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Posts from the ‘Blood Sugars’ Category

A Sobering Experience

“Do you mind ringing out this orange juice first?”  I asked the lady who was working the cash register.

“No problem,” and she went bip with the scanner against the bottle’s bar code while my Dexcom screamed BEEP BEEP BEEP! from my phone.

I opened the bottle and downed the majority of it in one, open-throated gulp.  My son, strapped into the front of the shopping cart, reached over to the conveyor belt as the groceries were unloaded, one by one, by his mother with the bird hands.

“Hang on, little guy.  Here, play with this,” I said, handing him a crinkly toy elephant that was peeking out of my purse.  I ran my sleeve against my forehead to catch the beads of sweat that threatened to run down my face.  My ankles felt weak and I know I stumbled a little when I went to unload the contents of my carriage onto the conveyor belt.

“Miss, do you have a Stop & Shop card?” the cashier asked, sizing me up.  She was my mother’s age.  She watched me fumble with my wallet in search of the card, and I dropped it instead of landing it into her hand.

“Hang on a second,” I said, carefully bending over and plucking the card from the floor.   My son yelled, “YEAH!!!” and then “HEY!” from the carriage.  My blood sugar was still dropping and the Dexcom kept hollering.  Clumsy hands and the fog of hypoglycemia made my every movement look ridiculously awkward.

And I knew, knew, knew that the cashier thought I was drunk.

I read Riva’s article about hypoglycemic episodes looking like drunk moments and shook my head in recognition of the concept, but honestly hadn’t ever been mistaken as drunk when low before.  In college, I had this credit-card sized placard in my wallet that said something like, “I have type 1 diabetes.  If I seem drunk, please allow me to check my blood sugar to make sure I am not experiencing low blood sugar.”  I never had to use it, and my college roommates and I giggled at it once in a while, probably because we were actually drunk.

But yesterday at the grocery store, I wished that card had been in my wallet.  I would have handed it to the cashier and pointed sheepishly at the orange juice.

Instead, in the fog of my low, I gracelessly unloaded and paid for my groceries while wrangling my one year old.  Running my debit card for the purchase, I said to the cashier, “I have diabetes.  My blood sugar is low,” but I’m not sure she believed me.  My brain wasn’t sweetened enough to really care.  I was more concerned with pushing through to the other side of this low.

After we paid, I moved the carriage over to a row of benches just inside the main door of the grocery store and we sat there.  I finished my orange juice.  A few minutes later, the arrow on my CGM graph started pointing in a more respectable direction.  I almost went back to the cashier to explain myself more lucidly but decided against it.  Maybe next time I see her, I’ll explain.  For now, it was time to go home.

“Mama?  Mamamamamamamama …” rambled my little man.

“Okay, sweet boy.  We’re good to go.  Let’s go.”

Break Glass in Case of Emergency

The low alarm goes off and my arm snakes out from underneath the covers in slow motion, a serpent in search of snacks.

The jar of glucose tabs sits on my bedside table, most often collecting dust but on this night, it’s an essential item.  I flip open the lid and count out four tabs, piling them on the side of the bed and chomping down one of them while I lean on one arm.

Chomp, chomp, chomp.

Seems like I’m peckish instead of panicked.  But the room is spinning a little and my peripheral vision comes and goes while the low blood sugar laps at the edge of my ability to reason.  What time is it?  Are the kids still asleep?  Siah is a fat lump at the end of the bed, one eye open and staring at me while I cram another tab into my mouth.  I’m confused about the day and time but I know exactly how to put the glucose tabs into a precisely stacked pile and slowly work my way through them, hoping they work quickly.  My husband is asleep, unaware that anything out of the ordinary is happening.

Chomp, chomp, chomp at 3 am after the blaring of my Dexcom alarm, the jar of tabs literal lifesavers on the bedside table.

PSA: Wash Yer Hands.

Wash your hands before trusting your meter.

Looking Back: How Often Should I Change My Lancet? (A “Grost.)

source: Type 1 Diabetes Memes

I’m on the road today, visiting with the Patient Revolution team, so I’m looking back at a post from the past.  But it’s not just any post … it’s a grost.  (A gross post.)  How often do you change your lancet?  I will admit that I don’t do it as often as I should, but I’ve been really trying to do it more regularly.  In efforts to keep my fingertips from hating me.

  *   *  *

(Taking a cue from Glu today because when this post rolled through my feed, I was like, “Hmmm.  A lot now, but before?  NEVER!!”)

Every single time there’s a new meme about changing the lancet in a finger pricker device (nope, that is not the technical term), I laugh because they are all true in that “whoops” sort of way.

Upstairs in the bathroom closet, I have boxes and boxes of lancets for all kinds of different poker devices (again, not the technical term).  All different sizes and shapes and gauges … years and years worth of lancets for half a dozen different devices.  (Except The Guillotine.  That thing was retired decades ago, thank goodness.)  And the reason I have so many lancets stashed?  I went years without regularly changing my lancet.

Gross.  I know.  And I’ve seen that photo of what a needle looks like before use, after one use, and after six uses and yes, it grosses me right the hell out.  But for a long, long time, I changed my lancet once a month.  Maybe once a week, depending.  And I only changed it if it didn’t procure a good blood droplet or if it went into my fingertip and got “stuck.”  (You know what I mean … when you press the button and the lancet deploys, only it lodges itself into your fingertip and has a weird suction feeling when it pulls out?  Horribly horrible.)  Lancet swapping-out was a shameful non-priority for a long time.

Two things made me start changing my lancet regularly:

ONE.  A friend told me about how she’d heard a story about a person with diabetes whose fingertips were downright gangrenous because they didn’t change their lancet.  “Ew, really?”  “Really.”  And even though I stand firmly on the “hope vs. fear” motivation concept, this story about mostly-dead fingertips made me want to throw up.  Then I started searching the Internet for information on needle reuse and the photos made me want to apologize profusely to all my digits.  I had no idea how nasty and serrated the needle edges became after just one use.  I thought about all the times I had injected syringes through my jeans in high school.  I thought about how a box of lancets could last me two years.  I thought about how gross I was.  Gross, gross, groooooosssssss.

TWO.  And then I explored lancing device options.  I had heard really good things about the Accu-Chek Multiclix (mostly from Sara, because she frigging loves hers), and the device was snazzy because it comes with a drum of lancets that automagically swap out, but the size of the thing was too big for the case I kept my meter in.  Switching to the One Touch Delica was the winner, for me, because the lancet gauge is so thin that I’m forced to change it regularly because otherwise, I don’t bleed.  (It becomes that dance of pull back the device, press the button, nothing happens, repeat 10x, change lancet and curse.)  Like it or not, I have to change my lancet regularly or the device becomes useless.

Now I change my lancet once a day.  Every day.  And every time I kill a box of lancets, I feel accomplished because in the last four years, I’ve gone through at least two dozen boxes.

In the 20+ years prior?  Probably the same number of lancet boxes.

Useless Juice.

We don’t drink juice “for fun” in our house; it’s only for low blood sugars, considered almost as medicinal as the insulin hiding out in the butter compartment of our fridge.

So when I came home with these juice boxes unintentionally, I was pissed.

35% less sugar?  That’s exactly what I don’t want!

Useless juice.  I’m bringing it back and swapping it out for the fixes-a-40mg/dL-at-4am kind of juice.  The high octane juice.  Proper juice.

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