Follow My New Blog

My dear blog readers,

I have decided to keep this Jack's Pack blog limited to information regarding our JDRF Walk to Cure Diabetes activities.

But I'm not going away! I'm blogging elsewhere!

For privacy reasons, I do not want to disclose the new blog name and address here. However, I truly appreciate my blog followers and would LOVE to have you follow me on over to my new blog.

Please email me at heidi@jacks-pack.com, and I'll send you the link to my new blog.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading, commenting and supporting me!

With gratitude,
Heidi

A Boy and His Dog

Each morning, Jack wakes up at the crack of dawn, sometimes before the crack of dawn and always before the rest of the family.

Since he's the first one up, Jack has made it his job to take Alex, our new puppy, outside in the backyard each morning, so that Alex may "do his business." This job was not imposed on Jack. It was something he eagerly volunteered to do. To him, this is like winning a prize, because he gets Alex's undivided attention.

I think it also thrills him to have Alex so excited to see him in the morning. As soon as Jack walks into the room, Alex immediately jumps up in his crate, begins to pant, wiggles his body and wags his tail. He does the doggie happy dance.

When Jack releases him from his crate, Alex usually first jumps into Jack's lap and gives him a lick or two. He then springs into action, jumping up, hopping on his hind legs and running circles around Jack all the while whipping his tail back and forth in a frenzy. Seriously, that puppy's tail could not wag any faster.

I know all of this, because Alex's crate sits in our bedroom at night (so that we can hear him, if he needs to go outside in the middle of the night), and the past several mornings, I've woken up upon hearing Jack tip-toe into our bedroom or upon hearing him whisper with enthusiasm, "Good morning, Alex!"

I love watching their morning exchange. They are both so happy to see each other.

Jack then takes Alex outside, and from inside, I can hear him talking to the dog. His chatter goes something like this: "Go potty, Alex. Go potty. Come on, Alex. You can do it. Go potty. ... Good boy! You went potty! You are such a good boy! Here's your treat! Good job! I'm so proud of you, Alex! I love you, Alex! What a good boy you are!"

Jack will then clean up after Alex and come back inside to play.

A couple of mornings ago, I got out of bed, grabbed my camera and went outside with the boys. As much as Jack loves taking care of Alex and playing with Alex, I love watching the two of them together, and I wanted a few keepsake photos.

All three of our kids adore the dog, but Jack seems to be the one, who has taken the most ownership and responsibility. 

For Madeline, Alex is a baby to carry around the house and have snooze in her lap. For Max, he's a game of fetch. Madeline and Max do shower Alex with lots of attention, and they do help with his care. They fill his water bowl, take him outside and even clean his little puddles and piles. But they haven't displayed the same degree of responsibility.

I can't help but wonder the impact of Jack's diabetes on his relationship with the dog.

Jack's diabetes has forced him to grow up a little faster than he should have. While we try to shoulder as much responsibility for his disease as possible, we wouldn't be good parents if we were doing it all and weren't teaching him to take care of himself. We do the same with Madeline and Max, but instead of having them check their blood sugar levels, for example, we're prompting them to brush their teeth and do their homework.

Still, Jack has to be more mindful than his sister and brother. He has to check his sugar and count the carbs, before eating a bowl of grapes. His siblings can just pop them into their mouths with wild abandonment.

I can't help but wonder whether Jack's more mature approach to the dog is because he's not carefree, because he has to be thoughtful, vigilant and accountable, because he has routines he must follow, and because he knows all too well that all actions have consequences.

Would Jack be so good with Alex, if he didn't have diabetes? Is this just Jack? Just his personality? Just who he is? Or is this a result of his life's experiences?

Jack was diagnosed with diabetes at age four, so I can't say that he's always been like this. He was too young to be responsible and mature before diabetes struck.

I suppose we'll never know the answer, and I suppose it doesn't really matter. Still, I can't help but wonder...

 

Puppy Love

I'm not a dog person.

When I was little, my parents had a St. Bernard, who scared me. She died when I was five, and shortly thereafter, my parents got a basset hound, another big dog who terrified me. Fortunately for me, the basset hound had a number of issues, and my parents had to get rid of him. For the next several years, we had fish and a few hermit crabs, and that was it. Then, when I was 11, we got two cats, and it was, at that point, that I became I cat person. Ever since, I've always had a couple of cats. We currently have two fabulous felines, Chloe and Pearl.

Gregg, however, is a dog person, and for years, he has said he would like to get a dog. Pre-diabetes, I always said that if we were to get a dog, we would have to get a cat-sized dog, who didn't shed. Big dogs still scare me. Little or medium-sized dogs I can handle. But, really I didn't want a dog. I was perfectly content with our cats.

After Jack's diagnosis, I learned about diabetes dogs, and I changed my tune. I began to seriously consider getting a dog. I'd do anything for Jack, and if a diabetes dog would help him or keep him safe, then I'd be willing to get one of these service animals, despite the fact that they're usually big dogs, like labs or retrievers, who shed. Over time, I learned more and more, and I got to the point where I wanted one. Yes, I, the one who's never really liked dogs, actually wanted a dog. A diabetes dog, that is.

So last weekend, we were at the mall, shopping for kids' school uniforms. We needed to pick up some clothing I'd placed on hold at Gap Kids. Next to Gap Kids is a pet store. Madeline, Jack and Max all wanted to go into the pet store to look at the puppies and kittens with Gregg, while I went into Gap Kids.

Ever since they were really little, our kids have enjoyed visiting this pet store. We've gone there countless times, and it's never been a problem. The kids have never once asked to buy a puppy or kitten, and Gregg and I have never been tempted to take home a new pet. We've always been able to say good-bye to all the darling animals with ease...until last Sunday.

When I joined Gregg and the kids in the pet store, I found them playing with two dogs, one of which is the cutest dog I've ever seen. He is a malkie, which is 1/2 Maltese and 1/2 Yorkshire terrier. We spoke with a saleswoman about him for a while, and we learned that malkies don't shed and only grow to weigh between 8 and 10 pounds, like a small cat.

The saleswoman asked whether we'd like to take this adorable puppy into a private room to play some more. In the past, we've always turned down those offers. On Sunday, we jumped at the opportunity.

In the private play room, this puppy charmed us. He wagged his tiny tail with excitement, and with his big brown eyes, he gave us that look. You know the look I'm talking about, the one that made him irresistable. The kids picked him up and pet him, and he sat in their arms and licked them. They threw him a ball, and he brought it back for more rounds of fetch. The kids squealed with delight.

"Can we get him?" they asked repeatedly. "Please, please, please," they begged.

Gregg and I aren't exactly impulsive people, and getting a dog is not something you do on a whim. Getting a dog equals a major, long-term commitment. And, if we were going to get a dog, we were going to get a diabetes dog. Or we were going to rescue a dog from the pound or research breeds and get one from a breeder. Or we'd hear about a friend's friend who had a litter of puppies that needed a good home. We were not going to be asking, "How much is that doggie in the window?"

For some reason, however, neither of us could resist this dog. Gregg and I were just as smitten as the kids. Even I, the one who doesn't really like dogs, fell for this fetching five-pound fur ball. We told the kids that we needed to think about it. We also told them that getting a dog is expensive.

The saleswoman offered to place a courtesy hold on him. Without hesitation, we gave the gal our names and number and drove home.

On the way, we talked nonstop about this precious pup. "What did we just do?" I asked Gregg. "Why did we give the saleswoman our names and number? Do you actually want that dog?"

All I could think was that, at this point, I need a dog like I need a hole in the head, except for a diabetes dog. That'd I'd consider. I have three kids, two cats, one disease and a very full life...and I'm not a dog person. Yet, I found myself saying to Gregg, "I think I want that dog. He's the cutest, sweetest thing I've ever seen, and he'll never be big and he'll never shed. And he was so good with the kids."

Shortly after arriving home, Gregg and I found Madeline, Jack and Max in the playroom with their piggy banks and change spread out all over the floor. They were counting coins. Madeline presented us with $10.43, Jack handed over $4.15, and Max ponied up $0.28. They gave us all their money and asked, "Is this enough to pay for the dog? If it's not, we could do chores or something to earn enough money to pay for him. Can we get him? Please say 'yes!' Please, please, please!"

We said "yes," and the following day, we returned to the store and purchased the puppy.

We named him Alex, and we are all head-over-heels in love.

Happy Camper

Every weekday afternoon, I end up with a pile of dried grass all over the kitchen or laundry room floor. It's such a pain to clean. Some days, I sweep it. Other days, I wipe it with a wet paper towel. Most days, I suck it up with my Dust Buster. No matter what I do, I always have a few pieces of grass that I miss and see later on. Really, it seems I'm always picking up a few blades here and a few blades there.

But that pain in the ass grass, I'm happy to have it, as it enters the house from Jack's back pack.

His camp back pack, that is.

Yep, Jack attends summer camp, and I'm so incredibly grateful that he has this experience.

He goes off in the mornings with Madeline and Max and spends his day with good friends doing all sorts of fun activities. Here's some of what a typical week includes: swimming, art, drama, music, games, sports, cooking and a field trip. The field trips are to cool places like the local water park and the Arizona Science Center and events like a Diamondbacks game and the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus.

Jack's favorite camp activity is swimming. All three of my kids love pool time at camp. They swim in the morning and in the afternoon. They often have water play, too. I need to send them with plenty of towels and bathing suits every day. That leads to a lot of laundry for me. I'm talking load after load. But, really, I don't mind. I'm happy to do it.

So far this summer, Jack has lost two swim towels (and Max has lost a number of socks). But I don't care...well, I do...I really wish he would keep better track of his belongings...but in the grand scheme of things, I really don't care. I've learned to send him with old towels that we can afford to lose, and I'm happy that he can attend this amazing program at which he loses towels.

This is Jack's third summer with diabetes and his third summer at camp. Each year, he has been blessed with amazing counselors, who take incredibly good care of him. In fact, I feel safer with him at camp than I do with him at school. There is always at least one counselor keeping an eye on him at all times, and as in summers past, there's always one counselor, who goes above and beyond, never leaving his side, carrying his diabetes kit all day long, asking questions, looking up information, really trying to understand the disease and its effects on Jack. It's as if he has a personal aide without being "the kid with the aide."

Jack's counselors call me all day long with his blood sugar numbers. If they can't reach me, they call Gregg. They enable us to decide how to treat highs and lows, how many carbs to feed Jack before swimming or sports, how much insulin the nurse should administer for lunch and snacks, etc.

Yes, there's a registered nurse, too. (Actually, there are two, who share the job.)

The camp director and assistant director have been so accomodating. They've allowed us to give all personnel, who will come into contact with Jack (counselors, CITs, unit heads, etc.) lanyard tags to wear with their ID badges. I like to think of those tags as "cheat sheets," because they contain vital information, such as symptoms and treatment of highs and lows, signs of DKA, glucagon directions and phone numbers for Gregg and me. They've set aside time for us to train personnel on diabetes. They posted flyers with Jack's photo and diabetes information on office walls. They've dedicated space in the refrigerator for juice boxes and in the freezer for sugar-free popsicles.

We are so blessed, and we know it. This camp is a special place, and Jack is fortunate to go there.

So many of Jack's school friends spend their summers attending a variety of specialized camps. They go to science camp for a week and/or to vacation bible school for a week and/or to soccer camp for another week, for example. Or they head off to sleep-away camp. Jack doesn't have that luxury. He needs to be under the care of someone trained in diabetes management at all times, and it's not realistic to expect every camp to have a nurse and/or assign a counselor to meet his needs. Besides it takes more than a week to really "get" diabetes and get to know Jack.  And it wouldn't be safe to send him off alone. Of course, Gregg or I could go with him, but with three children, that's probably not going to happen.

And it doesn't need to happen, because we are lucky to have this wonderful summer-long day camp program with the most caring, accomodating staff around.

So when I open Jack's back pack at the end of a camp day, and I find there's a towel missing, or I spill dried grass all over the floor, or I need to run yet another load of towels through the wash, I don't mind. I'm thankful. My boy is a happy camper, and that's all that matters.

(P.S. In case you're wondering, the grass comes from Jack tossing his wet swim towels on the ground. I often shake out the towels outside, before bringing them into the house, but even when I do that, I still end up with grass on the floor. Yes, there's that  much grass on his towels! Lucky for me, however, my other two kids don't like to get their towels dirty.)

Eatza Pizza

We have a love-hate relationship with pizza.

Perhaps the biggest reason we love pizza is that all three kids will actually eat it...willingly and happily.  Most nights, upon learning what's for dinner, no matter what will be served, at least one child complains, "Yuck, I don't like that. I'm not eating that...Do I have to eat that? Can I have yogurt or a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich instead?"

We never hear complaints when pizza's on the menu.

And who doesn't love pizza's convenience? At the end of a long, busy day, it's nice to order a pie or two and forget about cooking.

But, with its combination of carbs and fat, pizza wreaks havoc with Jack's blood sugar levels. The fat causes a delay in the absorption of carbs. So Jack goes low and then too high. Really, it's just the worst food for him.

We've experimented, testing his blood sugar level more frequently after eating this favorite food and trying to time his insulin delivery just so. We've also tried splitting his insulin dose, giving some after he eats and some an hour or two later. We've tried different pizza crusts, too.

Despite our efforts, nothing has worked. Pizza just doesn't mix well with Jack's diabetes. And that's okay. We've come to terms with it. It's no biggie. We just don't eat pizza very often. Who needs the fat, carbs and calories, any way?!

So tonight, my parents invited us to meet them for dinner at a restaurant known for its pizza and cheese steak sandwiches, and what did Jack want to order? Yep, you guessed it. Pizza!

But Jack knows how pizza affects him. He knows that when he eats this delicious dish, Gregg and I must stay awake until 1, 2 or even 3 a.m., testing and treating him. (Oh, who am I kidding? It's mostly Gregg! I usually can't stay awake that late.)

As we were walking into the restaurant tonight, Jack was chatting away about ordering pizza and then he suddenly paused. He broke his silence with, "Dad, if you're tired and don't want to stay up late tonight, I'll just order something else. I don't have to get pizza."

Right then and there, Gregg and I became as ooey gooey as the mozzarella on a pizza fresh out of the oven.

It's moments like that that remind us how much this disease has matured our six-almost-seven-year-old son and how sensitive and thoughtful he really is. Jack has such a big, kind heart.

Allow me to gush for a moment. He's such a great kid! We are so proud of him! I know I say that often, but really, that boy is something special and I love him so.

In case you're wondering, he ordered pizza tonight.

Drink your soda!

"Jack, drink your soda!"

"Jack! Jack! Drink your soda!"

"Jackie, honey, please drink your soda now!"

As the words flew out of my mouth, I wondered what the other restaurant patrons thought. I mean most people would question: what mother in her right mind would command her son to drink his soda? Water? Maybe. Milk? Maybe. But soda? No, not soda.

Yet, there I was trying to get my son to guzzle some Coke. His blood sugar level was 59. His skin looked pale. His eyes looked distant. He wasn't altogether there, and he had begun to mumble something unintelligible to his brother. He'd also previously said he had to use the men's room and was getting up from the table in a shakey fashion to do so. I saw him crashing, feared he would pass out and desperately wanted to elevate his blood sugar level before that happened.

We were dining at a local deli as part of a fundraiser for the kids' school, and Jack wanted to treat his low with regular Coke. That's a rarity. We generally don't treat lows with soda, but it was an easy thing to do at the deli.

Jack eventually sipped some soda, and with more coaxing, sipped some more and some more. And then, he returned from "low land."

After Jack was "back," I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I'm sure no one else realized that Jack was fighting low blood sugar, and I must have looked like a loon, begging him to drink, of all things, this carbonated crap. Most moms instruct their kids to "eat your veggies!" But, not I!  Rather, I push Coke on my kid! And I do it loudly!

Oh, well, goes with the territory! And really, I don't care what other people think. I just want Jack around tomorrow.

Trash Talk

This afternoon, we experienced another aspect of diabetes.

We were at Jack's baseball practice, and Jack had just run from first base to second. Jack paused at second base and then ran toward the dugout, where I was sitting.

Then, all of a sudden, an argument began.

"Jack, you're a cheater!" his teammate yelled.

"I am NOT a cheater!" he yelled back, still running toward me.

"You are! You're not supposed to just run to third base like that! You're a cheater!"

"I'm NOT a cheater! I'm not running to third base! I know how to play the game! I feel low!"

By the time he reached me, Jack not only felt low, but frustrated and hurt, too.

Damn diabetes! I hate how it puts Jack in positions like this. I hate how it affects others' perceptions of him.

I tested his blood sugar, and he was indeed low at 53.

It was hard for me to sit back and simply treat his low. I wanted to march out onto the field and give that kid a piece of my mind. But I know that kid. He's a really good kid. He knows all about Jack's diabetes, but he obviously didn't put two and two together today. So I stayed put and kept quiet.

Jack guzzled a bottle of juice and then ran back out onto the field. He didn't want to take it easy. He wanted to keep playing. Even more, he wanted to clear his reputation.

He ran right over to the boy, who'd called him a cheater, and explained why he left the field.

He continued to play for roughly another fifteen minutes, before visiting me again for another blood sugar check. He was at 70 and needed more carbs.

No one yelled, criticized or called him a nasty name when he left the field the second time. That was a good thing, because at that point, I would have marched out there and given the team the ol' D talk...nicely, of course. But, a D mom's gotta do what a D mom's gotta do!