The other night, I ended up swept into something work-related and didn't smash my face into the pillow until almost 2:30 in the morning. (If I had been forced to be at work for the breakfast shift at 6 am, it would have been a perfect college throwback.) So when morning rolled around I started hearing the "Dada, dada, dadaaaaa" coming from the baby monitor as BSparl shuffled her fleece-covered feet in her crib, I was beyond exhausted.
"Mama," I said to the video monitor, trying to will her to say it from our bedroom. "Say Mama, little bird." I rolled over and grabbed my meter off the nightstand, fumbling with the lancing device as my hands woke up.
Okay, 68 mg/dl. The Dexcom confirmed with a flatlined 70 mg/dl, so I at least knew I wasn't tumbling.
The lump in the bed shaped like Chris turned towards me. "Want me to get up with her?"
No hesitation. "Yes. Yes, I do." I flopped back down into bed and closed my eyes. On the monitor, I heard Chris rescuing BSparl from her crib, and I tried to get back to sleep.
Oh wait. That low blood sugar. Damn it.
I foraged underneath the blankets for my pump and clicked through the screens until I hit the "temp basal" option. I wound the basal down to 0% and set it for one hour, knowing that an hour without my morning basal bump would be just enough to bring me from upper 60's to the upper 90's. And then I wouldn't have to get up out of bed to get juice. I could just sleep. Ahhhh, blessed sleep. I set the pump to run at 0% basal for an hour, and then snuggled back underneath the comforter.
Fur Elise rang out from underneath the blankets, the pump vibrating as well.
"What???" I fumbled for it, and the screen cheerily told me that the pump wasn't delivering insulin. Smile!
"I know. It's on purpose. Shut up," I mumbled to it, clipping it back on to my pajamas and trying to sleep again.
BEEEEEEEEP! the meter case sang from the bed stand.
"What, now you?" I looked at the screen and it, too, reminded me that the pump wasn't delivering any insulin.
"Argh, stop!" I smashed against the buttons with my fingers and the meter stopped nagging. Then the Dexcom starting wailing, because it finally realized my blood sugar was under 70 mg/dl.
"It's okay, stop making noise. I'm fine. Everything is fine would you people please just shut up and let me sleep I am exhausted run on sentence." I babbled, mushing my face into the pillow as the pump started vibrating again, just in case I didn't know that I was running a 0% basal.
Thirty minutes later, after muting the meter, the Dexcom, the pump, and my temper several times over, I finally gave up and shuffled downstairs.
"We're okay, baby. You can go back to bed," Chris said from the kitchen, where he was making breakfast and BSparl was happily chomping on some puffs.
"Nope. I had put the pump on a temp basal to head off a low. It worked - I'm 98 now, but sleep was thwarted by all the reminders from my diabetes crap saying 'OMG you are on a zero percent temp basal!'" My grumpiness was tangible. I was rambling borderline incoherently to Chris about diabetes math problems. The baby was making faces at me from her highchair. "Baa baa!"
"Hang on, Little Birdy. Momma needs to make some coffee."
BSparl raised her tiny fists in the air and tossed a few puffs in my general direction.
At least she had the decency not to BEEEEEEEP!