Welcome to Jan’s occasional potpourri of eclectic bits and pieces about diabetes (maybe).
There’s this very disconcerting TV commercial that’s been running here about a retail store called Denver Mattress. “So?” you ask. Well, there’s this great big logo that says “I (heart) DM!”
I’m pretty sure that, by DM, they mean Denver Mattress, but when I see DM, I think “diabetes,” since that’s the abbreviation for “diabetes mellitus.” Loosely translated, diabetes mellitus means “sweet urine.” (I know. My head is full of useless information.) I’ve often thought the sweet pea should be the official flower of diabetes.
At any rate, I do NOT (heart) DM. Diabetes, that is. I don’t know about Denver Mattress. I don’t necessarily hate diabetes, either. Mainly, I just put up with it.
I’ve now been putting up with it for nearly 27 years. That I know of. The trouble with Type 2 diabetes is that you don’t know how long you’ve had it when you’re diagnosed. I was diagnosed on January 2, 1986. It’s about time for that anniversary cake, huh?
Now, picking up on that last part…because you’ve usually had Type 2 diabetes for several years before diagnosis, it’s frequently discovered after you’ve had a stroke or a heart attack or some other terrible awful diabetes-related complication.
For that reason, I contend it’s Type 2, not Type 1, that’s the “more serious” type of diabetes.
Or maybe they’re equal. I wouldn’t want to have either type. Oh, wait. I already do.
I was diagnosed with a fasting level of 311 mg/dl. I’d had Type 2 for several years.
Dad, on the other hand, was diagnosed with a fasting level of 130 mg/dl. He was caught really early. The doctor told him he needed to exercise. LOL — Dad was the Energizer Bunny! I think he only sat down to watch a West Virginia University football game.
Alas, no longer. He’s pushing 89 and has been bedridden for going on two years now. We’re heading to South Carolina next week to see him. As we did last year, we’ll get a hotel suite and he’ll stay with us while we’re there.
I need to find the speakers for my iPod so we can listen to banjo music. And my little brother, who takes care of Dad, tells me that he likes John Wayne movies. He hasn’t yet told me what movies he has so I can glom onto some he doesn’t have. I’d wring brother’s neck if I could reach it. Little bro is 6’5. I’m the short, dumpy one of the family.
Some friends from Virginia are coming down for a couple of days to join us. And we’re taking our granddaughter and her boyfriend to keep great-grandma occupied. Plus, they can help drive. Oh, I can’t wait to spend two days in a van with a couple of hormonal teenagers. Oops! Four days altogether. Aw, geez.
I decided since we were headed south, I’d take Dad’s presents to him: WVU sleep pants and a t-shirt and a WVU travel mug. Not that he’s traveling, but he has Dupuytren contracture and the mug has a handle so he can hold it and a top so he won’t spill his coffee.
My sweet baboo also has Type 2 diabetes. His doctor told him: “Hmmm. Your sugar is 160. We’ll have to keep an eye on that.”
I told him if that’s the advice he got from his doctor, he needed to get a real doctor. Real, honest-to-goodness diabetes is a fasting level at or above 126 mg/dl or a random level at or above 200 mg/dl, or an HbA1c greater than or equal to 6.5%.
His 160 was fasting.