verge of nailing!) & altos, not that they're not both fascinating.  Not only have I spent too much time contemplating the many roles of Idina Menzel, but concerning reading & writing, I'm in a holding pattern right now, & I've got to put an end to it.  I am a few hundred pages into The Summer Garden, the final book in The Bronze Horseman series.  I'll eventually finish it, because it is not in my nature to not finish a book series.  World War II is over, & ** spoiler alert ** Germany loses Alexander & Tatiana have been reunited.  They're getting down to the business of living, & it's tough stuff, especially when they're both scarred, physically & emotionally, from the horrors they experienced during the war.  More on them later, but my point is that I don't race to get in bed at night so I can begin reading, & often I end up piddling on the Internet, which is a vague way to say I randomly google things like Mockingjay trailer, or distressed furniture (which I love & am always in the market to purchase), or synthetic oil, or Robert Pattinson.  Yeah.  I hate me too.  The next thing I know, it's after midnight & I've wasted time I could've been productively reading, or spending time with Edie & Dr. Foster (who're in the middle of celebrating Christmas, which is difficult to write with zeal & authenticity when it's July), & instead I've got three tabs open to various articles about Robert Pattinson & Zac Efron going bowling.  This is what happens when I am not absorbed in a book.  It's sad.       

I think the main culprit is August.  I know it's coming; it clouds my judgment.  August is my absolute least favorite month of the year.  It's so hot now, & I'm constantly berated with Frozen, a movie in which people whine about an eternal winter, which honestly sounds fabulous to me (as does being able to freeze people who anger me).  I can now fit in corduroy pants I haven't been able to wear for several years, & I want to wear them!  I want to wear all the boots I bought on sale last March, but it's almost 100 degrees outside everyday, & if I show up places in heavy corduroy pants & winter boots, people will start to wonder.  While I am an alto, I don't have the voice to get away with being weird.  I can't sing myself out of many situations.  Defying August?  Maybe?    

AZ

Discipline (of the self variety)

I've been thinking a lot about the idea of disease.  Disease is, at least for me, laden with negative connotations.  You don't want a disease of any kind, right?  You certainly don't want your child to have a disease.  

This article came to my attention recently.  It was posted on a friend's Facebook page.  Written by Dr. Keith Ablow, a psychiatrist, it is titled, "Obesity is not a disease - and neither is alcoholism," & was written a year ago in response to the American Medical Association's decision to classify obesity as a disease.  What Dr. Ablow argues, & I agree with him, is that by labeling obesity & alcoholism diseases, we're giving alcoholics & the obese a pass, an excuse, & we're also placing the financial burden of their often costly healthcare on the taxpayers (& the taxpayers are BURNED OUT, y'all!).

This irresponsible use of the term disease is one more example of the pervasiveness of the "It's not my fault" culture in which we live.  So here goes.  Yes, yes, sometimes things are your fault, & if you make bad choices repeatedly, & those choices become destructive habits, & you find yourself grossly overweight, or drinking in a closet rather than spending time with your kids, it is your fault.  IT. IS. YOUR. FAULT.  Slapping the disease label on something that is the direct result of poor decision making is a blame shifting game that is detrimental to those who, more than anything else, need a heavy dose of self-control, & it is also financially unsustainable for our debt-crippled nation.

Diabetes is a disease.  Type 1 diabetes is, at present, an incurable disease.  My three year old has an incurable disease.  Three years in, one of her organs bailed on her.  She absolutely must receive insulin on a daily basis or her physical condition will rapidly deteriorate; conversely, if she has too much insulin in her system, things can get ugly very quickly.  Google hypoglycemia sometime.  Diabetes can be managed, but it is a serious disease, & it is ridiculous to me that alcoholism & obesity are also classified as diseases.  A lack of self-disipline is not a disease.  Laziness is not a disease.  Unfortunately, our government encourages laziness.  We heavily tax industrious business owners, & mail checks to those who don't work.  We pay the (often excessive) medical bills of those whose maladies are the result of years of terrible, self-indulgent choices.

We've got it all backwards.  We pass laws attempting to dictate what people can & cannot eat, drink, smoke, etc., but yet, when they make unhealthy choices, we're right there to pick up the tab.  We tell them they have a disease, & nothing is their fault, & Uncle Sam will make sure their medicine, & their surgery, & their rehab are paid in full.

Once upon a time, this was America, land of the free.  You were free to eat yourself into an early grave, & free to drink your life away, with the understanding that you would pay your own medical bills, & your rehab bills when they started rolling in, because everyone, including Uncle Sam, knew that what you had was a self-discipline problem, not a disease.  Freedom means not only the freedom to do as you please, but the understanding that you will accept the consequences of the decisions you make.

We clean up the messes our children make when they are small because they are too young to understand the consequences of their messy, messy behavior.  I watch Henry throw food & smile & laugh, & then I clean it all up, because he has no concept of consequences yet.  I also dictate basically every facet of Henry's life; where he goes, what he eats, drinks, wears, etc.  He is a child, & I am his parent, & this is how our relationship should function until he ages & gradually is given more freedom, & then a little more freedom, with the understanding that with freedom comes responsibility.  If I continue to clean up his messes, I do him no favors, & I do society no favors by unleashing yet another self-indulgent, undisciplined adult into a culture that is full to the brim with undisciplined adults.  I use the term adult loosely.

Children who know their parents will make them face the consequences of their actions often think long & hard about what they do.  I did.  My parents never blamed a teacher, or a principal, or a coach.  If they had an issue with someone who'd disciplined me, they didn't discuss it in my presence.  I knew trouble at school meant trouble at home, & the trouble at home was typically much more severe than the punishment the school doled out.  I was so, so, so incredibly angry at my parents at times, & I know this likely pained them, but they stood their ground.  I see their wisdom now.  It is a disservice to raise a child who believes nothing is his or her fault; it is a disservice to the child, & a disservice to the people who will have to deal with their entitlement minded attitude.

I believe that if people knew they did not have someone else's money to rely on when the medical bills pile up, some of them would make better decisions.  I would rather my tax dollars be spent on an insulin pump for a young child with type 1 diabetes, a disease that nothing in the world will prevent or cure at present, than be used to pay the medical bills of an individual who refuses to do what is necessary to prevent the maladies that afflict the obese.  I would rather my tax dollars be spent on diabetes research than rehab for an alcoholic; curing diabetes should be a priority since it is quite obvious how to end the perils of alcoholism.  My daughter can't make her own insulin, but you can stop drinking, & you can change your eating habits, & you can get off your couch for an hour or two a day.  Is it hard?  Of course.  But it is possible.  As Dr. Ablow states,

We have gone way too far down the road of suggesting that addictions, in general, are beyond the control of individuals.  When an alcoholic chooses alcohol over being available to his or her family and friends, that person is making a decision.  When a heroin addict chooses heroin over financial stability and performing well at work, that person is making a choice, too.  And the choice is not beyond that person's control.  It is a measure of how much discomfort that person is willing to endure, in service to himself, and others.

Reagan has no choice.  There is no discomfort she or I could endure that would end her diabetes.  If I could send Reagan to rehab & eliminate her diabetes, I would.  If I could give her my pancreas & eliminate her diabetes, I would.  If I could change her diet & eliminate her diabetes, I would.  Sorry that I don't have much compassion for those who have a choice, but don't possess the self-discipline to make the right choice.  At a minimum, please, please don't ask me to sit idly, quietly by while my tax dollars pay for the consequences of their poor choices, & the money left post-taxes pays for the insulin, & needles, & sugar meter, & meter strips, & doctor visits managing Reagan's diabetes demands.

When Reagan was first diagnosed in January of this year, I missed a few days teaching to be with her in the PICU.  When I returned to work & stood before my classes, I briefly explained my absence.  One student, upon hearing that Reagan had been diagnosed as diabetic, said, "Oh, you can get a check for that!"  I didn't respond.  I didn't even look up for a few seconds, pretending to be occupied with my roster or text or something.  I just moved on with class, resisting the urge to explain that no, no I cannot get a check for that.  The only time the government sends a check to my address is if we've paid too much in taxes (as if we don't always pay too much in taxes).  That student's statement stuck with me, & likely always will.  "Oh, you can get a check for that!" as if, rather than learning we were dealing with an incurable disease, my child & I had just won some sort of lottery.  This is the state of our nation, folks, & it is dismal.    

Soon after Reagan's diagnosis, Trey must've been doing a little googling because one day he rattled off a list of type 1 diabetics, & included on that list was Sonia Sotomayor.  She is, for those who aren't cool & can't name all nine members of the U.S. Supreme Court, a sitting Supreme Court Justice.

Justice Sotomayor was diagnosed at seven.  She has lived with diabetes for over fifty years now.  In the prologue of her memoir, My Beloved World, she recalls a morning fight between her parents over who was responsible for injecting her with the daily insulin she needs.  Without a word, seven year old Sonia walked to the stove to begin to boil the water needed to sterilize the needle & glass syringe required for her injection.  Disposable needles were not yet available at that time.  From that morning on, she took on the responsibility of managing her diabetes.  She goes on to discuss the discipline required to manage her diabetes, & how it has helped her in other areas of her life.  Justice Sotomayor's  advice to the parents of children with type 1 diabetes: "Don't stand in the way of their dreams, don't stand in the way of their activities, don't stand in the way of them taking control of their own lives.  Teach them; don't do it for them."  The chasm between Justice Sotomayor's political ideology & mine is deep & wide, but, knowing what it takes to manage type 1 diabetes, I have to admire the tenacity of a child who shouldered that responsibility at seven years old.  Knowing that she was able to keep herself not only alive, but healthy, with little help from her parents, it is not at all a surprise that she now sits on the nation's highest bench.  

Reagan, dear, it grieves my heart that you will deal with your disease for the rest of your life.  It grieves my heart that there is nothing you or I can do, or stop doing, to eliminate your diabetes.  I am hopeful & prayerful that a genuine cure will be found in your lifetime, but for the foreseeable future, I, & then you, will be responsible for performing the many important functions of a pancreas.  It is not an easy job, but it is certainly doable.  It takes tremendous discipline.  Caring for you these past few months has made me a more disciplined person in numerous areas of my life.  I know that you have enough of my anal retentiveness in you that you are going to excel at caring for yourself; you are going to want the numbers as perfect as I do.  

Reagan, I want you to reject the disease label.  Nothing about you speaks to disease.  You are vibrant & beautiful.  You need insulin.  Guess what?  Everybody needs insulin.  Yours is delivered a little unconventionally.  Be whatever in the world you want to be.  Be a Supreme Court Justice (a conservative Supreme Court Justice).  Be a doctor.  Research diabetes (relying on your father's math skills).  Become the president of the United States, assuming that's an option when you're old enough & the Chinese don't own us.  Don't be defined by your diabetes; let the self-disicpline required to manage diabetes seep into every other area of your life.  Be defined by your self-disipline, because, as Plato said, "the first and best victory is to conquer self."  Whatever it is that you want, if it's worth having, attaining it will require self-discipline, whether it is beautiful blood sugar numbers, an English degree, a thriving Christian marriage, or a seat on the Supreme Court; you are certainly capable of achieving all four.

AZ

Highs & Lows

Well I'm still here.  And I mean that in every sense of the word here - physically, mentally, emotionally, & of course, here, blogging away.  I have not checked out . . . but there have been some close calls.  

We made a trip to Jackson last week to see a pediatric endocrinologist.  I told you that we'd be seeing a doctor in Shreveport, but that didn't pan out.  The official reference to a specialist has to come from your primary doctor, & when the office here contacted Shreveport for us, we were told there was a two year wait list.  I know.  The Shreveport folks told us to send over Reagan's medical records & they'd see what they could do.  We did send the records to Shreveport, but also pursued other options because, seriously, two years?  I am intelligent, but I can't manage my child's diabetes for two years while waiting to see a doctor.  I suspected they were just saying that until they got a look at Reagan's records to verify her diagnosis . . . or something, I don't know.  I mean are there people out there who attempt to see a pediatric endocrinologist for kicks?  I guess it's possible as I've learned from my few experiences with the ER that there are indeed a host of folks who jet to the ER when their nose runs.

Anyway, Jackson was our next option.  If you didn't know, one of my dad's many talents is defending doctors (or, more specifically, their insurance company) when they're sued.  In legal speak, it's called medmal.  So, he knows a few doctors & they think he's pretty neat since, sadly, many doctors currently pay six figures for their yearly insurance premiums.  Sometimes doctors deserve to be sued, but many times, they do not.  A doctor in Jackson who is himself diabetic recommended an endocrinologist to my dad.  Trey made some calls & we discovered that not only was she accepting new patients, she takes our insurance.  We were sold.

The day of the visit was long.  We were all four dressed & out the door before eight in the morning, & that right there screams Long. Day.  There were two specific instances that tie for most frustrating part of the day; I can't pick one because they both brought me equally close to screaming.  My blood pressure & I don't want to totally relive either incident via my typing it all out for you, so I'll summarize.  We could not find the doctor's office.  We assumed it was somewhere inside one of the many large buildings that comprise The University of Mississippi Medical Center.  We were wrong.  At one point in our quest to find her office, Trey & I were crossing a major road (there was a crosswalk), Trey carrying Reagan & Henry perched on my hip, & a couple stopped their car to ask us if we needed help.  We did eventually find the office, which is located in a random, one-story building near the large, multistoried buildings.  This is good news for the future as you can park right outside the office, as opposed to parking blocks away in a parking garage as we did on our initial visit.

Additional frustration came later, on the drive home, during several phone calls with our pharmacy.  Basically, Reagan is small & currently doesn't require much insulin.  Her new doctor wants us to deliver the insulin using an insulin pen, a neat device that measures insulin in half units, which Reagan sometimes requires.  It's much more precise than using a syringe, & it's probably best that we move to the pen because I've left a trail of improperly disposed syringes all over the twin cities.  Annnyway, the wonderful folks at Blue Cross who've had no issues taking hundreds of dollars from us each month for years now threw a red flag when the pharmacy attempted to fill the insulin prescription because the dosage prescribed will last Reagan longer than ninety days (because, again, she's small).  The insulin pens are filled with specific cartridges that, you got it, will last Reagan longer than ninety days.  I don't know, maybe there's a black market for insulin out there or something & Blue Cross is keeping an eye on it.  I won't keep you in suspense.  We have obtained the needed insulin pen cartridges & managed to maintain our relationship with the Blue Cross folks, though admittedly things are a bit strained.  I don't know what Trey did, &, I don't really care.  I assume it was all legal.  But again, whatever, we got the insulin; it's this year's oxygen.

The visit itself went well.  Thankfully, the most refreshing & reassuring part of the day involved meeting & speaking with Reagan's new doctor, as well as a few of her nurses & a nutritionist.  The plan now is to tweak Reagan's insulin intake & her diet until her glucose readings normalize somewhat.  It's not easy.  As with life, finding the middle ground sometimes seems impossible.  If you & those you love have a fully functional pancreas, say thanks in your prayers tonight; it's an often forgotten organ but it has an important job.  If I had to describe parenting a young child with Type 1 Diabetes in one sentence (as if I can describe anything in one sentence), it is this: waking your three-year-old at two in the morning & insisting she drink some coke because her number has dipped down into the 60s, & then denying her a banana later the same day because her numbers tend to soar in the afternoon.  If she didn't think we were nuts before, this ought to do it.

Here are a few pics of our day in Jackson.  I took this of Reagan on the drive over:

And this in the waiting room:

The rest are all Reagan's doing.  The day just didn't present many moments that felt like photo ops:

Several young mothers I know have asked me specific questions about Reagan's diagnosis - - what she looked like, what her eating habits were, etc.  I see the worry on their face.  I try to assure them that their young child(ren) most likely don't have undetected Type 1 Diabetes.  It isn't something that goes unnoticed indefinitely.  Once the body lacks proper insulin, changes begin occurring rapidly that you will notice.  Plus, if you are ever truly concerned, I can now check your child's glucose levels in about two seconds.  Just let me know.  Trey checks Reagan's number every morning around two, & she doesn't even wake up, so we can pull off a stealth glucose check if you're interested.

A few people have told me that I just have to write a book.  A book about parenting a diabetic child, that is, not a book about a graduate student who has the hots for her unavailable literature professor & a penchant for shoes she cannot afford . . . anyway, to you all I say, whoa now.  Give me ten or fifteen years.  If this journey on which our family has recently embarked is going to be translated into book form, we're still in the introduction.  So far, here's what I've written: Two weeks ago my three-year-old daughter was diagnosed with Type I Diabetes.  Her glucose levels are still wildly unpredictable, but my Type A personality and I are determined to bend them to our will.  I've waffled between crying & feeling determined, while Reagan's developed a love for expensive almonds dusted with dark cocoa that are only sold at Target & come in at 4 total carbs per bag.  There is a brand new outlet mall just north of her endocrinologist's office in Jackson because, as Paul assures us, ". . . we know that all things work together for good for those who love God . . ."  Stay tuned.

I don't think I've mentioned that I recently read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.  It was the January book club selection & I finished it the night before Reagan was diagnosed because I was planning to meet with the book club ladies the following evening to discuss it.  Ah, plans.  It's an interesting read.  It's not one you're going to pick up & not be able to put down (it's sloooow, especially at first), but it is fascinating, both the content & the author's unique style of writing.  It is set in Nazi Germany, & it is narrated by Death.  Yes, it is narrated by Death.  I think maybe the Lord was preparing me for what He knew lay ahead concerning Reagan; after reading The Book Thief, you realize that whatever your problems are, your life is still pretty fabulous.

I mean, did you see him?  Did you?  How can life not be fabulous when JACK BAUER is making a comeback?!?

AZ

Batter Up

My sister played fastpitch softball for many years. She was a pitcher, & despite some protesting at times, I usually enjoyed watching her on the mound. She was good. She possessed three things every fastpitch softball pitcher needs: control, accuracy, & a stellar game face that rarely hinted at her emotional state. There are numerous images I can call to mind of a batter lurching awkwardly forward, the tip of her bat falling & stirring up some dirt, realizing a split second too late that Jessica had thrown a change-up. She expected speed. She was prepared for a ball that might barely graze the outside corner of the plate. She was poised to guard the plate, but, more often than not, the change-up, a pitch that Jessica delivered with the same physical fervor as a fastball, caught her opponent completely off guard.

I thought about these startled batters this past week more than once. Last Thursday, we learned Reagan has Type 1 Diabetes.

It was absolutely the furthest thing from my mind when I woke Thursday. I am unsure of where to even begin relaying all this, as I am still processing it myself. There were some signs, in hindsight, that we initially attributed to a slight cough & some congestion she had for which I took her to the doctor on Tuesday of last week. She was tired. She was sickly. She was a little pale. She had visibly lost a little weight. She had taken a serious interest in drinking.

Thursday morning, Trey decided to take her to see another doctor, an ENT, to see what he thought. I wanted to give her another day on the antibiotic she'd been prescribed Tuesday to see if there was any improvement, but thankfully Trey didn't listen to me. I left Henry with my mom & taught my first class at Delta while Trey took Reagan to the doctor. About the time my class ended, Trey texted me & said to call him re:Reagan. I knew before speaking to him that we were likely headed to the ER.  When Trey confirmed this, I cancelled my next two classes & hurried to the hospital.  

The ENT doc was worried about meningitis. The ER doc said her lack of fever indicated to him that she likely didn't have meningitis, & that he wanted to rule many other things out before subjecting her to a spinal tap to test for meningitis. So, we sat around anxiously in the ER for awhile. They swabbed her nose & throat to test for flu & strep, both of which were negative. Her lungs sounded clear, but a possible walking pneumonia diagnosis was thrown around for a bit.   

My mother had driven to the hospital with Henry so that I could nurse him, & when I stepped out into the hall to go do that, the nurse asked me if Reagan had ever had any blood work done. She then told me they were going to rerun the blood work because her blood sugar level was over 630 & that had to be a mistake. When I heard that, I knew. The excessive thirst, the weight loss, etc. I felt like I was standing in a pool of light & a choir was singing in the background. 

I was saddened & relieved at the same time. I knew what a diabetes diagnosis meant, but I was also glad to have an answer, & to know that while there is no cure for Type 1 Diabetes (something several of the medical professionals we dealt with feel will happen in Reagan's lifetime), it is manageable. I didn't say anything to anyone, I just went & nursed Henry & then returned to Reagan's room, but when the numbers came back a second time, the blood sugar was again extremely elevated. When the ER doc asked us to sit down, I didn't panic because I knew what he was going to tell us.    

We were moved to a room in the pediatric ICU so that Reagan could be closely monitored while they intravenously gave her fluids to rehydrate her & insulin to slowly, safely normalize her glucose levels. By Friday, her blood work showed she was clear of the dangerous acids that had begun building as a result of her body's insulin deprivation. She soon looked like herself, & by Saturday she was free of the IV & receiving the insulin she needs via shots. 

I know, it sounds terrible, but it's not that bad. We all gathered in her room at ten Saturday morning to learn how to give her the shots. Actually, my dad was absent because he was keeping Henry. That's the number one sign of a family emergency: my dad was keeping Henry. Trey & I gave each other shots, & our moms practiced on each other. My FIL was there too, though curiously I don't think he actually received a shot. Something about his long sleeve shirt. . . Anyway, after receiving one myself I felt much better about things. If you didn't see someone giving you the shot, you would never know you got one. Sunday morning we reconvened to learn how to use a lancet to prick her finger in order to obtain the droplets of blood necessary to check her blood sugar, something we currently do in the neighborhood of five or six times a day, which seems infrequent now after the hourly prick that was necessary for the first twenty-four hours of hospitalization.       

I've been so busy shuttling between our house & the hospital, where we received constant education about how to care for Reagan, that I haven't had much time to wallow in feelings of guilt for not realizing my child was dehydrated & her body was slowly shutting down because she doesn't produce the insulin required to convert her food to energy.  The nurses' shifts run 7 to 7, but Trey & I opted for more of a 9 to 9 schedule.  I slept at home with Henry, awoke to hand him over to a grandparent, & then went to relieve Trey from the night shift.  Whatever you've done in your life that was hard &/or frustrating, I bet it didn't involve an infant who expects to nurse a few times a day & a diabetic three-year-old who's in the PICU, a place children under twelve are not welcome.  Yeah.

Though no one wants to see their three-year-old in the hospital, I can't say enough wonderful things about the PICU doctors & nurses. The nurse who oversees diabetes education came in on the weekend - on Saturday & on Sunday - to talk with us. The nurses who routinely had to prick Reagan's finger & administer her shots were great with her, & excellent teachers when it came time to shift the shot duty to those of us who are Reagan's caretakers. I also can't say enough fabulous things about my parents & my in-laws. Irritatingly, I kept thinking of Hillary Clinton's "it takes a village." I don't know about a village, but it did take all six of us. Seven, actually, because Reagan's Aunt Deni also made regular hospital visits & helped to babysit Henry.

Life is, & will always be, a bit different for us now. A whole kiwi is not simply a piece of fruit; it is a piece of fruit that equals ten total carbohydrates. Eight ounces of milk contains 12 total carbohydrates; this was probably the first one I memorized. It's amazing what I've learned in less than a week. In the process of learning how to properly determine the amount of insulin Reagan needs, I've also seen a crystal clear picture of why it's a bad idea to consume copious amounts of carbs, particularly those that quickly raise the blood sugar, like white bread & pasta & sugary drinks, which is basically any drink other than water, milk, & unsweetened tea & coffee. When you have to account for every carb that your child ingests, & then inject her with the needed insulin her body requires to convert the carbs to energy, you realize what you're asking your own body to do when you down a large fry (& why asking it to do this too often can lead to your body quitting on you earlier than you'd prefer).  

All carbs are not created equal, either. White bread is converted to sugar almost as quickly as syrup, whereas whole wheat bread slowly makes its way through the body, causing no rapid rise in blood sugar. So we're counting carbs to calculate insulin intake, but we're also shying away from things that cause rapid rises in sugar levels. It's these rapid rises that, over time, cause damage to blood vessels, leading to numerous other problems. It's possible all four of us will live longer, healthier lives now.  

I don't know what all this means for the blog. I am sure I'll find a way to ramble on about things at times, but in addition to all the stuff I was doing before, I am now functioning as my daughter's pancreas & I've no idea yet how this new role will affect other areas of my life. I am learning quickly, so we'll see. 

I may never again blog about the outside world. I know that the teams who're to play in the Super Bowl have been determined, but I'm not certain which teams won their respective divisions. I think a Manning is involved. I know that David Vitter has decided to run for governor of Louisiana next year.  Not sure how I feel about that one, & I doubt I'll take any time to form an opinion about the matter. I assume Obama hasn't been impeached . . . if he is, it's your job to let me know. I have to shift some responsibilities.

 

I'll close with a few pictures of Reagan's adventure.

Late Thursday & most of Friday Reagan told us she was hungry. This was a good sign, but they didn't want her eating until her blood was clear of all the mess that had been building up. Soooooo we did everything under the sun to distract her . . .

With her Nana & the new stickers her Aunt Donna brought her:

This was her first meal. She ate & ate & ate. Thankfully a lot of what she ate was chicken, which is pretty much a freebie when it comes to counting carbs.

One of many trips she made up & down the PICU hall with her balloons.  Once she got some insulin in her, she was back to her glorious self: 

Reagan's hospital stay did wonders for her Hello Kitty collection:

The large Hello Kitty in the pics is from her Aunt Kathy, who lives in Dallas.  Kathy called the Build-A-Bear store in the Pecanland Mall & went several rounds with one of their employees over Hello Kitty's attire. Once that was decided, Kathy was informed that Build-A-Bear doesn't deliver. The Build-A-Bear employee was informed that Kathy's three-year-old great niece was in PICU after a diabetes diagnosis. The Build-A-Bear employee made a trip to St. Francis when she got off work that afternoon; I will track her down in the mall one day & shake her hand.  

Reagan with her Barbie cards her other Aunt Donna brought her:

And, perhaps Donna's greatest gift ever, this slinky that Reagan loved. It has seen every inch of the PICU hall:

Her Aunt Deni took this. I think this was the last meal she ate before we took her home. The doctor told me Monday that he'd have to discharge her or move her to a room on the regular floor, because she was making for a poor PICU patient:

Thank you for the prayers I know many of you prayed for her. She is doing well, & I am beginning to pick my bat up off the plate, & my jaw off the floor. We'll be seeing a pediatric endocrinologist in Jackson soon (you didn't think there'd be one of those in Monroe, did you?). Continued prayers are much appreciated. Anyone reading who has experience with Type I Diabetes, your thoughts, & any advice you have, are welcome. Comment on the blog, on Facebook, or send me a message.  

AZ  

A Quiver Full

I take back what I said in my last post about too much college football; there's no such thing as too much college football.  I missed it so much Saturday.  By the way, did anyone notice that a certain longtime Texas coach resigned?  Perhaps I should venture into stocks.      

The Sunday Scramble

Edmund Burke famously said, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

I sometimes recite this quote for myself on Sunday mornings.  Sundays are hard, at least for this mother of two young kids.  Occasionally on a Sunday morning, things fall into place, but usually there is an ill-timed dirty diaper,  a tantrum over getting out of bed in time to make it to Bible class, an infant who decides Sunday morning is an opportune time to switch up his nursing schedule, or waits until I've changed him into his Sunday best to regurgitate breast milk, everywhere, which usually necessitates an outfit change for both of us.

At present, with a two-(nearly three!)-year-old who adores her nine-thirty Bible class & a nursing infant whose one love in life is to breastfeed, Trey & I often have to tag team to ensure Reagan makes it to class & Henry & I make it to the building by the time service begins at ten-thirty.  I think there was one Sunday morning the four of us made it to church in one car; Trey escorted Reagan to her class while I raced to the room for nursing mothers, where I spend much of my time at church these days, cloistered away, nursing my son, or attempting to get him to fall asleep.

For those of you who've never had to rouse, feed, groom, & dress small children in the hopes of arriving somewhere on time, with everyone dressed presentably & everything you might possibly need while you're away from home packed neatly in the six bags required for all the stuff, let me tell you, it's a tiring ordeal (even if you've had a full night's sleep . . . I know, hahaha).  It's not simply a matter of planning & making sure I'm up early; all the planning in the world can't compensate for the surprises your children often have in store for you, surprises they wait to spring on you when there is somewhere you're attempting to arrive by a specified time.  Have you ever attempted to put hosiery on a small, uncooperative person who thinks it's imperative that she watch an episode of Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood before changing her clothes?  It should be an Olympic sport; I would certainly medal.

When I was in my teens & twenties, I was late for church more times than I care to admit.  I look back now & wonder how I could have managed my time so poorly; I am ashamed for my former self.  If you're reading & once shot me a glance, perhaps laced with judgment, as I slipped into the pew after services began, well, I deserved it.  My current & former selves thank you for your subtle attempt to shame me.  Please do understand that if you give me a look now if I straggle in late, a baby on my hip & spit up that I'm unaware of in my hair, things might get ugly, & I'm not just talking about my hair.

I've had more than one moment over the last few years - - sitting alone, nursing, exhausted, absent from the worship service, my Sunday clothes spotted with spit up - - when I've asked myself why I do it.  After all, I can sit alone & nurse at home, in my pajamas, & maybe sleep a little later.  I'm currently remembering having these thoughts while nursing Reagan, only this time, as I tend to Henry, I have an ever-present, thirty pound reminder of why I do it.  In three short years Reagan grew from a helpless infant who cared only that she was warm & fed to a bouncing little girl who loves to go to Bible class.  Not once has she cried when I left her in class; the only tears came one Sunday morning when she didn't want to leave.

Let me tell you a quick story.  Last night I saw an old friend.  She's in town because her grandfather passed away, & I saw her at his visitation.  When I was young, I spent a lot of time with her; our families were friends & I was in their home often.  She had an older sister, & then one day, she had a younger sister.  I was young, maybe four, when her second sister arrived, but even at a tender age I knew there was something atypical about the arrival of her younger sister.  There was a sense of sadness that I didn't quite understand at the time.  What I would come to learn was that my friend's aunt & uncle had been killed in an automobile accident, an accident their young daughter survived.  I never knew him, her uncle, but his name was Darrin.  When I heard of her grandfather's passing, the first thought I had was of Darrin, a man I never knew, who died young, & who was recently reunited with his dad in Heaven.  What a celebration that must be.

I started typing this blog a week or so ago after a particularly trying Sunday morning & have dabbled around as time permitted, but I never felt I was quite done with it, until now.  Darrin's story reminded me why I don't give in to the temptation to do nothing on Sunday morning; I want the sweet reunion Darrin & his father recently shared to be mine one day.  I don't know what the future holds for my children, but I do know that, unless we're alive when the Lord returns, we will be separated by death, & it's my intent to make sure that is only a temporary separation.  

I know that soon my nursery days will be behind me & I'll be swatting at my kids in service & telling them to be quiet.  For now, I try to relax & enjoy the alone time Henry & I share during services.

I'll end with a portrait series of me & Henry I call, "Selfies in the Nursery."

I don't like to be bossy (somewhere, Trey's head just snapped up), but take your kids to church even when it's difficult.  Darrin's dad did, & that decision, made over & over & over again on Sunday mornings when everyone was tired & nothing went as planned, is one that I am certain Darrin's dad does not regret today as he worships the Father alongside the son he hadn't seen for over two decades.  

AZ

Miss Digler's New Bed

Shortly after I learned my first child would be a girl, I began an intensive search for antique white nursery furniture to match some antique white pieces I already owned.

Reagan's December

As the year draws to a close, I've nothing profound to say.  I'm exhausted from the recent holidays, the year's many disheartening political turns, a steadily growing belly, & contemplating the best way to brace for the fiscal cliff over which our inept leaders are about to plunge us.

Absent words, I end the year with a montage of Reagan, comprised mainly of pictures from her second birthday party & recent Christmas merriment.  Many thanks to Reagan's Aunt Jessica, who took most of these photos.

Part of Your World

Perhaps no four words in the Bible carry as much weight as these four, found in John's gospel: ". . . the Word became flesh."  They're words much of the world will hear this month as Christmas approaches.