Damn those diabeasties

Yes, I've bastardized the word. I know it's supposed to be diabetes, but it's funny - for the longest time, whenever I'd type it I'd spell it wrong and diabeasties or some version thereof would spring to life on the screen.

Strangely apropo, I'd say. It is a filthy beast that is constantly on my back - hmmm, sounds remarkably like too many Saturday nights in my mid 20's - and today, the beast got both uglier and a smidge more attractive at the same time.

Sounds like I've completely lost it, doesn't I? Better and worse at the same time? How can that possibly be, you wonder? She's completely lost it, you mutter to yourself. And yet you can't turn away....right?

Right.

First, let's back up a bit. If you've been reading from the beginning, you likely know that I was recently diagnosed with Type 2 diabeasties, discovered as Hubs and I continue our 'let's get knocked up' journey. We've been trying for well over two years now and nothing...goodie. So we do the tests, go through the motions, and lo and behold, the sugar monsters rear their ugly heads.

So we go on medication. Not insulin, but a wonder pill called Metformin. Supposed to put everything into balance, etc, etc, etc. I test my blood four times a day and generally speaking things are working out pretty well - three out of four times each day.

My morning sugars just won't bow to my will, or that of the drugs. Bitches. Better step off or I'm gonna beat you down, sugars. Sigh. Yeah, this is what's become of me - I'm threatening glucose. What a fearsome foe.

But a foe indeed. Turns out I need a bigger, better weapon in my war on sugar. My own personal WMD, if you will. And this time, insulin is its name. Fanfreakintastic.

So now, every night before I go to bed, I have to pinch an inch in my belly (no lack of real estate there), stick myself with a 32 gauge needle, count to six, and let the insulin-y goodness seep into my bloodstream. And it's supposed to allll look better in the morning.

Can I just pause for a minute and say thank *insert preferred diety here* that I have a kick ass drug plan? Dag.

All in an effort to get healthier, feel better and, hopefully, get and stay pregnant. Not too much to ask for, dontcha think? I'm getting there - 28lbs lost and counting, which is good, but that's a drop in the proverbial fat bucket. At least it's a step in the right direction...yeah, let's go with that.

The really good news from the appointment this morning is that the one key level the doctor looks at - the one that says yay or nay to working on the whole preggo thing - is finally where it's supposed to be (lower, actually), so we're back on the baby making train. I was actually told in December that it would be dangerous to me and any potential piglet to be pregnant with my sugar at their current levels, but now we're good to go! We can once again take off the protective gear and get in the game. Put me in, coach! I'm ready!!

And now you can see how it can be both good and bad, and rest assured that I've not totally lost the plot. Not all of it anyway, but I'm working on getting those missing bits back, I swear.

So tomorrow morning Hubs and I will smilingly show up for our follow up appointment at the fertility clinic to get all of our test results back (see if his swimmers are up to the race, if my tubes are free of debris and other generally non egg friendly stuff, etc) and see where we go from here. And despite the fact that I have to poke my own belly nightly before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I'm grinning from ear to ear that we at least can get back on track and try to make some headway in this baby making business.

'Cause we all know this world is in desperate need of a little Divalet running around playing princess. Hubs is getting tired of being the only guest at all my tiara parties...

And that's your daily dash. How's your diva doin'?