A Christmas Carol

Thanksgiving is barely past, but we are skidding headlong into the Christmas season. So don’t blame me if I get a carol or two rattling around in my head. And, please, don’t blame me if, while I’m swimming, I start to change the words and make a carol about my favorite subject, the object of obsession, the source of great fascination and frustration… my cat’s pancreas.

It’s a completely normal and natural thing.

And so, with great pride and confidence that I am not, in fact, crazy, I present the song I hatched during tonight’s workout.

(To be sung lovingly and loudly to the tune of O Tannenbaum.)

O Pancreas

O pancreas, O pancreas,
Why did you have to leave us?
Since you’ve been gone we now rely,
On insulin called PZI
O pancreas, O pancreas,
Why did you have to leave us?

O pancreas, O pancreas,
Sometimes you rear your head
And when you do, blood glucose drops,
So I give food to make it stop
O pancreas, O pancreas,
Sometimes you rear your head

Try TID, try BID
Or change the dose, no guarantees
Tomorrow morn, she could be high
Or might be low, I can’t deny
That even now I have no clue
From day to day just what she’ll do

O pancreas, O pancreas,
Why did you have to leave us?

Statistical Obsession

I’m sitting here on a Saturday morning waiting for the vet to call me back. Isabella started vomiting last night and is really not well at the moment. So while I wait (and hope that it’s just a passing intestinal bug) I’ll document my growing obsession with my blog statistics.

Let me be frank: this blog is not exactly setting the world on fire. In fact, I’d like to thank everyone who reads it – the number may run as high as a half dozen. You all must be very optimistic that someday I’ll put something here that actually worth reading. It’s good to have hope.

While you’re hoping, let me tell you about my sad, sad fixation. I’ve signed up with a free statistical website called Site Meter. By putting a little bit of code in the blog layout, I allow Site Meter to monitor who’s coming to read, how long they hang around, how many and which pages they look at, etc.

So far, there have been 383 visits to my blog. Now, I know you’re thinking Yeah, and 350 of them are you, but I assure you, I’ve trained Site Meter to ignore me. It’s only watching you.

The longest visit was almost two hours. I feel pretty confident that was someone who clicked on the blog and then was rushed to the emergency room or something before they could click away. Even I realize that there’s not two hours worth of material here.

The vast majority of the visits log this duration: 0:00

That’s right. Not even one second. I never dreamed it was possible to click away that fast. But the folks who find this blog – well they manage it. Repeatedly. Ouch.

My favorite feature is the one that tells how the visitor found my site. Most of them say “unkown,” but now and then Site Meter admits that the blog appeared in a list of Google search results. My favorite search so far is this:

diabetic cat cranky

If that doesn’t exactly describe Isabella, I don’t know what would. And somehow it’s comforting to know that somewhere out there is someone else with a cranky diabetic cat, and that person found this blog to be worthy of 51 seconds of their time.

People with puking diabetic cats have been directed here by Google more than once. And now that I’ve used both “puke” and “vomit” in this entry, I’m sure that more will stop by in the future. Welcome!

Site Meter does more too, but I don’t want to freak you out. Rest assured, it’s not giving out your name or your email or anything. But it gives me enough stuff to simultaneously satisfy my voyeuristic needs and make me feel like a loser. Because let’s face it: visit durations of 0:00 are not exactly a raving endorsement.

Don’t Worry, Be Happy

We experience moments absolutely free from worry. These brief respites are called panic. ~Cullen Hightower

That quote sums up life with a diabetic cat. My life, anyway. Could be that I’m an anal-retentive control freak worry wart, or maybe all people with diabetic cats feel this way. The point is, I worry. At the beginning, it was constant. Now, a year into this adventure, the worry is toned down and yet always ready to spring forth in the form of panic at the slightest provocation.

For example: A couple months ago I was listening to the keynote speaker at a writers’ conference when a cell phone rang. It was my phone’s ringtone and it was about 6pm – the time I imagine the pet sitter will be checking in on the cats. In the two seconds it took to realize it wasn’t my phone, my level of anxiety skyrocketed from “bored” to “aneurysm,” completely mystifying my sister in law, who, I’m sure, has never seen such a reaction to a phone ringing.

Another example: This morning Casey woke me begging for breakfast. My sleepy brain spit out a few bits of reality:

1) it was Casey begging, not the gluttonous Isabella;
2) Isabella wasn’t on the bed like she usually is;
3) it was 6:15 – a full fifteen minutes late.

That last bit jolted me fully awake. Isabella’s internal time mechanism operates with a precision that rivals an atomic clock and she wants her meals served on schedule. This, coupled with the fact that I was expecting her blood sugar to be running lower than normal – well the picture my imagination painted wasn’t pretty. I shot out of bed and down the hall, veered into the living room and flipped on the light. No cat. (Except Casey, still begging.) Full panic now. “Where’s Isabella??!” I asked out loud, sort of high pitched and gulpy, conjuring images of seizures and a foaming mouth. I circled around to the kitchen, where Isabella was sprawled on the rug in front of the sink. Relaxed. She hopped up at the sight of me, stretched and sauntered to her bowl. Fine, not foaming. Elapsed time since Casey woke me: 15 seconds. Years taken off my life: at least six.

Yes, this is what it’s like with the worry toned down. You don’t want to know what a wreck I was the first few months. Really, you don’t.

Home Sweet Home

I just got back from a trip to the big apple. NYC. The most awesome place on earth. There was no point to the trip besides the fact that Virgin America had an airfare (San Francisco to JFK) that was too amazing to pass up. Never mind the million and one things I could do to improve my house (or my cat), I spent the money on a random trip to New York.

It was a short trip – only four days – but it was the sixth trip I’ve taken this year, and this one seemed harder on the cats than the others.

When I got home last night at two minutes to midnight, both of the cats’ bowls were full of food. Odd. Isabella and Casey are normally pretty enthusiastic eaters – Isabella in particular – and yet here were two bowls that seemed barely touched. A note from the sitter mentioned that she was concerned too; Casey hadn’t eaten his last three meals (which meant the fourth was rotting in the bowl). But both cats seemed basically OK so I decided the problem could wait until I had some sleep.

In my own cozy bed. With my cozy cat curled up next to me. Until …

Have you ever been awakened by the sound of a cat erupting? It’s not good. Isabella spewed the little she had eaten in no fewer than three places, including over the edge of the bed onto the floor (splash!). That woke me enough to a) wipe floor, b) peel the comforter out of the now-barfy cover, and c) add another problem to the list of things that I’d deal with after I had some sleep – now curled up tight in a little chilly ball in my no longer cozy comforter-less bed.

This morning I got Casey to eat with a bit of encouragement, tested Isabella’s blood sugar (it was not great but not awful), and started some laundry (bye-bye-barf), which took care of the obvious problems. But I’ve got the nagging feeling that all is not well with Isabella. She seems a little off, sort of depressed -- which means the next trip I take is probably going to be to the vet.

A Letter to Isabella's Pancreas

This is a post I wrote on the Feline Diabetes Message Board a few months ago. Since I'm in a creative drought I'm re-posting it here - with a nod to Kerri at Six Until Me, whom I stole the idea from in the first place.

To Isabella’s Pancreas:

I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m the person who’s taken over for you since you decided to put your feet up and take a break. Now, I realize that a pancreas is busy. You have lots to do – what with secreting digestive enzymes, producing insulin, and heaven knows what else. And I have to thank you for keeping up that digestive work. Good going! But you’ve completely quit the insulin business, and this has caused both me and Isabella quite a lot of distress.

I know you’re not completely to blame. I admit my role in this. I took you for granted. I abused you. All I gave you to work with for the better part of 11 years was high carbohydrate dry food. I apologize – I really do. I didn’t know any better and I’m sure you got exhausted trying to keep up. I didn’t mean to wear you out and I promise – promise! – you will never again see more carbs than you can handle. I’ve learned my lesson. From now on I’ll treat you with the respect you deserve.

Because I know you’re in there. I see signs from time to time that you’re putting out a little insulin on your own. Do you do it to toy with me? Is it payback for all those years of kibble? Or are you really trying to get back on the job, but still need a little help? If you just need a boost, I'm here for you! (You have to admit I’ve done your job quite handily for the last year. And just look how perky Isabella feels.) I'm willing to work with you on this and I think we can get back to how things were. But better! All low carb, no kibble. And I’ll never take you for granted again.

Please, just tell me it’s not over.

Signed,
Your Stand-In
Nancy

PS: as a side note, since when is it OK to quit part of your job? Do you think I can go to work one day and just announce to my boss that I’ll no longer be responsible for half my duties so she should hire outside help? I’m thinking no. If I did that, well, we could all just kiss that expensive PZI goodbye and then you’d be out of your whole job, my friend. Give that some thought

Snooze

My father asked me to drive him to the airport earlier this week. No problem, I assured him, what time?? He hemmed and hawed. Well, the flight leaves at 8:30 … how about 6:15? In the morning? Yep, 6:15 am. No problem, I still assured him, knowing that my cat demands her breakfast at six sharp. I’ll be up already.

So we agreed, he would come to my place at 6:15 (I live closer to the airport), leave his car there, and I’d drive him to catch is flight. No problem.

Travel day arrives and I’m awakened, not by the alarm (which I’d forgotten to set), not by Isabella, who for the first time in her gluttonish existence, was content to wait for me to wake up to get her meal, but by my poor Dad, knocking loudly and ringing my doorbell. Oops.

In my defense, he arrived early – it was only 6:03. But still, I swear Isabella was sitting on the bed laughing at me. That’ll teach me to depend on a cat as a backup alarm.

I say Glucose, You say Glucosa

I spent the past weekend on a 3-night cruise to Ensendada, Mexico. My cousin organized the trip in honor of her youngest son’s 21st birthday, and my sister and I basically invited ourselves along. (The birthday boy and I do share the same birthday though, so I figure that lent some legitimacy to horning in on his celebration.)

I lined up the pet sitter, packed way too many clothes for three days, and set off for the pier, leaving feline diabetes behind for a few days.

Well, almost…

You see, one feature of Ensenada is pharmacies. Farmacia. They are everywhere, as prevalent as ABC stores in Hawaii or Duane-Reade in New York. Big signs proclaim ready access to antibiotics, geriatrics, and Viagra. No prescription necessary, just some dollars. If somehow you manage to miss the signs, there are helpful young men outside promising that you can find “everything” in their particular farmacia. Just step inside!

Since my sister, her husband, and I had some time to kill after an ATV tour of Ensenada’s dusty outskirts we wandered the main drag in town where it dawned on me: Maybe those pricey test strips would be cheaper south of the border. We stepped into the first farmacia.

Now, I don’t speak much Spanish (full disclosure: I don’t speak any Spanish) but here in Ensenada, where cruise ships full of Americans arrive on a daily basis, the locals make a point of speaking English. So, in this farmacia I asked for blood glucose test strips. In return I got a blank look, along with a pen and paper, where I wrote

Blood glucose test strips “Freestyle”

Ah! Glucosa!

Si, I replied.

“No, no.” said the pharmacy clerk, “Go to Farmacia del Sol, across the street.”

“Muchas gracias”

My sister spotted Farmacia del Sol on the far side of the busy boulevard, but we were headed to the shopping district, populated with dozens of other pharmacies, so we turned in the opposite direction.

Two or three pharmacies later, I was convinced that Mexican diabetics must somehow manage without testing, because none of the pharmacies carried test strips. One man assured me it would be very difficult to find them. In the fifth pharmacy (yes, my sister and her husband are very patient with me) I asked “But, what do diabetics do??” And I was told to go to Farmacia del Sol. They were guaranteed to have what I wanted. In the meantime, did I need any antibiotics?

Since it was on the way back to the ship, we did, in fact, stop in Farmacia del Sol. And there, in a glass case, was a display of One Touch Ultra meters and test strips, along with one box of Ascensia Contour strips. No Freestyle – but if you recall, my horde of meters includes several One Touch Ultra Minis. For the right price, I’d ditch the Freestyle in a heartbeat.

When it was finally my turn (after a fellow cruise passenger got her hands on some discount birth control pills) I found they had no Freestyle strips. The price of the OneTouch strips?? About $55 for 50. Yikes! The meter companies obviously have no problem using their greedy tactics beyond the US borders. No Mexican test strips for me.

But I didn’t come home empty-handed: I veered from my test strip quest long enough to bargain a street vendor down to $15 for two pairs of silver earrings.