Normal

by David Goldman

I was a year and a half old when I was diagnosed with diabetes.

I actually remember being diagnosed. For years when I was a kid I thought it was the remnant of a dream rolling around in my head – I’ve just woken up and I’m lying in a crib. But it’s not my crib and it’s not my room. I’m looking up at everything. It’s a bright place. The sun is streaming through the windows to my left and a breeze is blowing in. There’s a curtain hanging from the ceiling that separates me from the rest of the room.

My mom is sitting in a chair behind me and she’s reading a magazine. I’m reassured by her presence in this unfamiliar room. She smiles at me and that makes me more comfortable.

The door opens and two men come in. They scare me. I remember that they’re both wearing glasses and some sort of uniform. One of them has hairy arms. They’re dressed in gray, plain pants and shirts. They place my head between the bars of the crib so I’m facing up and I can’t move. I’m really scared now. I see my mom. I look back up and see a large syringe come toward my neck. Why isn’t my mom helping me?

I don’t’ remember anything else.

When I told this “dream” to my mom she told me it wasn’t a dream. It was when I was just a year and a half old and in the hospital being tested for diabetes. My dad was a diabetic and I was going to carry on the family tradition.

Back then the prospects weren’t great for a child diagnosed so early. The doctors told my parents to expect vision problems and possible blindness, kidney failure, issues with my heart, and more.

What did my parents do? They accepted it and raised me like a normal child. I had diabetes so that meant that every night my mom would boil our (my dad and I each had our own) syringes and needles to sterilize them. This was the era before everything was disposable. Every morning I got up and had to take my shot. I never felt like it was a big deal. It was no different than getting up and brushing my teeth. Sometimes the shots really did hurt. Back then the needles were much thicker than the current ones so you’d feel them, especially when you hit certain spots close to nerves.

I had to stick to a somewhat restricted diet. The rule was, no sweets. That was hard for me. Watching other kids enjoy something I couldn’t have was never easy. There was a drug store in our neighborhood and the kids used to go there for candy all the time. I’d look at all the different kinds – Hershey bars, Turkish Taffy, Snickers, and really want to buy one but I’d always settle for the bag of Planter’s peanuts. If I complained to my mom that I wished I could buy the candy she’d tell me I should be glad there was a snack I could eat. And she was right. Sometimes I would cheat. There were times at a friend’s house I would eat candy or a couple of Oreos. I always felt guilty doing it and I’d promise myself that I wouldn’t do it again. But there always came another time when I’d bend the rule. Somehow, I think my parents knew when I cheated and just let me get away with it.

Two of the most important things I had to learn and understand were low blood sugars and insulin reactions. Sometimes if I took a shot and didn’t eat enough, my blood sugar level would drop. It could also happen with a lot of physical activity. When you hear about endurance athletes or marathoners “hitting the wall” they’re actually having insulin reactions. There’s not enough sugar in the blood system to sustain you and things start shutting down. You become very weak, lightheaded and disoriented. When I was young I knew the signs and would either eat the hard candy I always had with me, or drink a sugary drink. My parents taught me it wasn’t a huge emergency but I did have to take care of it. It was part of life.

However, when I got older I lost the ability to sense low blood sugars. This put me (and others) into dangerous situations. I would check my blood sugar before leaving work (portable meters finally came into existence) and it would be fine. But sometimes it dropped while I was driving and I would have no idea how to get home. This happened way too many times. The ability to tell myself, “Your sugar is low. Eat something” was gone. Sometimes my coworkers would notice I was slurring my speech and they would make me eat candy. I was always lucky to have good friends around me.

When I started dating my wife, I invited her over for a dinner that I was going to cook. While standing at the stove, I became so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open. She told me to lie down and she’d finish. Half an hour later she couldn’t wake me. She called the paramedics and after a shot of Glucagon, an injectable sugar, I came around. What an amazing person she is to deal with all the baggage I bring.

My parents never treated me as different. They never said, “You’re a diabetic, you can’t do that.” When I was a kid my friends and I used to roam the neighborhood on our bikes. We’d spend days and nights playing baseball until the sun was gone. I always had friends and they always knew I was a diabetic. It didn’t matter. I could do what everyone else did. My parents didn’t tell me that. That’s what they practiced. There were times I had to sit out of a ballgame for a while if I had a reaction, and I wasn’t able sleep at a friend’s house until I was old enough to fill my syringe properly and take my own shot. But that was it.

I’ve met others who have grown up with diabetes and their parents sheltered them. Some still lead sheltered lives as adults and it’s really too bad. Raising me the way my parents did taught me a lot. It prepared me for all the medical adventures to come, and gave me the capacity to accept them and then fight through them. Yes, diabetes is somewhat of a burden but it doesn’t mean you can’t lead a normal life.

This is what my parents instilled in me. It is the greatest life lesson and gift they ever could have given me.

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I'm a Sleeper!

By Roberta Durra

By the time I wake up in the morning my husband, Michael, has had his coffee, twice walked the dog, and run with the bulls. The man is a doer. I, on the other hand, am an excellent sleeper. I have no issues sleeping late in the morning. It’s just that I look like a bit of an underachiever compared to Michael, who by 7:00 am has done a week’s worth of chores, while I have just rolled out of bed and taken my thyroid pill.

I like to stay up late and wake up early. For me, early is 7:00 am. If by chance I sleep until 8:00 am, I am even happier, more refreshed, and chirpy as a Disney bird. Rouse me at 5:00 am, (Michael!) and you get Charles Manson.

I’m not even particular about where I sleep. I can doze on couches, in movie theaters and sitting upright at the computer. Hey, I’m sleeping right NOW! As a passenger, I’ve slept through cross-country car rides, so you know what I do through school meetings and holiday services.

I’m a well-practiced sleeper, though not a particularly quiet one. When Michael and I went to an early screening of the Academy Award winning film“ The Queen”, he was mortified when my snores overpowered the dialogue coming through the DTS 5.1 sound system. I was less than thrilled when his elbow overpowered my side ribs as he jabbed me awake.

Michael likes to go to bed early, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed. My snoring has become an issue…for him. The other day Michael casually mentioned that he had seen a Chihuahua wearing a bark collar that squirted the pup with citronella each time it barked. Then, just as casually, he questioned whether that collar might work for my snoring. 

 

            “ Are you suggesting I sleep with a bark collar around my neck?” I ask, incredulously.

            “Just a thought” he replies, knowing it’s best to tread lightly.

            “And you want it to squirt citronella on me when I snore?”  I try to formulate a picture.

            “No, No!” he says, appalled. “Water’s fine”.

Needless to say, Michael and I keep completely different hours. He wakes up somewhere between 4 and 5 am, which is a perfect time to collect the eggs and milk the cows. When we move to Green Acres, this will come of value. Here and now, in Venice, CA, the only thing that happens in the wee hours of the morning is Michael bumping around the bedroom, getting dressed in the dark and disturbing my R.E.M.

I think there should be a law restricting movement at 4:00 am with exceptions for…

1.Checking that your child is breathing, and

2. Middle-of-the-night bathroom trips.

This should easily cover: young mothers, older mothers, grandmothers, and men with enlarged prostates.

I’ve tried changing my schedule. For a time I chastised all my friends who called after 8:00 pm. I acted like I had a new baby I was trying to get to sleep. In fact, I was the new baby trying to sleep. I had myself in bed by 9 pm, lying like a mummy, counting ceiling cracks until 1:00 am. I’m just not wired to be in bed during “30 Rock” and “Parenthood”. Besides, I don’t like having the same bedtime I did in 3rd grade. I made an art of fighting my brother whenever he’d babysit. Maybe now, if he’d call and threaten to ring the boogieman like he did then, I could get to bed earlier. I still fear the boogieman. 

My mind wants me to get up early but there is something else in control…my body clock and sanity. I’ve tried joining my husband at sunrise for walks on the beach. But they always end the same. Soon after we start, I suggest he continue walking the dog while I meditate on the sand. I earnestly begin with my legs crossed in the lotus position and my first and second fingers touching, making shapes that remind me of giant sleeping pills. I inevitably end up in the fetal position, sound asleep in the sand, with half my face buried, and my mouth wide open in an unattractive puddle of sandy drool. And several times I’ve almost been swept away by the county tractor that rakes the beach each morning.

But there is nothing noble about getting up early, and as the week progresses Michael’s bedtime gets earlier and earlier, until Sunday he’s in bed by lunchtime. Alright, truthfully, most nights he’s crashed by 8:30 pm.  A big night is 9, a party 9:30 and New Years Eve is 7:30 pm. You know what they say…” The early bird gets the worm”. They forget to mention that the early bird also gets most of the bed.

I’m not saying it’s great to be a night owl, either.  Countless times I’ve fallen asleep on the couch with the lights on and the TV blasting. This is when I have infomercial nightmares. All night long I sculpt my abs and apply adult acne cream.  I rid my garden of unsightly weeds at the same time I clean my hardwood floors. When suddenly I’m trapped in a giant Snuggie blanket, I wake myself up and somehow make it upstairs where I lie awake for the next 2 hours. No wonder I’m always tired.

So if you happen to see a woman wearing a bark collar, sleeping in a parked car, this would be me.

Stop and say, hello…but not too loud. It might trigger my collar.

Happy Mothers Day!

Monogram Maniac

By Roberta Durra

 I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve become a maniac - a “Monogram Maniac”. Come within 10 yards and I will ask you if you’d like your initials sewn on to your bathrobe, shirt cuffs, backside or your baby’s burp pad. Also know that I will feel slighted if you turn me down.

Lest you think I’m kidding, you should know that I own a state of the art, computerized, Brother Entrepreneur PR 650, 6-needle embroidery machine. This baby is worth more than a 2011 Ferrari 458 Italia. Check the Kelly Blue Book to see the kind of money I’m taking about. Wait! If you’re really going to check the Blue Book, I’d like to revise my previous estimate to, a tad bit more than a used 1999 Volkswagen Beetle – in fair condition, which I also own. But it’s not the price that matters. It’s what my Brother 650 and I do together. We embroider artful portraits of animals, babies, mothers, and national landmarks. 

Most easily and often though, we personalize you up and down by sewing initials onto your everything; from carry bags, to hankies and boxers.

I’ve never really been an “initial person”. I didn’t grow up in a house with monogrammed towels or bed linens. Not to say we didn’t have sewn goods. My mother needlepointed beautiful pillows, and once crocheted an eye-catching toilet paper cozy for the guest roll. But she wasn’t into embroidered names. In grade school when she did put my name on to my pencil case, it was in pen on a roughly torn piece of beige masking tape. To be fair, she had lovely handwriting. During the years my son went to over night camp I was never surprised when he came home with an empty duffle bag. All because I never thought to put his name on his socks, tee shirts, shorts or underwear. This was before Stella.

Stella is the name I have given my embroidery machine. It wasn’t easy naming her, because unlike babies, there are not many embroidery machine name books out there. So I chose a hardy Latin name, meaning, “star”. And a STAR she is. Stella is diligent, reliable, and has a strong work ethic. She has an easy to read screen, and performs with quality precision. I appreciate this, and tell her often.  Sometimes I treat her to a new bobbin and a dab of extra oil.

It’s a love hate thing I have going with embroidery. I dream of owning a quaint, French embroidery shop in Paris. In my shop I serve colored candy mints and have Edith Piaf playing in the background. The front window is filled with vintage embroidered table linens and monogrammed French aprons. I have hundreds of beautifully colored spools of thread displayed on a wooden racks, and oversized floral oil paintings hanging on walls. Lovely, stylish women are regulars at my shop, and sit beside me on my shabby chic couch and admire my white linen embroidered pillows. We discuss life, art and theater. We sip tea from delicate china and keep our pinky fingers out to the side. In this dream I never see myself actually working.

I keep trying to quit embroidering for other people. The problem is I keep accepting work. And if I don’t embroider for a while I have to reacquaint myself with Stella once again.  Once, so much time had elapsed between jobs that I called Stella, “Sheila” for a week, and you know that didn’t go over well. This was when I had to go to Banana Republic and purchase 3 expensive golf shirts because Stella and I ruined the original shirts the client brought in. Coincidence? I think not. How on top of your game would you be if your boss called you the wrong name all day? I understand this, because people often call me Rebecca instead of Roberta and it definitely twists my bobbin.

 

Because I say YES to everything and everyone, and completely underbid, my husband has started clocking my work. This is very tricky because now I have to be accountable for the time I put in. Now I have to sneak in to my sewing studio and embroider in the middle of the night so he won’t know I mistakenly bid 30 minutes for a job that so far has taken 2 ½ days.

Although embroidery is a solitary experience it can also be a wonderful way to make new friends. A man I’d never met recently inquired as to the charge for embroidering a name on to a lab coat. In an attempt to limit the small jobs I take, I passive-aggressively quoted him thirty dollars instead of simply saying “no”. This is the equivalent of being asked to pay $50.00 for a small coffee at Dunkin Donuts. My new friend responded immediately, inquiring about the state of my mental health. Can you imagine? A complete stranger caring so much!

And then there’s Murphy’s Law, which I think was discovered when someone accidentally embroidered a W instead of M onto Murphy’s boxer shorts. If a person comes to my house holding an heirloom christening gown that once belonged to their husband’s great, great grandmother’s, sister’s baby, and asks me to embroider a letter on to the garment I speak calmly and deliberately as though I am talking to an intruder, and I’m a seasoned officer with the LAPD. I say,

  

“OK, lady. Turn around, slowly… hands up, and put the100 year-old heirloom thing above your head…that’s right, keep it in sight, and now walk to the door and leave my house.”

I do this because I know the minute I touch this treasure, a sharpie will materialize out of thin air and irreparably stain the garment. That, or the second the owner leaves, the dress will suddenly disintegrate from previously undocumented moth holes. Or most likely, (and this has happened) a mud puddle will suddenly appear in my living room, and I will slip and fall making the white un-washable heirloom christening gown look like a football jersey that lost in sudden-death overtime.

My grandmother, Mary, sewed beautiful wedding veils. This may be where I came to love fabric. My own hands-on sewing adventure started in 5^th grade when my friend Randi and I took an 8-week sewing class. We made identical long sleeve dresses using 100 percent cotton fabric that wasn’t prewashed for shrinkage. The day after the last sewing class, we wore our dresses to school. My dress was so tight around the legs it took an hour rather than the usual ten minutes to walk to school.  I shuffled using baby steps so as not move my legs too far forward, and rip my dress.  When I sat down and put my arms on my desk, my elbows shot through the seams. I didn’t realize this though because I had neither feeling, nor blood-flow in my arms because my sleeves were sewn so tightly. Randi did not experience any blood-flow issues because her older sister, Adrian, sewed her dress.

So if you have pants to hem, a wedding dress to design or a designer gown you’d like knocked-off, don’t call me. But if you’d enjoy having a first, middle and last initial lovingly sewn on to a napkin, golf shirt or the butt of a diaper cover, just ask. I’ll quote you a price somewhere between $5.00 and the cost of a summer home in Malibu.  And I’ll have it done in no time.

Donate Life

by David Goldman

The kidney transplant I had in 1986 finally quit working this past November. From all accounts nearly 25 years is a really good lifespan for a transplanted kidney. I started dialysis in early December and have been on it since.

As soon as all the dust had settled I started thinking about another transplant. A transplant has its risks and downsides but (in my opinion) it certainly beats being hooked up to R2D2 for three and a half hours a day, three days a week. The quick summary of how the transplant process works is that first, I have to be evaluated and approved for the transplant. They don’t want to waste a donated kidney. Once approved, you get put on the waiting list for a cadaver kidney. At my transplant center and I believe most transplant hospitals in the U.S., the wait is currently at least five years. A better option is a kidney from a living donor (For more info on the benefits of living donation please see the Living Kidney Donors Network). To have a living donor someone first has to volunteer and then also be medically approved.

My first choice, like anyone in this situation, would be to find a living donor. The transplant can be done sooner and both immediate and long-term results are better than with a cadaver donor. But you can’t ask someone for a kidney. All you can do is tell your story and hope someone offers. I decided to send out a mass email to everyone I knew to update them on my health but first there was a handful of friends and relatives that I wanted to tell personally. One of the first people I called was my friend Pi. I’ve known Pi since college when we were roommates.

The moment I told him he said, “Okay, what do I do?” I honestly wasn’t sure what he was talking about so I asked him what he meant. “How do I donate a kidney?” he responded. His reaction was so immediate that I assumed he hadn’t really thought this through. I told him he had to talk to his wife first and they should discuss it. “We’ve already discussed it. We both want to be tested to see if we can donate.” I was completely overwhelmed. I had no idea what to say. Saying thank you seemed so small and meaningless, but those were the only words I could come up with. It’s funny because I have no problem talking about illnesses and setbacks I’ve had with my health. I just wasn’t prepared for someone to offer this so quickly.

Pi and Tuna (Pi’s wife) weren’t the only ones to offer. Many friends and relatives did. And I can’t thank them all enough. I count myself as being very fortunate to have these people around me. After the preliminary blood tests it came down to two people as the best matches. The match is determined by blood type and antigen antibodies. The donor has to be the same blood type as the recipient and antigen antibodies are something you don’t want. The fewer, the better off the match will be. The best matches were Tuna and Diane, another close friend. I wanted them to wrestle to decide who would go to Minneapolis for the evaluation but they discussed it instead.

They decided that Tuna would go for the evaluation. It was done this past Monday and we’re both waiting for the results. We should hear sometime early next week.

Again, I’m very fortunate. However, in the meantime, nearly 111,000 people in the U.S. are waiting for transplants. Many of them will die waiting. Please become an organ donor by signing up here: Donate Life

Snooki's Weight Loss Tips

by Roberta Durra

I may have mentioned this before. It irks me that Snooki has a job and I'm still looking. But now “The Snook” has done the unimaginable. This time she’s hit me where it hurts… in my belly and upper thighs. Yes, Snooki has lost weight!!

My doctor recently said my cholesterol is nothing to write home about, and it’s time for me to lose some weight.  So I’ve decided to look to the Snookster, not as an enemy but as a formidable weight loss consultant, and find out exactly how she went from a “Mallomar” to a “Thin Mint”.

Snooki says she lost pounds by curbing her drinking and going on a cookie diet. She eats one meal and 6 cookies a day. The cookies contain beef protein. I find this extremely encouraging because beef chocolate chip is my favorite!

Fully committed to following Snooki’s lead, I wake up ready for my new life, ready to cut back my liquor consumption! (I don’t drink liquor) If it worked for the Snook, it will work for me. (It won’t work for me because I don’t drink liquor)  I will also eat 6 cookies a day to suppress my hunger. And until I find Snooki’s cookies, I will start with Chips Ahoy. They’re small. I will eat seven.

Possibly eight.

Drew Carey, another weight loss warrior, recently lost a massive amount of weight. He formerly wore a very pudgy frame and thick black rimmed glasses. He probably shed 10 lbs switching to wire frames. What else did he do? He stopped drinking beer! I hear you Drew. I will take your advice and eliminate beer entirely. No more lagers and ales. I will officially abstain from all Pilsners, Stouts and Heepweizen’s. (I don’t drink beer). No more “Old Speckled Hen” or “Dogfish Head Snowblower” ale. (I don’t even LIKE beer). I will say a tearful goodbye to Heineken and Bud light. If it worked for Drew Carrey, it will work for me. (It won’t work for me).

Kloe Kardashian, now there’s a weight loss success story. Actually, all of the Kardashians have lost weight. Even, Bruce Kardashian. I think they take diet pills that help them battle the bulge by pooping it all out. Wait! Stop the presses! I won’t even CONSIDER this. I already pee in my pants a bit when I laugh too hard. I will not risk leakage from both ends!

Jenny Craig seems to attract celebrity clients. Look at Valerie Bertinelli and Jennifer Hudson. They both look fabulous. I look for Jenny Craig food recommendations and happen upon this…

 “Treat yourself to the sinfully sweet taste of our Cookies & Cream Cheesecake loaded with rich, creamy filling and crunchy bits of chocolate cookie. On top there are even more cookies, drizzled with rich white chocolate. Indulge in a treat that is also a good source of calcium. Jennifer Hudson and Valerie Bertanelli have”.

BINGO! I LOVE CHEESECAKE, but stupidly have never considered it dietetic. I don’t know where to find Jenny Craig, but I DO know a “Cheesecake Factory” nearby. I’ll add one of their cheesecakes to my midday snack, staving off hunger and shedding pounds like there’s no tomorrow. You can’t beat those insider tricks!

But just because stars are rich and fabulous doesn’t mean they‘re the only ones with secrets to weight loss. I found this creative recipe from a woman online, using “Jenny Craig Bell Cookies”.  She tells us…

 “I take one serving of the Jenny Craig Ginger Bell Cookies and crumble them into the bottom of a small, shallow microwavable dish. Then I add a serving of applesauce and strawberry jam on top of the crumbled cookies with a sprinkling of cinnamon. I microwave for one minute and then drizzle a touch of maple syrup and two tablespoons of whipped topping. Yummy!”

Yay for the common folk!  Nice low-cal recipe, anonymous Internet person.

50 Cent lost a ton of weight for a movie role. GOOD IDEA Mr. Cent. I’ll get myself a starring role in a mini series, pronto. I’ll pitch Oprah a 12 episode “Twiggy” biopic, starring ME!  I’ll be groovy and thin in no time and then during production Oprah and I can lunch with Snooki. We’ll hear diet tips straight from the horse’s mouth.  Both Oprah and I will benefit greatly.

Kelly Osborne lost 3 dress sizes and a face size by criticizing people with Joan Rivers on the “Fashion Police".  Apparently bitchy is slimming. I will tell all my friends I hate their clothes and post their pictures on national television. This should yield a quick 12 lb weight loss when they dump me and I’m too depressed to eat.

Kimora Lee Simmons recently lost mega weight and a saggy neck, to boot. She credits her amazing transformation to putting down the Doritos bag and walking her baby up the block. I don’t have a baby, but I’m willing to put down the Doritos. (You're right. I don’t eat Doritos).

Contrary to all the inaccurate fluff out there, it seems weight loss is much easier than the “experts” let on. Listen to the celebrities who know.  Ignore boring exercise, 8 cups of water a day, healthy food choices and silly portion control propaganda. Put down the beer, hide the Doritos and whip out cheesecake and beef cookies! We’ll all be running with Snooki in thong bikinis in no time!