View from the Prairie Box

First he walked down the street, found a pile of leftover snow and kicked it. And when we were still weren’t done chatting he flopped in the neighbor’s yard, much like the Santa Claus who is refused air by day but by night stands alert next to the lit reindeer. When I saw the light glowing around him I ran fast for my camera and begged him to stay in place. And he did. Because he’s that kind of kid.

Diabetes takes up a certain percentage of my brain all the time. However, I’ve had type 1 diabetes for so long now that I have an auto pilot mode. I can be sitting in a group of friends, listening and laughing along with them, pricking my finger for a blood sugar while simultaneously counting carbs and making estimates regarding my activities for the next three hours. That’s what I do ALWAYS. I don’t get a break. I can’t ever stop thinking about what my blood sugar is doing and how food and exercise (yes, laundry is exercise too) will affect my being. So that’s my baseline, all that brain work.

But there are days when the baseline percentage doesn’t even come close to cutting it and then I find myself utterly distracted by diabetes care. Another way to rephrase it is that some days diabetes require much more of my focus.

Sunday was “change” day for my sensor (which usually lasts one week). I woke up, changed the site, and planned for a day of increased calibrations-—a little more attention paid to matching numbers from the sensor to my blood glucose. It also ended up being change day for the infusion set I typically wear in my abdomen. That little cannula delivers insulin from the pump to my fat layer and I have to rotate it every three days. I changed the infusion set around lunchtime and continued on my merry way—-diabetes present but not front and center—-until things went haywire that afternoon.

A really good Sunday afternoon involves coffee and random shopping with a beloved friend. If we can get this time we take it and we make every second count with laughter and conversation. If I could go back to Sunday I’d understand that my CGM, which was refusing to calibrate properly, was taking up a huge percentage of my brain power. At the time I acknowledged that something wasn’t working properly and pushed through our soul-refreshing time anyhow, but I didn’t fully realize how it cluttered my brain and pressed in on our fun time. Usually I can troubleshoot a diabetes issue and in a few hours normalcy will resume. This time I’m looking with more scrutiny and I can see that the last two days have a been a cluster and it affects me.

It’s Tuesday morning now and I feel like I have a minor version of the flu. My head aches. My body is so tired. I feel sluggish and out of sorts and frankly I think I will take a sick day. Because, since Sunday afternoon, nothing has been normal or routine about diabetes in my body. It’s been a bit since diabetes has thrown me this out of whack, but I’ll take in my present reality and remind myself with patience and grace that having a chronic health issue leads to days like this one.

So Sunday night was not really fun. No matter what I tried I couldn’t get my sensor to work properly. I’ve only been relying on a sensor for the past 11 months, so at that point I removed it and resigned myself to poking my fingers for the next 12 hours until I could put a new sensor on in the morning. (Sensor placement isn’t a nighttime activity unless you’re a T1 who doesn’t care about sleeping. Calibrations happen frequently the first 12 hours so you’d get awoken quite often.) The next morning was a brand new day and the new sensor worked and I was back in business. It wasn’t until lunchtime Monday that I questioned how long I had been fighting elevated blood sugars.

Back in business? Not really. My glucoses had been above normal since I changed my infusion set the day before. Again, troubleshooting time. Here’s what that looks like:

PMS elevates sugars. Is is that time of the month?
Stress elevates sugars. Did our weekend travel affect me?
Sickness elevates sugars. Am I coming down with something?
Bad insulin elevates sugars. Was my insulin in the sun while we were driving?
Poor infusion set placement elevates sugars. Did I place it in a scarred spot on my stomach?
Kinked infusion sets elevate sugars. Without x-ray vision I won’t know until I remove the set.

Ticking through that checklist I decided that I’d change my infusion set. It was high time to get those numbers down, I was starting to feel terrible. I didn’t think the insulin had gone bad—and insulin is like liquid gold these days, you don’t want to throw out a good vial—so I marked the box and put it back in the refrigerator to test on another day. I put another infusion set on my stomach, careful to try and get a good spot (which is a crapshoot, but oh well) and within a few hours? RELIEF. My numbers went from sky high to normal and remained there for hours throughout the evening.

Sounds good? Just wait.

My numbers around suppertime were so good and steady that I required very little insulin. Like almost none at times. Every so often the pump would give me the teeniest bit but I didn’t need more until… until I did. My daughter and I went out for pumpkin spice lattes on a cold and rainy night. I paid an exorbitant amount of money for the decaf coffees and a few snacks—and moments later realized they had given us grandes instead of talls. So basically we had vats of sugar. Normally this would elevate my glucoses but I could roll with it. What happened last night was that it completely shocked my system as I had no extra insulin on board.

Also—human error here—I forgot to bolus for the sugar I consumed.

An hour after I crawled in bed I had what I can only call “diabetic thirst.” It’s a thirst level that is unparalleled, unmatched, starvation-thirst. And it’s very familiar to me. I’ve deduced that having high glucoses makes me crave sweetness, too, so what I want in that moment isn’t water—it’s sugar free Powerade. Lucky for me I had picked up some that day (it’s a T1’s BFF on a sick day). I also had a near-crushing headache. Those two symptoms sent up an alert in my brain and I reached for my glucometer. 450. WHAT. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a number that high—it’s been awhile. And to have gone from an 80 glucose to 450 in such a brief amount of time? Well, that’s why I’m feeling like a train hit me today.

I did all the things on my checklist at that point and I did them quickly. Peed on a stick—yup, big ketones staring at me. Dosed a bunch of insulin to bring down the high and to cover what I had consumed. And then, didn’t want to do this one, but I rolled out of bed and began pacing the basement (to get the heart pumping, which will flush the ketones faster and get the insulin working right away) after filling Jeremy in on what my body was facing. He knows how to troubleshoot with me, and also knows how to keep me calm during these high ketone moments (which will send a T1 to the hospital pretty darn fast). I began pounding the sugar-free Powerade and—this is my latest top secret helper in ketone dilemmas—I took half a Xanax. I could write more about the role of meds in treating a chronic illness sufferer’s anxieties, but that would be a post all to itself. Another time perhaps.

After 60 minutes no ketones. Not a trace. I went from a high level of ketones building up in my body due to little insulin on board earlier, to successfully flushing them out. Exhausted I got back in bed and asked Jeremy to wake me in another hour to check my blood sugar. He did. And then he woke me again two hours later to check again. To go from perfect numbers to crazy high numbers—with a giant dose of insulin thrown in—often means one thing: you’ll drop low in the night. Since I don’t want to die and Jeremy still wants me around, having him check on me makes sense. My numbers came down beautifully in the night, but again I found myself in the low insulin swing this morning. This up and down of glucoses, of insulin, is what has left me wiped out. Say nothing of the lack of solid sleep.

Damn you, diabetes. You are a prickly SOB.

I look around me and am amazed that most of the world eats food and never thinks of carb counts. Most of the world can go for a run and not fear death on the other side of it. If I didn’t know better I’d be mad about all this, but here’s what I know: everyone has something hard. I see you guys going through cancer (and Liv and I prayed for you this morning on our school drive). I see y’all with the broken marriages and kids who are hurting inside. I see you guys with depression and you guys with anxiety and you guys with mental illnesses too many and too confusing to name. I see you in the quiet gatherings fighting addictions and I know it’s a daily, moment-by-moment fight as relentless as diabetes. I see you with the existential crises that feel weightier than health issues. I see you with the unfulfilled longings and the daily aches. And I see you, too, my fellow humans who are fighting chronic pain and disabilities you’ll never be free from this side of glory.

This is my story, but it’s not the only hard thing. It’s my hard thing—one of my hard things—and boy am I grateful that it’s not always this hard either. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to check my blood sugar and lay around like a slug.

Where’s the book about a really uptight woman who runs a small town cafe and rediscovers her true self in the big city? Where’s the one where she is a pill in her life in the countryside but transforms into a laid-back, devil-may-care lawyer who feels free among the skyscrapers and high rises? I’ve been reading some chicklit lately. Basically the books are contemporary romances, simple fiction, where the characters are all similar, the settings are pastoral, and the comfort foods described are all delicious. NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

I keep giving the books three stars on Goodreads (out of five possible) because they’re only okay. And yet, I am completely fine with “only okay” at the moment. “Only okay” doesn’t require much of me. “Only okay” is nice to read in bed after a long day. “Only okay” is my preferred method of quiet entertainment and I enjoy it more than a Netflix show that is also only okay. In some ways, I feel guilty assigning these books three stars—afterall, I keep going back for more. Who am I and what in the world am I reading?

I am Rebecca Tredway and sometimes I’m just plain tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of helping. Tired of working hard. Physically tired. And you know what a tired woman can appreciate? A book whose expectations are very very clear. Chicklit/modern/contemporary fiction with a dose of romance? Sure, why not.

On the other hand, my cynical brain can’t help but long for a book that flips all these stereotypes on their ridiculous heads. If I meet another man who wears flannel shirts, has an ever-present five o’clock shadow, and works with his hands, darn it all, I want him to be the bad guy. Let’s make the city slicker banker who has fancy shoes the one worth swooning over. C’mon, authors, you can do better. (But until then, between you, me, and the internet, I’ll probably keep reading your books. Carry on. Pass the meatloaf and potatoes and, oh, a slice of blueberry pie in my direction.)

Today feels like a BIG first. For Livia it’s both just another day of school and it’s a whole new world. High school! I am constantly blown away by the opportunities given to students within our school district. The classes and clubs and friends get cooler and more varied as times goes on and I cannot wait to see what piques Liv’s interest over the course of the next four years.

Father God, you love this kid even more than we do. Prepare the way forward for her and pour your grace out over her. Speak to her spirit and give her courage and joy as she begins this brand new school. Let her follow you and let her be a light to those around her. In Jesus’s name, we ask that you bless Livia far beyond our imagining. Amen!

A walk down memory lane…
8th grade
7th grade
6th grade
5th grade
4th grade
3rd grade
2nd grade
1st grade
Kindergarten

I haven’t stopped looking at your Facebook and Instagram posts. Well, that’s not entirely true. I quit both platforms for almost two weeks and that felt hard. I am a person who is constantly seeking connections. My initial desire was to rid myself of extraneous information in order to live more fully in the 3D world. Instead of trying to get filled up by social media stories, I wanted to seek face-to-face interactions. And instead of creating art with parameters issued by Instagram, I wanted to see if words and pictures would float to the surface of my creative soul once more. I also wanted to move away from the FOMO (fear of missing out) and jealousy I felt when inevitably fun friendships and moments surfaced on your Instagram feeds. Was that too much to ask in a period of five weeks? What did I discover and why did my fasting period last only briefly?

That last question is answered by a broken washer and dryer. When our almost 20 year old washer wasn’t carrying out its duties properly, and then our refurbished dryer smelled like burning materials, we were done. Time for new equipment for our very non-handyman household. I researched and researched, but in the end I wanted to know what my friends and family’s experiences and recommendations were. So I turned to Facebook. As much as I love all of y’all out there, the vast feedback I received wasn’t all that helpful. (I’ll post an explanation on this below.) Breaking my social media fast almost meant I was fully back on board with online interactions as it takes a lot of willpower for me to stay away. BUT. My cousin Mark teased me by asking why I was online when I said I’d be off, and that little nugget of a challenge convinced me to go silent on the platforms again. Only, at that point I started reading whatever I wanted and only interacting on my type 1 diabetes support groups.

In the end, I did learn something incredibly timely about myself: I do not need to save the world.

That’s embarrassing to say out loud because, on one hand, I don’t believe I’m what everyone needs in order to be happy. On the other hand, I believe strongly in cheering on your successes, mourning your griefs, celebrating your birthdays, and rejoicing in your beautiful vacations. I LIKE ALL THAT. No, what I mean is that the sun doesn’t rise and set based on my attendance in your life. I missed more than a month of Facebook birthday celebrations and that was the hardest part of reading-but-not-participating.

My scrolling life, while still in play, changed as well. Without having dropped little comments on your queries for good pediatricians and without engaging in battles over what Christians should and shouldn’t do (on every topic under the sun, which is absolutely exhausting and at times utterly pointless), I wasn’t as invested in Facebook. I actually began to see Facebook as the dumpster fire it largely is. Aside from those moments of knowing a bit more about someone’s actual life, Facebook is a trainwreck.

I tend to be a sponge emotionally. It’s both my superpower and my likely undoing if I’m not mindful of protecting my mind and heart. I care a lot about people, and I’m calling Facebook—and heck, Instagram too, and definitely Twitter (which I backed out of because to me it feels like a punching match all. day. long)—dumpster fires. I’m the kind of empath who will check out everyone else’s posts and pet projects and terrifying new stories and I will soak that stuff up. I will not only weep over the deaths of children I know, but I will start carrying the grief of lost children in around the world. I want to not only fight the injustices of child welfare policies in my city or racial hatred taking place down the street, but I will be tempted to pick up the fight for every other injustice I read about. I’ll be brought to tears by the meals, childcare, lawn mowing and floor scrubbing of my phenomenal church family, but then I’ll also get verklempt by all the other stories friends are posting as well. In short, I’m not built to handle so much. My sponging tendencies mean that the world according to social media is far too much world for me.

When I halted my social media posting, I began to question why I posted certain things. I’ve maintained a blog since 2001; I’m no stranger to sharing my life publicly. The blog served (still serves actually) as a journal for me. It’s my own space on the world wide web where I can write whatever I want and post whatever images I like. There’s a freedom in that. As an extrovert and verbal processor, I could write quips on Facebook daily and I enjoy the interaction with friends. Life is funny and it’s fun to share that stuff! But do I need to? No. If the cost is my emotional wellbeing then it’s a resounding no. (Note: if you’re a dear friend and you’ve wondered why I’ve messaged you so many times in the past month, well, here’s your answer. Verbal processor here!) Also, why am I posting to Instagram? I am absolutely confident that a large percentage of my loved ones post to document their lives. However, if I’m being honest with myself, at times I’m posting to prove my worth:

I’m a good mom. See? We did fun stuff this summer.
I like cool things. See? We ate at this restaurant.
I hang out with really great people. See? We did this. And this. And this.
I have an awesome husband. See? He did this.
I have an awesome kid. See? She did this.

Bragging is not my only reason for posting. There are many times I post something my husband did because I’m incredibly grateful for his kindness, or the beauty of the flowers he picked out for me has stunned me. I like to post events with my daughter so I don’t forget them, and I do like to show the fun travels or adventures I’m having with people I love. That’s all fine! But I’d be lying if I acted like my motivations were pure all the time. And I’d also be lying if I pretended like I wasn’t hurt by the times where I’m not invited to the party or where my kid is not accomplishing what your kid is. I long to not be blown into heart spaces of less confidence or less joy, but there it is: sometimes social media illuminates the gross parts of my soul.

Reducing social media usage is wise. My guess is that it’s wise for all of us to pause and ask ourselves why we’re participating and what we’re giving up in the process. I have a phone in front of my face a lot because I can do a lot on this device. I use it for work—both paid and unpaid, for staying in touch, and for entertainment. But I also misuse it, and it detracts from my family life mostly. I am eager to be necessary and connected, but I find that my Facebook and Instagram usage ends up creating false importance and false connections. I am not going to pretend to have this all figured out—if anything, the waters are more muddied now than ever. For one thing, if I write something on my website and actually do want to share it with the world, how do I do that? Answer: by utilizing social media. I long for work and friendships with lasting meaning though, and I’m more than a little tired of scattering pieces of myself all over these platforms. Where do I dig in? With whom do I invest my heart and my friendship? Where do I expend my emotional energies? And how to I protect my mind, my family, and my time?

Before I write about laundry, I want to express that I’m talking about myself here. If sharing these thoughts compels you to apply a critical eye to your own social media usage, then that’s great. If you’re content with what you’re doing in life, that’s also great. I’m not questioning what you’re doing but I am questioning myself in order to make wiser choices in my days.

*******

Quick post script about washers and dryers. It’s true that older models are likely a lot longer lasting than the items on the market today that have digital components that are more complicated to fix. However, my older machines are dying and it’s no longer cost effective to pour money into them, especially when Jeremy and I are not skilled enough to repair them. I have been reading about Speed Queens for YEARS and they were top on my list until I discovered that the current models on sales floors aren’t so great. Go read about it yourself. You’ll also find that Speed Queens are tough on clothes and since absolutely no one in my house has a job in agriculture or landscaping, we don’t need a bruiser of a machine. Speed Queen devotees, I hear you, but seriously, read up on the models you can buy in stores today and make that call for yourself. I read review after review of machines and we finally pulled the trigger on Electroluxes after asking a multitude of questions at a local store with salespeople that know their stuff. One of the biggest reasons we went with these machines was that the doors were reversible. Our washer hookup is on the right, our dryer vent is on the left, and there was no way I was going to deal with battling doors every time I moved a load of laundry. Bad elbows and no hands means you consider these things. A huge shoutout to my girl Maralee whose advice was of chief importance here. (She also always remembers to protect my elbows in the name of longevity and I love her for it.) Maralee knew I’d need doors in the right places, and she also was emphatic that I get pedestals so the front-loading machines would be at a less back-breaking height. I’m only now beginning to take good care of my body, so Maralee, I love you for thinking this issue through with my needs in mind.

And that, friends, is the conclusion to my washer-dryer decisions. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to throw some wet laundry into my new snazzy dryer.

Every year we pack snacks, extra drinks, maybe some board games, and we drive south to Camp Solaris for 24 hours of our church’s family camp. There’s always an internal push to get there… sometimes it’s that feeling that staying home feels more comfortable, and sometimes it’s the hassle of packing (whether for the day or for overnight), but ALWAYS camp turns out to be a good idea. There’s nothing like a shared experience to bring friends together. We talk and play games, hold each other’s babies and watch each other’s children splash. We play soccer and archery tag, maybe do an aerial course or paddle boat. We sweat together. We see each other’s bad sides because of the sweat and because of the children. And that is life, right? My fave activities aren’t even featured here. The pork dinner and Sunday breakfast are both feasts because Redeemer knows how to cook good food, and Sunday worship is this wonderful stripped-down service that reminds us that the church is God’s people and not a building at all. Redeemer Church, I love ya.

I want to ask you questions and I want to share experiences, only I want to do it in bite-sized forms. I mean, it seems kind of silly to write a whole blog post about how Target’s remodel is throwing off my home-away-from-home shopping experience, and it also seems like petitioning you all regarding “your favorite song to dance and/or run to” won’t actually work from a blog post. You all don’t even know I’m writing this because blogs are—let’s face it–—exciting no longer and hardly anyone checks them. I’m not cut off from communication by any means, but it’s kind of fun to see what new music would be recommended from my childhood friends versus my uncles (who are rocking it at this Facebook thing, fyi).

If you’re reading this, leave a comment with some new music for me, and perhaps you can tell me what genre it is as well. Anything in the last 10 years is considered new to me. Please. Send help! My iTunes albums are a mess of things from college, Jeremy’s classic rock, soundtracks, and seminary classes. I also have old pastoral interviews from years ago when we were looking for a new pastor. Those stir up more than a few emotions when they come on while I’m washing dishes.

It’s crazy how music can affect our moods so greatly. Today I was cutting vegetables for a salad when Philip Philiip’s Gone, Gone, Gone came through my earbuds, and my heart instantly felt a crushing sensation. Tears slipped onto my cheeks as I remembered Livia, Jeremy and I dancing to this music with our two little boys, our foster children for a mere five weeks. These little guys were a really sore bruise on my soul for awhile until I ended up with some information about their family. The soreness has been relieved by knowing that they’re with their mom (that not knowing business is for the birds), but the rush of feelings came back strongly as I remembered how suddenly they left our home.

What happened to them was unfair, and that’s all I can conclude. Their mother was in conversations with caseworkers at the state and once they had enough evidence of neglect to present to a judge they were removed from her care. They lived with a couple who had no children, and no previous fostering experience, and moved to us as they had completely overwhelmed Foster Family #1. We were better prepared to care for two very little boys, and with much fear and trembling said yes to them staying with us. The five weeks here were filled with me learning the ropes of their daycare situation, us taking them to the doctor many times for a variety of illnesses, us getting sick as well, and lots of Dr. Seuss books and bath time games. I envisioned having them stay with us for around a year. They left us to return to mom after five weeks.

What did a preschooler and a toddler learn about life after two months away from their mother in two different homes? What did their mom learn in that time? Why did the judge agree to their removal and then only weeks later return them? I can’t understand it. I also can’t see the bigger picture. How does God see all this and what benefit was it to our hearts and to these sweet little boys’s hearts? Again, I do not know. What I do know is that it has changed me. It has changed me profoundly and I’m not the same woman I was before ___ and ___ came into my life. They have names. They were real and we really loved them. Through weekly prayers and our memories we love them still.

When life leaves you high and dry
I’ll be at your door tonight if you need help, if you need help
I’ll shut down the city lights,
I’ll lie, cheat, I’ll beg and bribe to make you well, to make you well
When enemies are at your door I’ll carry you way from more
If you need help, if you need help
Your hope dangling by a string
Ill share in your suffering to make you well, to make you well

So I would do it for you, for you
Baby I’m not moving on
I love you long after you’re gone
For you, for you
You would never sleep alone
I love you long after you’re gone
And long after you’re gone, gone, gone

**The Christmas-in-July photo shows the ornaments we hang on our tree every year to remember our little guys! We have other ornaments for our first and last foster babies and for the one miscarried Tredway in glory now.