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Posts tagged ‘hypoglycemia’

Robot Arms.

[You can read my Dexcom disclosures here.]

The low alarm slammed into my ears from across the bed, coming from my Dexcom receiver on the bedside table.  A half second later, it echoed from my cell phone, where the SHARE app threw out a loud warning of its own.

LOW.

I reached over and clicked on my phone, which was closer than my receiver, going to the app to look at my blood sugars.  I “follow” two PWD friends in addition to following my own data, so the screen showed three different profiles.  The two that weren’t me were fine – nothing to worry about.  They were perfectly safe.  Everyone was safe!

Everyone but me, because my data stream claimed “LOW.”  Somehow that number wasn’t registering in my head.  It wasn’t mine.  Clearly.  Wait, what’s happening?

I rolled over and went back to sleep, entering the fifteen minute cycle of hear beeps, respond to beeps by clicking a button, head back on pillow (drenched with sweat, but somehow the low still was recognized by my consciousness), repeat.  My daughter was asleep next to me (she had appeared in our room around 4 am) and for a split second, my brain wondered who belonged to the brown, curly ponytail spilling across the pillow.

And then all at once, the alarms made sense; their intention clicked firmly into place.  Their sounds reached across and tapped me on the shoulder, pushing me with frustration towards the juice.  I uncapped the little bottle and drained half of it, relief hitting the hypo-panicked parts of my mind.  It only took a few minutes to paddle back from confusion, and within minutes, I was fine.

Once I was downstairs in the kitchen, I checked my email on my phone while the coffee brewed.  I spun through the data on my SHARE app, seeing the long, red tail of the low that had wrapped around me for over an hour.  I felt frustrated by the fact that despite well-timed alarms, sometimes the lows themselves remove my ability to respond.

Some hypoglycemic moments are quieter and laced with a gentle fog of frustration, one that makes me reach for glucose tabs and forget how many I have already eaten but ha ha ha that’s okay, everything will be fine in a few minutes.  But the lows that come while I’m asleep and my body wakes up in the trenches of leave me entirely confused and oddly content to sit in a puddle of my own cold sweat, a bottle of juice within reach on the bedside table but my brain is too damn stupid to encourage my hand to reach over.

Eventually, science and technology will find a way to add two arms to my CGM receiver that, in the event of a low, will reach over and slap me, then hand me the bottle of juice.  Then those robo-arms will hand me a towel to wipe my forehead.  And once it’s over and done with, they’ll hug me quickly but firmly and tell me to suck it up because there’s shit to do.

Does Not Compute.

“Do you guys have any fun plans for the summer?”

The question was simple enough, but not even close to a level my hypoglycemia-addled brain could handle.  I had trouble formulating a response, and the lag time was embarrassing.  We’ve only moved to the neighborhood a few months ago and haven’t solidified relationships with our neighbors yet, so being wickedly low in front of someone new wasn’t my favorite way to disclose my diabetes.

Thankfully, a disclosure had already happened, to a certain extent.  When she had asked me about my work travel this past week and what I did for work, I said that I worked in patient advocacy and that I’d had diabetes since I was a kid.  She nodded in recognition and shared that her college roommate was also T1D, so my disclosure was pleasantly subtle and streamlined.  No big deal.  What I hadn’t anticipated was going low during the course of our conversation.

And I was low.  Wickedly low.  The kind of low that made my face feel like it was full of Novocaine and that my hands were like birds at my sides, twitching and flapping absently.

I scanned the trees in the front yard for some kind of hint.

“Pssssst.  You guys!  You, trees!  Do I have fun plans for the summer?  HELP!”

They only waved their leaves at me.  “We have no idea!  Go get something to eat, dummy!”

“We go to Maine.  MAINE.”  I said it twice with way too much emphasis on the second one, an angry seal barking out their summer plans.  My neighbor didn’t seem to notice that my eyes weren’t able to focus on her, and I’m fairly certain she didn’t hear my Dexcom receiver hollering at me from the front steps of the house.  But I knew that another minute or two was the chasm between attempted conversation and calling for medical help, so I had to embrace the awkward.

“I’m so sorry; I know I mentioned that I have diabetes and you said your college roommate also had diabetes.  So I’m really, really low at the moment and I need to go inside to grab some juice.  Would you excuse me for a minute?”  I was trying to be polite and not let on that my thoughts were knocking around in my head like socks in a dryer.  She nodded and I took off for the kitchen, where I downed a glass of grape juice as quickly as I could.  My CGM only told me I was “LOW” and I cursed myself for not responding faster to the beeping.

Coming back outside, we stepped back into conversation without much pause, watching our kids play in the front yard.

“Sorry about that,” I said.  “No problem at all,” she warmly responded, not missing a beat.

And I kept an eye on my CGM graph, watching my blood sugars rise and kindly deposit thoughts back into my head.

The Last Straw.

“Mommy … I had a nightmare.”

She shows up in the middle of the night sometimes, evicted from her warm bed down the hall due to a nightmare.  “I had a dream about a blue monster with no arms and popcorn on his feet.”  She’s clutching her blanket, her water, a flashlight, and a stuffed animal; clearly she’s in for the long haul.

I moved over in the bed and she started to climb in.

“Oh and mom?  You’re low,” she said, handing me the vibrating pump.

The fog of feeling sleep lifted immediately and I recognized the symptoms of this hypo.  Sweaty hairline, fumbling fingers, my sight reduced to a tunnel, and my hearing razor-sharp, hearing the shuffle of my daughter’s feet, the steady breathing of my sleeping husband, and – finally – the buzzing buzzery of my CGM alarm.

“Do you need something?” Chris asked from beside me.

“Yeah – can you grab one of those juice boxes from the shelf?”

Birdy was already snuggled in beside me, nestled close against my hypo-damp shoulder.  A few seconds later, Chris returned with a juice box in hand.

Habit, habit, habit – I am a creature of it.  When my blood sugar is low, I go through the motions to treat it, and if anything gaffs up the routine, I’m thrown.  Lows in hotel rooms rock me because the bedside table is five inches farther from me than at home.  When I am home, having the glucose tabs on the table itself instead of in the drawer can be enough to confuse me thoroughly.  (Lows make me the least-sharp knife in the drawer.)  In this case, I grabbed the juice box firmly and reflexively used my other hand to reach for the little plastic sleeve with the straw tucked inside.  Only I grabbed it a little too firmly and juice shot out all over the bed, because my forward-thinking husband had already stuck the straw inside the foil hole.

“Shit …”  My pillow was wet with juice.  And so was my daughter, because I managed to (ocean?)-spray her in the face during this transaction.  “I didn’t know the straw was already in there.”

“Do you need another juice box?”

“No, this should be okay.  Only a little bit flew out.”  I drank the rest of the juice box, per routine.

“MOM. This is not OKAY.  I am all WET.”  (Even at 3 am, my kid can be indignant.)

“Sorry, baby.  You can go back to your own bed, if you want?  That bed doesn’t have juice in it.”

She thought for a minute, then buried her head under the blankets to issue a muffled response.  “No WAY.  The monster had popcorn feet.  NO WAY am I going back to my bed.”

 

 

All Night Long.

Some nights just plain suck.

In related news, I brushed my teeth ten times last night.

Hypo Management.

“Ninety-five percent of the time, I’m fine.  The lows are ones I can treat myself, even if the number is really low.  Usually my symptoms are shakiness or like this brain fog.  When the lows are really gross, I usually cry at random.  Or I throw things.  No real in between.  But the majority of the time, I can take care of things myself, and then it’s over.  Like nothing happened.”

I tried to explain this to a friend who was asking when it’s necessary to intervene during a low blood sugar, but explaining the slide from “fine” to “holy effing low blood sugar” sounds confusing when I say it out loud.

That’s the weirdest part, for me, that whole panic-then-peace part of severe hypoglycemic events.  My lows have historically come crashing in at a breakneck speed, which is part of why using a CGM has been a pivotal change for me.  Getting a head’s up on when a low is happening, or being able to treat it even before it becomes a problem, has helped me feel safer in the face of hypo unawareness (a lack of low blood sugar symptoms) and fast-dropping numbers.

My endo suggested that I raise my low alarm on my Dexcom from 65 mg/dL to 80 mg/dL in efforts to catch lows earlier, and in the last month or so, I’ve had far fewer chaotic hypos.  Instead, I’m grabbing the lows before they even become low, snagging a 70 while it slides versus waking up in the trenches of a 40.


Low alarm at 80 has been the best suggestion in a long time. #diabetes

A photo posted by Kerri Sparling (@sixuntilme) on

Small little tweaks here and there make differences I couldn’t have imagined. … that, and I’m burning through my supply of glucose tabs with a little less vigor.

 

LOW.

BEEP!BEEP!BEEP! from the Dexcom receiver on the bedside table.

I heard it beeping for a long time.

Woke up with sweat pouring off my forehead and running down the side of my face, pooling up in my ears and in my collarbone.  The pillow was soaked.  My hair was soaked.  An outline of me underneath me, the line drawn with the panicked sweat of hypoglycemia.

Panic.  But tempered panic, since I was so deep into the low that I was slow in recognizing anything.  My status updated slowly:  This is a low.  This is a bad, bad low.  Eat something in a hurry or you’ll probably die.

The juice box on the bedside table was hard to assemble.  Plastic sleeve around the straw, poking the straw through the foil hole … all actions I’ve done before but it took 30 seconds apiece for me to figure out how the whole thing worked.  I drank the juice as fast as I could, in just a gulp or two and then I settled back into my self-made sweat lodge.

A few minutes later – maybe two, maybe twenty – Birdy arrived fresh from a nightmare, clutching her blanket and asking to sleep in our bed because she was scared.  I don’t remember gathering her up, but I do remember putting her on the outskirts of my dampness, snuggling her up against her still-sleeping father.  I was scared, too, still arranging blankets, trying to find a cool, dry section.  I looked at the Dexcom, and it only told me I was LOW and had been LOW for a long time.

Normally, I get up and brush my teeth after a low blood sugar.  Sometimes I use the hairdryer to dry my hypo-damped hair.  This time, I couldn’t move my ankles without feeling the dizziness flooding up to my hairline.  I used the edge of my t-shirt to mop the sweat from my ears.  So gross.  But necessary.

This morning I woke up chilled to the bone, the result of falling back asleep soaked to the skin and then drying off in the cool, fall night.  The Dexcom told me I had risen up safely to 109 mg/dL, and my meter confirmed that result.  My family bounced up and was ready to start their day, and I followed behind them, nursing the hypoglycemic hangover, grateful for technology that woke me up and for portion-controlled hypo treatment, but pretty fucking pissed off that diabetes was the nightmare last night.

 

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