Sunday morning started off with promise - a fasting blood sugar of 99 mg/dL, a healthy breakfast of tea, a banana, and some scrambled eggs, and I remembered to grab my curling iron out of the fridge before meeting my ride to the airport.
I took an aggressive bolus for breakfast (because travel sometimes makes me run a bit higher, for whatever reason), so I was surprised to see double-up arrows on my Dexcom graph while I was standing in the airport security line.
"Hmmm … 172 and double ups … with three units of insulin on board." The diabetes mental-math made sense to me. "I'm going to let this blood sugar ride out instead of rage blousing."
But by the time I was in my seat on the plane, I was at 312 mg/dL. I do not know why. I calculated breakfast. I bolused well before I ate. And I didn't feel stressed or nervous or whatever.
But now I was high. And I felt high. High, high, high.
It's a thick feeling in the base of your brain, like someone's cracked open your head and replaced your gray matter with sticky jam. I find myself zoning out and staring at things, and my eyeballs feel dry and like they're tethered to my head by frayed ropes instead of optic nerves. Everything is slow and heavy and whipped with heavy cream.
During the first hour of my flight from Austin to Baltimore, I tried to write but the words were stuck in my teeth. I tried to read a book but I kept skimming the same sentences over and over again without really reading them. And I watched my blood sugar holding steady in the 300's, despite my boluses.
Rage-bolusing is a hard thing for me to avoid, especially once I'm so deep into a high blood sugar that I'd do just about anything for a bottle of water and a 120 mg/dL. When I'm high, my back aches. My eyes hurt. My breath smells like the glue you use to assemble model airplanes. My whole body is wrapped in cotton balls and I'm reduced to a lazy, lethargic lump in a seat, without a shred of energy and zero desire to smile. I want to bang on the buttons of my pump, ringing through a billion units. I want to know why my breakfast bolus didn't make a dent, and why these subsequent "fix it" boluses aren't doing shit. Is my infusion set crapped out? Is my insulin vial spoiled? Am I dehydrated? Did I miscalculate my breakfast bolus? Did one of the fifteen thousand diabetes variables go rogue on me?
I didn't want to swap out my infusion set in the bathroom on the plane and then have to wait, wait, impatiently wait to see if another bolus will hit my bloodstream. I tested my blood sugar again and saw that I was up to 360 mg/dL, and the Dexcom graph didn't show any promise of a drop anytime soon.
Which is how I ended up busting out my insulin pen on the flight, about two hours into my flight, sneaking in a quick injection into my belly while the girl next to me read her biology textbook. (She didn't notice. Even after all these years on a pump, I can still manage to inject discreetly.)
By the time I was on my connection flight, I had settled back into range. Was it the string of small boluses, finally catching up with me? Can I thank the injection? Either way, the molasses in my veins had been replaced, once more, by blood. Game over for diabetes chaos.
And looking at my Dexcom graph, I realize that diabetes gives a whole new meaning to "mile high club."
:: rimshot ::