And Then I Did A Touchdown Dance In The Parking Lot
Zoe had her quarterly checkup with her endocrinologist this week. He checks her eyes, her feet, and her blood sugar average, the dreaded A1C.
In May, Zoe racked up an A1C score of 8.2. In range over 50% of the time, more highs than lows, it really was ok, but damn, I walked out of there feeling like such a failure.
Because anytime she goes too high or low? I really do think it is all my fault. I know it isn’t, I do, but then I have a tiny part of my brain telling me that maybe it is because I got sloppy with my math. Perhaps she’s a tad too high because I let her eat a brownie without a shot because damn, she’s still a kid and sometimes you just need a damn brownie without a side of needles or she went low because we threw caution to the wind and said screw it, I bet your dinner has about 90 carbs, we dosed for it, and it really only had 60 and I forgot that she rode her bike for 25 minutes after school.
To be honest, math plays a big part of her diabetes care, but then you have everything else to contend with as well, like stress, activity, what she ate the night before. She can eat the same thing for breakfast for a week, have the same amount of insulin before the meal, and have a different reading before lunch every damn time. This I know is true.
I also would like to choke the shit out of diabetes most days, this I know is true as well.
Except not this week. After all our hard work these last three months, we walked out of the Barbara Davis Center feeling a little bit like we won this round. Zoe’s A1C is a 7.2. And diabetes?
Well, I gave it a high five.