I know that I should be seriously thinking about bed, but I'm just too damned wired. And pissed, and upset. You know the point where you can't either cry or scream? That's where I am.

First off, my ferret, Sinead, has early-stage insulinoma. It's like reverse diabetes; instead of the pancreas producing too little insulin, it produces too much. Anyway, Sinead had a massive blood sugar crash tonight. She wasn't just drooling and spacey; she was shivering, almost limp, and had the hiccups. Not a good combination. I was out of town for over a week; my housemate was taking care of the critters. They're his fuzzies too, after all. I asked him if he had been keeping up with Sinead's evening pureed poultry ration.

He said no, he hadn't.

I'm torn between being angry at him for flaking out on it, for being so linear that he can't intuitively grasp why it's important; at myself for letting myself forget that he is that way, and at the fact that the communication skills both ways have not improved after years of time and practice. I'm angry at myself for not providing him with an illustrated chart outlining why the dietary change was so damned important ...and I'm angry at him for needing one, and not being able to simply realize that it was necessary without the detailed instructions.

I got the Inner Bitch on a choke-chain and didn't raise my voice. He still got defensive and tried to put the onus on me for referring to it as her evening treat. If it's a treat, it's no big deal, right? But I know that I had explained that the extra protein was necessary to keep her insulin production from spiralling upward. If I called it a treat ...well, it's a treat to her, and it makes her sound ...less sick. Call it sympathetic magic, or positive thinking, or self-delusion. If it's a dietary change to manage a chronic condition, it doesn't matter. I knew what was going on, and I thought that he did as well.

An insulinoma is to the pancreas kind of like a faulty accelerator in a car. Not the most accurate analogy, maybe, but it works well enough here. The pancreas can rev up, but it can't de-accelerate, so to speak. Even the best kibble probably has more carbohydrates than a healthy ferret really needs, just because of the composition; starch is what holds it together. So the carbs break down into glucose, and nudges the pancreas into action. But with an insulinoma, the pancreas doesn't switch off when enough insulin is produced. By adding more fat and protein to the diet, the ferret is less dependant on the kibble for nutrients, thus taking in fewer carbs, and you achieve a sort of stasis. There are little fluctuations, but they're manageable. Catch it early, and you can get the problem under control; but if it gets out of control again, it's much harder to get things back in line.

Sinead's stasis got interrupted for almost 2 weeks. And she was probably getting more than the usual amount of Ferretvite, which -- while it does have extra fat in it -- also has malt and molasses.

For the record, he is truly sorry, and he says that he gets it now, although I told him that it feels like locking the barn door after the horse is long gone. He is going to call Dr. Feldman in the morning, 'fess up, and see if Dr. Feldman wants me to bring Sinead in; so I may be cancelling tomorrow's show, depending on timing. I believe that he is both sorry and deeply grieved, but that isn't going to help the situation as it stands. Sinead was doing just fine, and I honestly thought that even if she wasn't going to avoid going on steroids forever, at least it wouldn't be immediate. Now, I'm not so sure.

In the meantime, I made a late-night grocery run for more baby food, and discovered that the only meat varieties now have corn starch as well. It's a stop-gap supply, but it's something, and it'll work until I can hit one of the local natural foods stores to try and find something that's just meat and water with no cereal additives. I also picked up 2 quarts of Gatorade; one for me, and one for her, since it's a flavor that I know she likes. Pedialyte is probably lower in sugar, but it's got a bitter taste that she won't tolerate. It doesn't matter how good something is for her if it's all over her, me, the walls, and the floor, instead of in her.

This -- among other things -- is why I made a second BPAL order tonight. I had already had a craptastic day that was pretty much shot to hell out from under me; holding my littlest fuzzbutt and trying to get her to eat -- she of the normally piston-driven tongue -- this was merely the bile-cream frosting on the already unpalatable cake.