No More Larry Bird.
They left me alone for several months, but now the lows have returned, and they brought friends. Last night, before we left the house to go to the gym, I tested at 137 mg/dl. Knowing I'd be doing at least 30 minutes of cardio and some weights, I figured I should eat something. Grabbed a bar from the cupboard and chomped on it.
"Will that do it?" Chris asked as he mixed up his protein shake.
"Yeah. It has like 18 grams of carbs. If I disconnect and eat this, I should be good."
Munch, munch. Feeling good. We drive off to the gym and go our separate ways - Chris to the weight room downstairs and me to the women's cardio section. I hit the treadmill and dial up a 30 minute workout.
Music is loud - a little Muse. My legs feel strong and my sneakers pound against the treadmill. Strong, healthy, strong, healthy ... the words jostle around in my brain with each step.
But I start feeling a little funny at the 20 minute mark. The music is too loud. My headphones feel tight against my ears and my hands are numb at the very edges. I scan the far wall of the room and the walls look a little wobbly. My legs are a little wobbly.
With the treadmill still running, I jump off quickly to the side and grab my meter from my gym bag. Jump back on to the treadmill with the meter in hand, slowing down the pace so I can unzip the bag and lance my finger.
"That sucks." I press "Stop" on the treadmill interface and open my bottle of juice, taking eight long slugs from the plastic bottle. My legs, which just a few minutes ago were holding me up just fine, feel like they're made of yarn. Leaning against the railing of the treadmill, I finish the bottle.
This low feels particularly rotten. Waves of nausea and a feeling of extreme light-headedness are coming up from my knees and cresting over my eyes. I know I need to get downstairs and find Chris, just in case. My legs work on autopilot, bringing me downstairs and into the weight room, where Chris is working out.
One look is all he needs.
"Hmm. Larry Bird." He guides me by the elbow over to where I can sit down. "Did you drink juice?"
"Yeah. I'm frustrated. I only got 20 minutes into my workout. And I feel like I'm all ..." Words aren't processing properly in my head. "Mushy. I feel mushy."
"You just need a few minutes. You'll be okay. Right?"
"Right." The affirmation makes sense. "Baby, I'm sort of tired of Larry Bird."
He smiled and we waited for the numbers to climb.
I don't know where these lows are coming from, but they are sneaky, intense little suckers that buckle me at the knees and steal the words from my mouth. I'm waiting on my next order of Dexcom sensors to be shipped, but last night was one of those moments where I missed the Dex. I would have at least seen the low creeping up on me a little bit.
But the wildest part is how strong I feel when I'm in that range, that 90 mg/dl range. It's my magic number. I feel strong, capable, almost borderline athletic. (For those of you who know me in real life, you know how remarkable that statement really is!) It's crazy how much just a little fluctuation in these numbers can really change how our bodies respond.
Dex, I need you back, buddy.