Once again, GDAT!! is on the road. 

My apologies for the inactivity this week as NancyTW and I are holed up in another location that I'll tell you about later.  For now, here's a shot of a foot-long bat that was just hanging out.

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In nearly twenty-six years of wearing a medical ID bracelet, it has generated but a single inquiry -- from a drunk -- who asked, “Are you gonna shoot up or something?” I’m still wearing it, and have no plans to stop.

Sometimes I feel like a computer with an important program running perpetually in background memory just to think about what my blood sugar is doing.

Whenever a new system for filling reservoirs was introduced, the new product was less desirable than before. I preferred the way things were before they were complicated by those cumbersome blue alignment sleeves.

If I relied only on the various quips and comments of misinformation about diabetes that I’ve heard over the years, I would think that diabetics who take pills have a “touch” of diabetes. People who inject insulin have it “bad.” People who inject insulin four or five times a day have it “really bad.” Anyone using an insulin pump has it really bad and “must not be doing very well.” And people who use a pump and also have a CGMS, well, “there’s really not much more the doctors can do for them.”

If we pump users can bolus on the go to correct a high, there ought to be a way to supply ourselves with glucagon or a form of sugar through the same device when we’re low. It’s not a simple as it sounds, but neither are a lot of worthwhile things.

When I walk through my pharmacy and see the glucose meters and their respective price tags, I wonder why anyone who has access to a telephone would actually pay money for one of them.

I’d like to lose that high pitched “boop beep boop” low reservoir warning of my Minimed 522 and replace it with a more ominous “Yoh Dee Oh” that the Wicked Witch of the West’s castle guards sang on the march.

Before I discard any tubing, I cut off the quick connect from one end and slice off the cap that attaches to the reservoir at the other in order to render it less useful for purposes of an illicit nature. For the same reason, I remove the rubber o-rings from the plunger.

Here’s a place where you can buy bottles of 50 test strips for $11.80. Unfortunately, they’re for testing the coolant in your car’s engine. When my car was in for service recently, I asked my mechanic if he thought my coolant might need to be replaced. He pulled one of the reagent strips from a bottle and said “Let’s go do a test.” Now there’s a guy who speaks my language!!

ANNOUNCER: “Let’s all play, To Tell The Truth! Here’s your host, Gaaarry Moooooore!”

GARRY MOORE: “Thank you everyone. Let’s meet today’s team of challengers, shall we? Number 1, what is your name, please?”

#1: “My name is Type One Diabetic.”

GARRY MOORE: “Number 2, what is your name?”

#2: “My name is Type One Diabetic.”

GARRY MOORE: “Number 3, what is your name?”

#3: “My name is Type One Diabetic.”

GARRY MOORE: “Alright, audience, here is Type One Diabetic’s story. Although I might look well, I am a sick man. With little warning, my healthy existence ended suddenly and forced me into a life of constant vigilance to keep my blood sugar at normal levels. I give special thought to being Type One Diabetic before everything I do, because when I least suspect, I can lose consciousness quickly, and I face the possibility of terrible consequences from complications years from now. Every day, I deal with a blood glucose roller coaster, and guard against an onslaught of misinformation about my condition that is constantly left for me -- and others like me -- to correct. Signed, Type One Diabetic.”

“Let’s say hello to our panel. Peggy Cass, Orson Bean, Kitty Carlisle, and Tom Poston. Welcome, panelists. You’ve heard the challengers, all three of them claim to be the real Type One Diabetic, but two of them are imposters. It’s up to you to decide which one is telling the truth by listening to how the three of them respond to your questions. Let’s start the questioning with Peggy.”

PEGGY CASS: “Thank you, Garry. Number 1, how long have you been Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Um, I think, um, about, um, since, long time.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 2, how long have you been Type One Diabetic?”

#2: “It was Friday. Last Thursday or Friday. I was hoping I’d be over it by now, but it’s a tough one.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3?”

#3: “August fifteenth, nineteen sixty-one. Late that morning. A Tuesday.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 1, how did you find out you were Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Uhh, dude on the street says that’s the song I needa be singin’ to Joe Friday when they cold bust the crack house next time.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 2, how did you find out about being Type One Diabetic?”

#2: “I gained a lot of weight in a very short time, so I knew right away I was Type One Diabetic.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3?”

#3: “I dropped 43 pounds in one month for no reason. I couldn’t be away from a bathroom for more than fifteen minutes at a time. My vision went blurry, and I had a constant, insatiable thirst. I drank enough Coke to make myself sick, but it didn’t quench the thirst. Then I discovered Gatorade, and it was like a religious experience. Six quarts of it every day. There was a tiny scratch on my arm that turned into ‘The Festering Wound From Hell,’ and everything had a disgusting smell. The drug store had a free screening, and they told me that my blood sugar was seven times what is should be.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 2, do you know what causes people to become Type One Diabetics?”

#2: “Yes. There is really only one reason, and it’s quite simple. I am Type One Diabetic because I ate a Skybar once when I was a child. Oh, and I should have played a few sports, too. Maybe gotten out of the house and been active more.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3, do you agree with that?”

#3: “No.”

PEGGY CASS: “No? Why not?”

#3: “Mark Goodson said I had to be nice and not tee off on anyone while we’re on the air, so I’m just not going anywhere near that drivel. Ask Number 2 if he works at Associated Press.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 1, how does your family feel about you being Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Family? Huh, huh. Ain’t got no family. ‘Cept a half-brother at da Hot House down Kansas. Bank job got broke up bad.”

PEGGY CASS: “What about your family, Number 2?”

#2: “My family does not know that I am Type One Diabetic. It has always been best to keep it from them for fear of the stigma. I love them very much, and I would never want them to suffer from the shame.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3, what does your family think?”

#3: “My wife is my rock. She is supportive and has saved me from hypoglycemia more times than I can count. My immediate family also cares very much, and they are always concerned about my health, but at the same time, they treat me no differently than they would if I was not Type One Diabetic. I have some aunts and uncles who tell me I’m Type One Diabetic because of all the Sweet Tarts I ate as a kid, and they say I wouldn’t need any insulin at all if I would just straighten up, fly right, and stop eating carbohydrates. It’s hard to get through to them. One of them is also Type One Diabetic, but won’t see a doctor and insists he feels fine when his sugar is 450. There are also some relatives who find even more fault with the way I try to communicate the real nitty gritty facts about my condition. It makes for some pretty awkward Thanksgiving moments, particularly when the pie comes around.”

PEGGY CASS: “Are you eating something, Number 3? You look like you’re chewing somethi . . .”

<<DING>> <<DING>>

GARRY MOORE: “Time’s up, we go to Orson.”

ORSON BEAN: “Challenger Number 1, do you take drugs or medicine of any kind because you’re Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Uhh, drugs? Yeah. Medicine, uh, no, uhh, I don’t take nothin’.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 2, any medicines?”

#2: “Yes. Geritol. Every day.”

ORSON BEAN: “Very nice, it’s always good to keep the sponsors happy. How about you, Number 3, same question.”

#3: “Humalog insulin administered from a Medtronic 522 insulin pump connected to my subcutaneous tissue through a forty-three inch flexible tube linked to a Silhouette quick-connect infusion set and a teflon cannula that I change out every three days. Sometimes it irritates my skin.”

ORSON BEAN: “What? But this is 1971. The world hasn’t even heard of Humalog.”

#3: “I also use a Continuous Glucose Monitoring System that clips to my belt. It doesn’t administer medication, but it . . .”

ORSON BEAN: “Of course, of course. Alright already. Thomas Edison over here. Number 1, do you have to be careful about what you eat?”

#1: “About whuh? Oh. No. Whatever’s in the Chili’s dumpster.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 2, are you active, I mean, physically active?”

#2: “No, it’s best for Type One Diabetics to stay calm and quiet, and not perspire.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 1, do you test often?”

#1: “Yeah, you gotta test the stuff first, or the big man start cutting it with Ajax, you know? Benzocaine? That’s Badville, USA, you know what I’m sayin’?”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 2, how important is it to test your blood sugar?”

#2: “Not important. It just gets me anxious, depressed, and worried. So it’s better just not to test at all. It’s only a number. There’s no meaning to it.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 3, how often do you check your sugars?”

#3: “Look at these Swiss cheese fingertips. Ten, twelve times a day. It’s the first thing I do when I get up, the last thing I do before bed, and I even get up in the night sometimes to check my sugar. I check it before and after exercise, before and two hours after meals, and always before I get behind the wheel of my car. It’s the single most important piece of information I need for maintaining good control of my blood glucose levels, because it tells me whether I need to eat something, or if I need to take something called a ‘correction’ bolus of insulin to bring my blood sugar back down to where it belongs. Anyone who is Type One Diabetic and doesn’t do frequent blood sugar tests because of anxiety or depression is barking up the wrong tree. With that kind of thinking, nobody would bother to look at their car’s fuel gauge, either. Sure, you can avoid getting nervous about running out of gas by ignoring the gas gauge, but what are you going to do about the complications of being stuck later on down the road when it’s too late to help yourself?”

<<DING>> <<DING>>

GARY MOORE: “Now to Kitty to pick up the questioning.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Number 1, what are all of those ghastly marks on your arms?”

#1: “Huh?”

LITTY CARLISLE: “Are you by chance a junkie?”

#1: “Geez, lady. This ain’t ‘What’s My Line,’ you know what I’m sayin’?”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Number 3, I’d like you to answer Orson’s questions. What can you eat, and how active can you be?”

#3: “I can eat just about anything that a person who is not Type One Diabetic eats, with some special considerations. I count carbohydrates in grams, and try to balance my diet with specific daily percentages of proteins, fats, and carbs. I calculate my insulin doses according to a carb/insulin ratio that was determined by me and my Type One Diabetic support team, and it’s always being fine-tuned because change is a constant for any Type One Diabetic. I exercise every day for at least half an hour, and I’m in a weekend softball league.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Most impressive, Number 3. I’d like to ask Number 1, it seems there’s a lot to learn about being Type One Diabetic. Where do you find your information?”

#1: “Uhm, there’s a dude down the soup kitchen, and he knows . . .”

KITTY CARLISLE: “OK, Thank you. What about you, Number 2? How do you educate yourself about being Type One Diabetic?”

#2: “I read People, the Enquirer. And the morning shows, too. I like The View. And Oprah. She’s such a journalist. Dr. Phil, too.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Number 3, tell me where your information comes from.”

#3: “I attend monthly support group meetings run by a local chapter of a major Diabetic Foundation. I read several periodicals on my disease, including a medical trade journal, and I prepare important questions for my endocrinologist and his Certified Diabetes Educator before every visit. I subscribe to daily online updates from several excellent sources of medical news from all over the globe. I also attend seminars whenever I can, and I read lots of blogs written by other people just like me.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Blogs? What’s a blog? Oh, never mind. Do you watch GMA or the Today Show, Number 3?”

#3: “Not any more. Every day, it’s the same ol’ same ol’. How to beat constipation, how to let your kids in on mommy’s facelift, what’s in fashion for sunglasses. There’s nothing there, unless I feel like crying over someone’s personal tragedy.”

<<DING>> <<DING>>

GARRY MOORE: “Tom Poston, your questions for the challengers.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 3, you said you take medicine using some strange, 2001 Space Odyssey suborbital disconnecting tube thing. Do you have to take that medicine forever, or will you be able to wean yourself off of it someday?”

#3: “Nobody weans when you’re Type One Diabetic. It’s here for the duration.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 1, does it cost a lot to be Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Uhm, not since they opened the nail exchange at Ward and Watson in the Bronx. I get ‘em free now. Share my toys with some dudes for a week, then jus’ bring ‘em back, they give ya new. As many as you want, bro. Huh, huh. If it’s for free, it’s for me. Huh, huh.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 2, does it cost you much?”

#2: “No, prices are very reasonable, and insurance pays for all of it with no questions asked. Most other Type One Diabetics will say the same thing.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 3, what does it cost you to be Type One Diabetic?”

#3: “Plenty. Between my 522, the CGMS, and my cell phone with an ICE number, I’ve got five figures worth of technology hanging off my belt. Then there’s the insulin. Sometimes I accidentally pull the reservoir plunger too far back and get a Humalog bath. What a waste. And I could talk for an hour on the topic of ‘When Infusion Sets Go Bad.’ It adds up, believe me. I can’t even blink without having to fill a script for some new statin or thyroid pill. And Geez Louise, don’t even get me started on test strips. Then it seems I’m always in a battle to the death with the insurance company for reimbursement. I’m not looking forward to telling them about the Symlin I have to start taking for my postprandials, either. Like I said, it costs plenty.”

TOM POSTON: “An ICE number?”

#3: “I.C.E. In Case of Emergency. You put it into your phone’s memory with a contact number of a family member. It’s for paramedics if I’m found unconscious and unable to talk. Sometimes they’re trained to look for ‘ICE’ on people’s cell phones because they have no other way to reach the family, and the ordinary names in a phone mean nothing to them. If they find ICE, they just hit call.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 2, do you ever get bothered by the police because you carry syringes and needles?”

#2: “No, it has never been a problem.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 1, any police problems?”

#1: “Rollers? Uhh, you’re kiddin,’ right? You mean this week? Man, the bull’s around, like, all the time now.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 3, any trouble with the law because you’re Type One Diabetic?”

#3: “Generally, no. I carry two copies of a signed letter from my endocrinologist when I’m traveling, and most law enforcement officials use their heads and understand my need to treat my condition. But that’s not to say I won’t run into problems in a public place if a policeman mistakes my hypoglycemia for alcohol intoxication. Airport security is usually pretty good, too, but they vary from city to city on how much OJ they’ll let me carry aboard an airplane. I have to be sharp in order to argue my case with them quickly, politely, and effectively. Those are just another couple of reasons why I need to keep tight control of my blood sugar.”

<<DING>> <<DING>> <<DING>> <<DING>>

GARRY MOORE: “Alright, the votes are in. Will the real Type One Diabetic please stand up.”

Saturday night, NancyTW and I did a little shopping, and we make it our habit to check whatever store we’re in for a clearance section. This time, our target was Target, and we were in luck.

They set up the stuff they’re trying to get rid of on a few narrow shelves at the tail end of various aisles so that the blowout items are exposed to shopper traffic in the main, wider aisles. From several yards away, I spotted a familiar package and moved in to investigate. You just never know what you’ll find, so imagine my surprise to see four 3-packs of Dex4 glucose gels calling my name amidst the odd brand toothpaste, scented candles, and multi-colored dog leashes.

Looking over the boxes gave me no reason to think there was anything wrong with them. They were marked down to less than $5/pack, and the expiration date was still far enough away, so I loaded up. That’s 12 tubes of Tropical Blast at about half the regular price! And given my propensity to walk around with fewer milligrams per deciliter than days in February, they ought to last me about a week.

No, really, I don’t have to break out the gel that often, thankfully. But when I go to sleep, I take the precaution of putting some tubes on my nightstand.  Anyone who's ever enjoyed the experience of a nighttime insulin reaction knows that some form of sugar absolutely, positively, has to be there overnight, to steal a phrase. The last thing I want at 2am is a severe low. The second last thing I want is to be searching the bedroom in a fog of virtual unconsciousness for an elusive source of glucose.

Now I have enough of them to keep several at all times in the car, by the bed, and in a fanny pack (yup, the same fanny pack from that infamous experience at the theater a few years ago) that we use every day for our pre-dawn walks.

So it was good to stock up at a discount, and I no longer need to remember where I put them before driving off somewhere, going to sleep, or leaving the house on foot.

I'll let you all know when test strips go on clearance, but don't hold your breath waiting.

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Over the weekend, three new names were added to the Missing Diabetics section on the same day. It saddens me to think that this kind of thing happens as frequently as it does. Along with names and ages over there on the left, you can see that there is also a location -- state, province, and/or country abbreviation.

What really hit home for me in the last few days is that two of these people are from my state, and one is just a stone’s throw from my own town. Some of these folks are from as far away as Australia, but it’s not too much of a stretch to think that Soleme Bernard of Lehigh Acres could be wandering the streets between my house and the nearest grocery store.

So as a humble reminder, if you think of it, please shoot a quick glance at the listings every once in a while simply to see if there is someone from your vicinity waiting to be spotted.

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In response to a friendly suggestion, there’s now an “About Today’s Banner . . .” link in the Features section that provides a brief explanation or a bit of relevant info on images and themes appearing in the GDAT!! banner.

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I hope everyone has a great week, and a warm welcome back if you’re just now returning after a lengthy absence.

I am not a doctor. (Neither is my endocrinologist, for that matter. But that’s another story.) None the less, once in a while I embark upon my own personal search for a cure. A Google search, that is, and on this Friday afternoon I have to let you in on the best kept secret in healing diabetes: Mana.

That’s right. Mana.

No, no, wait! It says it right here in this letter! Go ahead, read it right now, and you’ll get so excited that you’ll be on the phone to your swami trying to get some for yourself faster than pizza puts you over 300.

Now, I know you have questions for the Reiki healing priests, so I’ve already compiled a list for you. Feel free to add your own if you like.

How do I figure my Mana/carb ratio?

I exercise a lot. Is there any danger of going hypoMana?

Should I keep my Mana in the fridge?

Can I take a correction Mana if I’m high?

How long before eating should I take my Mana?

What if my Mana leaks from my body wide infusion?

Are there any allergies to Mana that I should know about?

Do I need a prescription for Mana, or can I get it over the incense burner counter?

What if I forget to take my Mana?

Will Liberty Medical help me with some or all of my out-of-pocket Mana expenses?

Has Mana been FDA-approved?

Does it come in a pen?

I live near the border. Can I buy my Mana from Canada?

I don’t like to wait in lines. Can Mana be delivered right to my door?

The pharmacist at Publix has never even heard of Mana. What’s up with that?

Are there different kinds of Mana (i.e. Regular Mana, NPH Mana, Lantus Mana, Manalin, Manalog, Manalow, etc.?)

I pitch for the Yankees. Can I still use my steroids with Mana?

Is it ok to mix Manas?

I’m from the “old school.” Is beef/pork Mana available if I want it?

Can I get U-40 Mana?

The WalMart has generic Mana. Is that the same thing?

How much Mana do I need does it take to kill somebody?

What should I do if my Mana looks cloudy?

I’m afraid of needles. Do they make inhalable Mana?

What if Mana doesn’t work for me, will you stand by your Mana?

Can I wean myself off of Mana?

Is “Bummer” a medical term of art?

Where, exactly, are the Isles of “Langerhorn?”

Not associated with Midwives Alliance of North America, Manufacturers' Agents National Association, Mana (a popular Latin American Mexican rock band from Guadalajara,) Muslim Alliance in North America, Project MANA (Making Adequate Nutrition Accessible,) Mid-Atlantic Nanotechnology Alliance, Michigan Association of Nurse Anesthetists, Martin Acres Neighborhood Association, or The White Mana Diner.

Yes, there’s a White Mana Diner.

In Jersey.

Last week, I told a friend that I don’t remember dreams. That’s not altogether true. I do have one recurring dream, about my long, lost wisdom teeth.

In the dreams, the wisdom teeth always show up uninvited, and in this latest one, they want to talk to my rebellious pancreas in the foolish expectation that they can get it to make yet another false and worthless peace agreement with the rest of my body.

Now, my knees aren’t what they used to be, and I wonder sometimes about my eyes, but for the most part, they do their jobs without much fuss. But that seditious pancreas of mine doesn’t even recognize my right to exist, and it has stated a long-held desire to kill me dead and wipe me and all my other organs off the face of the planet.

So I’m just not seeing how those old, worn out wisdom teeth are going to simply talk to my pancreas and get it to magically arrive at a peaceful coexistence with its neighboring body parts. After all, that renegade organ has a decades-long track record without a single earnest shred of cooperation.

Way back, for a short time, it appeared to start producing insulin again, but that honeymoon ended fast, and there hasn’t been a solitary drop of good-will insulin from it since.

Still, in the dream, the wisdom teeth sit by the cozy fire and talk about rationing my insulin on odd numbered calendar days so that the pancreas can be happy on the even numbered days when there’s no exogenous insulin around to make it look bad.

They also say something about restricting further research on a diabetes cure as an incentive for me to cut back and conserve carbohydrates. “Fewer carbs means less need for insulin,” they explain, but when I ask the wisdom teeth what I should tell the stomach on the days it has to go hungry, they say it could be just as comfortable on less food.

At that point in the dream, my kidneys, liver, heart, lungs, and a few muscles started talking about their great grandparents who, back in the old days before insulin, had no choice but to line up at the stomach under rationing for whatever meager scraps they could steal from each other. They were always at each other’s throats, never got enough food, and ended up dying an awful death just the same.

In the dream, I look at the wisdom teeth and say, “Rationing? Yeah, good luck with that.”

All except two of my other body parts want to tell the wisdom teeth to go away and mind their business. But my appendix, another useless, though ever present, creature left behind by evolution, offers support from, fittingly, the neighborhood of the colon. My fingernails also side with the wisdom teeth, but even though they continue to make their presence known, they’re easily and routinely cut back to a manageable size.

And in the dream, I’m leery about the wisdom teeth’s motives. They were useless when they were in my mouth, and caused me nothing but misery before they were pulled, kicking and screaming, to make room for other teeth that actually knew what they were doing. I suspect they might be trying to fix their unpleasant legacy.

When I woke up, I started thinking about what it all means. At this point, the wisdom teeth really have no business getting involved in my health so many years after they blew their chance to do anything good at all. But they’re old now, and feeble. And everyone knows that my traitorous pancreas is never going to allow itself to be hugged and sweet-talked into suddenly playing nice with the other organs.

In the end, I decided that those poor, pathetic wisdom teeth are just trying to help, and they mean well. So as long as I never forget all the unnecessary pain they caused so long ago, and if I don’t fall for any of their more recent, ill-conceived schemes, I will agree, along with my other functioning body parts, to patiently tolerate their folly of popping up from time to time with absurd notions in a series of utterly preposterous dreams.

For those of you diabetics, look at your own hand for a minute. Think of all the syringes it has filled. Think of all the test strips, glucose tablets, and pump reservoirs. Think of the infusion sets, cartons of orange juice, and all the other diabetes related items it has held. And, of course, think about all those lancet marks.

On this date in 1865, Abraham Lincoln was shot while he sat watching a production of Our American Cousin at Ford’s Theater on Tenth Street in Washington, D.C.

While going through some photos I took a couple of years ago, this one in particular stood out for me. Everyone recognizes Lincoln’s face. It’s easy enough to recognize just half of his face, and even when it’s slightly out of focus. But this photo draws attention to Lincoln’s hand, his right hand. This hand was raised when he took the presidential oath. It was used to compose countless letters, and to sign his signature to so many important documents. It shook thousands of other hands.

Someday, a cure for diabetes will be found, and I’m sure that, somewhere, a monument will be built and dedicated to the person or persons responsible. It may not be on a scale with the great Lincoln Memorial. But I’m hoping that in at least some small way, a hand will be incorporated into it, a hand with fingertips scarred by miniscule dots from thousands of lancet holes that will have become, for us, as much a remembered piece of history as the sixteenth president himself.