The Low Blood Sugar Beatdown.
My total daily dose of Humalog insulin varies between 23 and 34 units, depending upon if I'm correcting highs or consuming waffles (faffles) instead of eggs. Going above the 34 units means I spent the day eating my way out of an Olympic swimming pool-sized cheesecake. (And there were those weeks at the end of my pregnancy when I was at 91 - 110 units per day. Holy third trimester.)
Last Friday, my total daily dose was 18 units of insulin. For the whole day. Because I spent the majority of it watching the Dexcom arrows hit the deck:
My meter confirmed this Dex BEEEEEP! with a 45 mg/dL.
This photo was taken from the side of the road, where I had to pull over and treat this low, then wait to come back up before I headed back out. (Meter showed me at 58 mg/dL for this one. Glove compartment stash of fruit snacks and a banana to chase it down for the win.)
And the day closed with numbers tumbling again.
Caloric consumption for a day like this is staggering - each low blood sugar came with it's own snackfest of fast-acting sugar (juice or glucose tabs), and some slower-digested carbs. I'd see a spike, but wouldn't bolus it down, yet the effing numbers still plummeted. Several times throughout the day, I hit numbers under 55 mg/dL, and those lows hung on way longer than their supposed 15 minute shelf-life.
"Dude, I'm cured," I said to Chris through a mouthful of glucose tabs.
"Let's go get pizza, then," he replied.
I spent the day in a creepy, low fog, running the battery down on my Dexcom from obsessively clicking the buttons, and blowing through about 15 test strips out of justified paranoia. Diabetes, on a day when numbers won't behave, is a full-time job.
"You look sad," someone said to me.
And it's hard to explain that I'm not sad, I'm just whipped into a quieter, more exhausted version of myself. Lows sometimes come and go without any fanfare at all, but when you spend a whole day under 60 mg/dL, it's that whole penguin truck thing again.
Saturday morning started with a blood sugar of 194 mg/dL, and I was oddly relieved.
"Not cured anymore. Still diabetic," I joked to Chris.
He looked slightly disappointed. I think he still wanted pizza. ;)