You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Low.
While we waited for the traffic to disperse this past Friday night, we went to see The Incredible Hulk.
So Ed Norton (who I love ... loved him in Fight Club and The Illusionist) plays The Hulk and spends the better part of the beginning of the movie trying to keep his rage under control because ... you know ... you wouldn't like him when he's angry. He wears a heart rate monitor to help keep him safe and controlled. It's one of those wristwatch bits that beeps as his heart rate climbs and wails insistently when his numbers are too high.
"Dude," I lean in to Chris. "I didn't know the Hulk wore a CGM!"
He whispered back, "I know! I thought the same thing!"
The movie continued, and Ed Norton finally loses it and becomes The Hulk. After his episode is over, he's shivering, weak, and holding his tattered pants close to his body. He looks completely spent and in need of a solid nap. Much like how I feel after a wicked low blood sugar.
"Only minus the tattered pants part," I explained to Chris after the movie.
It's strange how movies depict diabetes. I remember watching Panic Room and seeing the little girl experience a hypoglycemic episode. She was blue-lipped and sweaty, lying helplessly on the floor while her mother scrambled for sugar. But I didn't see myself in this Panic Room character, even though she was written as a diabetic and her symptoms were "appropriate."
Instead, I empathized more with The Hulk as he closely monitored his heart rate, those numbers taking precedence over all other things, their fluctuations determining many of his actions. And I felt a pang of recognition when he came to after an "episode," bewildered and fragile and not knowing quite what happened. There are strange bits of empathy and recognition found in the most unlikely of places.
I bet if The Hulk needed a CGM, insurance companies wouldn't deny him.
"Hulk smash ... insurance companies!"