Envy

See? I told you it would be a diatribe.

And before I get started--what is it with my pharmacy? I called last Tuesday to order pump supplies; they said it would be there within a week. I called Monday to find out where they were. They said I hadn't called Tuesday, I called Thursday, and they'd call me when they came in. Last night I gave up when I hadn't heard from them and ordered directly from minimed online; not ten minutes later they called to tell me my quick-sets were in. So then I had to call minimed back and cancel my order.

Those who have known me since November might remember my kvetching about them previously when they kept telling me they'd "look into" ordering pump supplies and call me when they'd figured it out, and never got back to me. I only gave them this one last chance because when I went in to get my last insulin prescription filled a month ago they said they had the system all set up now, and they're right down the street from my house. Every other pharmacy I've ever used for ordering pump supplies has either kept them in stock or had them ordered within one or two business days, not a week and a half. Do I keep them, or find another pharmacy?

Onwards:

I was recently reading a post by the mother of a diabetic boy, in which she details the exhaustion of her days--the tests, the pump maintenance, the endless appointments--and I thought, I hear you sister.

Then I thought, I wish someone had done that for me.

I wish someone had done that for me.

I was diagnosed at 17 when within three days my vision went from better than 20/20 to can't-read-with-the-book-right-in-front-of-my-nose. I was also tired and hungry and all the rest of it, but recovering from Mono, so I thought nothing of it. They put me in the hospital for 3 days on IV and taught me how to mix insulins and give myself injections--this was back in the brave days of "intensive" 2-shot per day therapy. The Diabetes Control and Complications Trial had just been interrupted to deliver the news that the effects of intensive management of blood sugars were so important and necessary that they couldn't in good conscience wait until the end of the experiment and potentially jeapordize the health of so many diabetics; but still, the idea of "intensive management" was two shots per day, or maybe three, instead of one.

Not once did my parents offer me the slightest bit of assistance or support, except for paying for the prescriptions, which it was my responsibility to order, pay for and pick up. (They reimbursed me.) They have never tested my blood sugar, mixed insulins, filled a syringe or injected anything, including me. I arranged for my own doctor's appointments from endos to opthamologists and attended them by myself, arranging for my own transportation. I did all the research, I booked myself into training classes and attended them by myself. I wrote down my blood sugar numbers and kept track of my A1Cs. I made meals out of diabetic cookbooks and measured out my own portions. Sometimes I did my own grocery shopping; I was always responsible for adding whatever items I needed to the weekly grocery list.

To be fair, there is much of this that I would not have welcomed any interference on, and if they had attempted to do so they would have been rebuffed; I'll prick my own fingers, thank you. But most of this struck me as absolutely normal--"it's your disease, you deal with it"--until I read Sandra's post.

Then I remembered Yankee Transplant telling me about her diabetic niece at college, and how her mother still asks about her results and how often she's testing and how things are going.

Is that how normal parents do it?

I spent most of my childhood and early teen years eating crap--half a box of cookies for lunch, chips for dinner, ice cream for desert. The diabetic diet was a huge shock. Restricting my portions, choosing healthy foods, eating on a schedule--this hit me where it hurt. I adapted fairly quickly to testing my blood sugars and giving injections. I could not, could not do the diet. A week or so into trying I broke down in the kitchen and begged my mother not to buy ice cream or chips or cookies for a few weeks, or at least to hide them if they did, so that I could learn to eat properly.

"No," she said. "You have to learn how to do this on your own."

And that's just how it was.

Now I look at F.E. and I imagine her being diagnosed with a chronic life-threatening illness; I imagine her asking me for help; I cannot imagine saying no.

~~~~~

Three years ago my mother bought me an insulin pump by covering the portion my insurance wouldn't pay, and made F.E. possible.

I don't get it.

~~~~~

Despite how this sounds, I try not to be bitter. No, really. That my brother is my parents' favourite has long been obvious to, well, everyone. While I was schlepping myself to doctor's appointments dressed in a torn winter coat, my parents were chauffering him around until he was 21 (why get a license when your parents drive you everywhere?) and buying him new skateboard equipment every two weeks. They'd deny it if I asked them; I don't think it was conscious. But it was real.

I hated it, and who wouldn't? For a long time, I hated them too. What changed that was F.E. They were, in many respects, lousy parents; but they're fabulous grandparents who love my daughter deeply, and she loves them too. A few times a week she'll say, "I go see Mumms and Grandpa!" about fifty million times in a row. They buy her a present every time, and it's always something she loves. It's a beautiful relationship and one well worth stuffing my own scars under the carpet to witness.

And it's my job to deal with it and get over it, regardless of "who started it." Besides, my brother has not yet been able to settle on a profession or graduate from university. They spoiled him so much he doesn't want to grow up, and until they stop paying his way he really has no reason to. He has a sweet deal.

But what I have is the ability to pick myself up off the floor, dust myself off and keep going. I paid a steep price, but maybe it's worth it. It would have been nice, though, to be able to believe even for a few years that I wasn't in this type 1 diabetes world on my own.

Posted by Andrea at March 17, 2006 8:10 AM under Pins and Needles

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