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You know what is super super annoying? For me, at least?
I have been diagnosed diabetic for nearly seven years. For about six and a half years of that time I was indifferent to the disease at best - rarely took my meds, even more rarely checked my numbers because finger stickings are evil and also involve sharp pokey things AND blood which are two of my OH HELL NO things. I weaned myself off of "real" pop and switched over to diet and did make a sort of half-assed effort to not eat ALL the sugared things, but that was pretty much it.
So, obviously, I was never terribly surprised to discover that my numbers didn't really go up or down that much. I was still diabetic (shocker) and they'd give me another prescription for pills I didn't want to take and admonish me for being a grown up and not sticking myself and I'm sorry, part of being a grown up is being able to willfully and with full knowledge of the consequences deciding not to do something. It's called Free Will, look it up, Doctor types.
Anywho, back in late March, I woke up with a nasty case of magically appearing overnight Cellulitus (I'm not even bothering to see if I spelled that right because I am just that bitter right now) and ended up in the ER roughly three times in a four day period PLUS an additional four doctors appointments PLUS three weeks bedrest that nearly drove me up the wall. While I may have shown up with an infection in my leg, the ER doctor that first night decided to focus not on the inflamation, pain and possible side-effects associated with a large infection caused by NO ONE KNOWS and instead decided to chastise me for not taking my diabetes meds. She literally withheld treatment for my leg for two hours because she was "so upset" that I wasn't taking my disease "seriously" and that when I came back to the ER about to lose my leg she would not help me and would stand around telling me "I told you so!"
I am not making this up.
This is for real. This is the quality of service I had to put up with for hours that first night at the ER.
Then, her and her croonies stood outside my door discussing my "stupidity" for about thirty minutes - still not treating me or telling me what was wrong with my leg, mind.
SO - long story short, I take my meds (nearly) every day now, not because I want to - I seriously hate pills. They remind me of a bad point in my life, every single time I take them I have a tiny little freakout and I literally have to work myself up to the point where I can sit down and take the morning batch every day. - but because, perhaps, if I'm taking the damn things, the next time I show up at the ER for a completely unrelated problem someone might actually help me.
ANYWAY - I told you that story so you could properly understand just why I am super annoyed to discover that after seven months of nearly-religious pill taking (everyday, and then twice a day as my various prescriptions changed) and diet coke drinking and dessert sharing/refusing and switching to only sugar-free sweets... MY BLOOD SUGAR IS STILL THE SAME!
That's right, I've actually been sticking myself once or twice a day for the last several days (yes, I know the proper sticking rules, early morning before food, wait at least two hours after eating, blah blah) and my numbers? Still the same range they were when I was told I was diabetic in the first place.
Is that not fabulously annoying news?
Also, a bit of google-fu tells me that some of my various meds have been known to raise blood sugar numbers and they have been prescribed to me by doctors who are fully aware that I am diabetic. See Also similar issues with: High blood pressure, asthma and my personal favorites - the Do Not Get Pregnant While On This Medication ones. That my doctors put me on, knowing we were (at the time) actively attempting to get pregnant, and didn't bother to tell me that not only would some of them make pregnancy even more difficult (like I needed the help) but if I did get pregnant, the meds could harm the embryo and make it difficult for implantation to occur.
So - long story shortish, I am completely and utterly frustrated at actually doing what I'm supposed to for over half a year and having not a single thing to show for it other than the persistent and unending upset tummy that comes from being overly sensitive to my meds and some sort of horrible reaction to direct sunlight. (YAY, I'm a vampire! Nom nom.)
Also, in unrelated but equally annoying news - Roswell didn't want to be moved off the bed Saturday night when I came back from vomitting up everything I'd ever eaten in the last six years and decided to defend her warm spot. I had to wake Captain up to help me properly deal with the cuts because I seriously can not deal with any more big infections right now. Roswell ripped up a large section of my upper chest (and just missed a very sensitive girly part by less than a centimeter) and my arm has several wrist to elbow length gashes. Sure, they aren't deep because Rossie is just a house cat and not a panther or anything, but cat scratches bleed and hurt like a son of a fish. Like evil evil paper cuts. Long, evil paper cuts. Of despair.
I have been diagnosed diabetic for nearly seven years. For about six and a half years of that time I was indifferent to the disease at best - rarely took my meds, even more rarely checked my numbers because finger stickings are evil and also involve sharp pokey things AND blood which are two of my OH HELL NO things. I weaned myself off of "real" pop and switched over to diet and did make a sort of half-assed effort to not eat ALL the sugared things, but that was pretty much it.
So, obviously, I was never terribly surprised to discover that my numbers didn't really go up or down that much. I was still diabetic (shocker) and they'd give me another prescription for pills I didn't want to take and admonish me for being a grown up and not sticking myself and I'm sorry, part of being a grown up is being able to willfully and with full knowledge of the consequences deciding not to do something. It's called Free Will, look it up, Doctor types.
Anywho, back in late March, I woke up with a nasty case of magically appearing overnight Cellulitus (I'm not even bothering to see if I spelled that right because I am just that bitter right now) and ended up in the ER roughly three times in a four day period PLUS an additional four doctors appointments PLUS three weeks bedrest that nearly drove me up the wall. While I may have shown up with an infection in my leg, the ER doctor that first night decided to focus not on the inflamation, pain and possible side-effects associated with a large infection caused by NO ONE KNOWS and instead decided to chastise me for not taking my diabetes meds. She literally withheld treatment for my leg for two hours because she was "so upset" that I wasn't taking my disease "seriously" and that when I came back to the ER about to lose my leg she would not help me and would stand around telling me "I told you so!"
I am not making this up.
This is for real. This is the quality of service I had to put up with for hours that first night at the ER.
Then, her and her croonies stood outside my door discussing my "stupidity" for about thirty minutes - still not treating me or telling me what was wrong with my leg, mind.
SO - long story short, I take my meds (nearly) every day now, not because I want to - I seriously hate pills. They remind me of a bad point in my life, every single time I take them I have a tiny little freakout and I literally have to work myself up to the point where I can sit down and take the morning batch every day. - but because, perhaps, if I'm taking the damn things, the next time I show up at the ER for a completely unrelated problem someone might actually help me.
ANYWAY - I told you that story so you could properly understand just why I am super annoyed to discover that after seven months of nearly-religious pill taking (everyday, and then twice a day as my various prescriptions changed) and diet coke drinking and dessert sharing/refusing and switching to only sugar-free sweets... MY BLOOD SUGAR IS STILL THE SAME!
That's right, I've actually been sticking myself once or twice a day for the last several days (yes, I know the proper sticking rules, early morning before food, wait at least two hours after eating, blah blah) and my numbers? Still the same range they were when I was told I was diabetic in the first place.
Is that not fabulously annoying news?
Also, a bit of google-fu tells me that some of my various meds have been known to raise blood sugar numbers and they have been prescribed to me by doctors who are fully aware that I am diabetic. See Also similar issues with: High blood pressure, asthma and my personal favorites - the Do Not Get Pregnant While On This Medication ones. That my doctors put me on, knowing we were (at the time) actively attempting to get pregnant, and didn't bother to tell me that not only would some of them make pregnancy even more difficult (like I needed the help) but if I did get pregnant, the meds could harm the embryo and make it difficult for implantation to occur.
So - long story shortish, I am completely and utterly frustrated at actually doing what I'm supposed to for over half a year and having not a single thing to show for it other than the persistent and unending upset tummy that comes from being overly sensitive to my meds and some sort of horrible reaction to direct sunlight. (YAY, I'm a vampire! Nom nom.)
Also, in unrelated but equally annoying news - Roswell didn't want to be moved off the bed Saturday night when I came back from vomitting up everything I'd ever eaten in the last six years and decided to defend her warm spot. I had to wake Captain up to help me properly deal with the cuts because I seriously can not deal with any more big infections right now. Roswell ripped up a large section of my upper chest (and just missed a very sensitive girly part by less than a centimeter) and my arm has several wrist to elbow length gashes. Sure, they aren't deep because Rossie is just a house cat and not a panther or anything, but cat scratches bleed and hurt like a son of a fish. Like evil evil paper cuts. Long, evil paper cuts. Of despair.
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