J'ai passé une nuit blanche. No surprise there. The good news is that I completed all the forms necessary for my continued receipt of the big monies. No, that stretched and screaming envelope has NOT been mailed or otherwise transferred from my sticky fingers to my insurer's cold claw. I plan to weasel my way into Fred's Good Graces so that it gets dropped into the appropriate mail box -- as soon as The Fredster wakes up.
[He did NOT pass a white night, sleepless. He did, however, only wish me a good evening at 4 am, before stumbling in the direction of the closest uninhabited Guest Wing. Sometimes we sleep where the Manor tells us to -- She murmurs "Gargoyle Alley," and off we go -- She suggests the Paisley Pavilion, and you grab your favorite pillow, because those suites were meant more for play than rest, and the Brother Monks like to make semi-permanent forts out of bolsters and piled mattresses (with Abbot Truffatore carefully packed in their centers).]
Despite lacking the clarity that comes from sleeping, I was pretty darned focused. I think I ate every 10-15 minutes, following a free-wheeling menu ranging from scorched Kettle Korn, apples, a peach, yogurt, and cauliflower to rye toast.
I had a fit of laughter when I spotted a carefully dated frozen washcloth that I'd folded inside a plastic bag to serve as a cold compress for my future aching head. Fred had placed it on a plate inside the fridge -- to defrost, I guess -- and had affixed this query: What *is* this? Clearly, he thought something fuzzy, green, and out-of-date had no place inside his freezer.
Anyway, due to a resultant blood sugar in the one bazillion range, my vision is a mess. That'll clear up once I take my 9 million units of insulin.
The way the story goes, I don't "really" have diabetes. Oh, no. That would be too simple. I have "steroid-induced hyperglycemia," or, as the nurses in the hospital deigned to call it: Diabetes. The "steroid" part is only important when NOT being formulaic about insulin -- for example, on a day where my steroid consumption will be decreased. In that case, it's important that I not be loaded up with the usual dose of long-acting insulin, since my blood sugars will be lower in the absence of prednisone or hydrocortisone, or whatever. Given that infection also causes blood sugars to rise, no one is convinced that I have the dread diabetes, but I still end up testing 3-4 times a day and injecting insulin or scarfing down glucose, depending on the results. It's crazy. MDVIP Go-To-Guy is more fearful of me dying via hypoglycemia than he is concerned about the myriad symptoms caused by high blood sugars... try explaining that to a classically trained nurse-type person.
I have a point, and that point is that I started jonesing for cake, sometime after the yogurt and before the peach.
Cake made me think of birthdays, and that reminded me that today belongs to Grader Boob: Happy Birthday, Grader Boob!
When last we heard from our intrepid Educating Hero, a mere two days ago, he was whining:
[He did NOT pass a white night, sleepless. He did, however, only wish me a good evening at 4 am, before stumbling in the direction of the closest uninhabited Guest Wing. Sometimes we sleep where the Manor tells us to -- She murmurs "Gargoyle Alley," and off we go -- She suggests the Paisley Pavilion, and you grab your favorite pillow, because those suites were meant more for play than rest, and the Brother Monks like to make semi-permanent forts out of bolsters and piled mattresses (with Abbot Truffatore carefully packed in their centers).]
Despite lacking the clarity that comes from sleeping, I was pretty darned focused. I think I ate every 10-15 minutes, following a free-wheeling menu ranging from scorched Kettle Korn, apples, a peach, yogurt, and cauliflower to rye toast.
I had a fit of laughter when I spotted a carefully dated frozen washcloth that I'd folded inside a plastic bag to serve as a cold compress for my future aching head. Fred had placed it on a plate inside the fridge -- to defrost, I guess -- and had affixed this query: What *is* this? Clearly, he thought something fuzzy, green, and out-of-date had no place inside his freezer.
Anyway, due to a resultant blood sugar in the one bazillion range, my vision is a mess. That'll clear up once I take my 9 million units of insulin.
The way the story goes, I don't "really" have diabetes. Oh, no. That would be too simple. I have "steroid-induced hyperglycemia," or, as the nurses in the hospital deigned to call it: Diabetes. The "steroid" part is only important when NOT being formulaic about insulin -- for example, on a day where my steroid consumption will be decreased. In that case, it's important that I not be loaded up with the usual dose of long-acting insulin, since my blood sugars will be lower in the absence of prednisone or hydrocortisone, or whatever. Given that infection also causes blood sugars to rise, no one is convinced that I have the dread diabetes, but I still end up testing 3-4 times a day and injecting insulin or scarfing down glucose, depending on the results. It's crazy. MDVIP Go-To-Guy is more fearful of me dying via hypoglycemia than he is concerned about the myriad symptoms caused by high blood sugars... try explaining that to a classically trained nurse-type person.
I have a point, and that point is that I started jonesing for cake, sometime after the yogurt and before the peach.
Cake made me think of birthdays, and that reminded me that today belongs to Grader Boob: Happy Birthday, Grader Boob!
When last we heard from our intrepid Educating Hero, a mere two days ago, he was whining:
Have 84 papers -- Rogerian arguments all -- to grade in preparation for conferences next week. Papers and conferences -- I truly am in Hell! They get a week off from class and have to see me for a 10-minute period, while I get to say the same thing 84 times.But that's why we earn the big bucks.I hope his students know about the "no contact" rule on birthdays.
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