No Chocolate to Blame
Here's a snapshot of the last 24 hours:
Wednesday, 8 am: Stupid pump. Still not working. Can't even tell how much is left. Grrrr.
11 am: YAY! FedEx has arrived! New pump is here! I'm healed!
2 pm: All hooked up with new pump, cruising around with a nice blood sugar of 112 mg/dl. Feeling good. Hey, the phone is ringing.
"Hello, Dr. CT! Nice to hear from you, too! What's that? The Protein C test came back negative? That's great news! And my A1c is lower? Excuse me? Under 7%? AWESOME! I haven't had an A1c under 7% in several years. Yes, I will. Okay, thanks for the good news."
7:30 pm: Home. Skipping the gym tonight. Going to Chocopologie for nice, romantic dinner with my handsome fiance. Pulled out the old infusion set, took a nice, hot shower, and then primed my new pump for the first time. Ah, new pump.
7:45 pm: Hmmm. The Quick-Serter didn't have that same solid *thump* that it usually does. But the infusion set appears to be in there okay. Hope all is well. Blood sugar is 142 mg/dl, so I'm ready to roll!
10:30 pm: Back from a delicious dinner of portabella mushroom Paninis and a hot cappuccino from Chocopologie. No chocolate this time - trying to be fit for that white dress! But I did have a good amount of carbs and my mouth is pretty fuzzy. Come to think of it, the words are swimming around on the computer screen. Can't focus correctly. I'll test just to make sure I'm not close to 200 mg/dl.
10:31 pm: What. The. Fuck. 483 mg/dl? Fantastic. Lace in 6.5u of Humalog.
11:40 pm: Oh nice. 418 mg/dl. Nice. Way to scream in the face of my finally-solid A1c.
11:41 pm: Drinking bottles of water by the minute. Pull the set out from my leg and replace it. Rage bolus in a few more units. This had better work. I feel like garbage.
12:45 am: 298 mg/dl. Ah. Even that feels better. At least the set is working now. Let's see how fast I fall. Will work on assorted bits for a little longer.
1:40 am: 189 mg/dl. Damn straight.
"How are you feeling, baby?" Chris asks as we climb into bed.
"Much better. I could go south in the middle of the night, so if you wake up, wake me up and make me test."
"It's the middle of the night now."
4:49 am: He's shaking my shoulders. "Wake up, Kerri. Kerri. Baby, you're really sweaty. Drink the juice."
I reach over to the bedside table and click on the lamp. Grab my meter. (Why, oh why, can't I just drink the damn juice? Must I test every time? Am I on autopilot to that degree?)
In one movement, I uncap the juice that was next to the lamp and drain it in a few shaky sips. Sweat on my forehead. My pillow is damp. Abby the Cat is meowing up at me pitifully from the floor. I lay back and fall asleep almost instantly.
7:30 am: The alarm goes off. Unzip ... 98 mg/dl. After falling fast and furiously from almost 500 mg/dl and crashlanding at close to 30 mg/dl, my mouth is a confused tangle of dryer lint and fruit punch. My body is aching from the wide blood sugar swings.
And I didn't even eat any damn chocolate.