Jun 27
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.
Jun 8
(to the tune of the Beatles Help!)
Help! I need some sugar
Help! I’ll take any sugar.
Help! You know I need a snack
Heeeelp!
When I was younger, so much younger than today
I made my insulin and that was that each day
But now these days are gone and my islets are uncured
Now I find I need a snack, Swedish fish are much preferred
Help me if you can, I’m feeling strange
And I think my blood glucose is out of range
Help me get my numbers un-deranged
Won’t you please, please help me?
And now my life has changed in oh so many ways
My independence didn’t vanish, I’m just dazed.
Every now and then I just feel a little low
I know that those Swedish fish can help me up and go.
When I was younger, so much younger than today
I never needed anybody’s help in any way
But now I need a hand, it happens now and then.
And I’m grateful for community that steps up again and again.
Thanks for all your help, I’m feeling fine
It just took a few minutes, but I’m aligned.
Thanks for understanding while I whined
Thanks for help, helping me.
May 15
Diabetes Blog Week prompt for Monday: Diabetes can sometimes seem to play by a rulebook that makes no sense, tossing out unexpected challenges at random. What are your best tips for being prepared when the unexpected happens? Or, take this topic another way and tell us about some good things diabetes has brought into your, or your loved one’s, life that you never could have expected?
Unexpectedly, my iPhone decided to update itself on Saturday night.
I must have “agreed” to terms of service and scheduled the update, but I didn’t think the process through, because if my phone is updating the operating system, that means the processes on my phone are sort of stalled.
Including my Dexcom data transmission. Which means I didn’t have any CGM data streaming overnight. The low blood sugar came out of nowhere, a product of stupid poor planning and over-correcting a high in the wee hours of the morning.
Mother’s Day morning broke open with my body outlined in damp sweat, my color ashy, hands shaking, but my mind still sharp, considering my blood sugar was 35 mg/dL.
Only once or twice before, in thirty years of diabetes, have I ever felt close to passing out, but the precursor feelings seem to be waves of unconsciousness that lap at the edge of my mind coupled with a calm, reasoned mind, as if I knew I was about to go under and I needed to mentally take the biggest breath I could.
I had the sense to call Chris (he was downstairs with the baby) and ask him for juice. I was afraid to sit up, thinking that might be enough to tip me into the abyss.
I asked him to put the baby in the crib in case I needed physical help. I spoke to him through a mouthful of glucose tab dust, asking if he knew how to use the glucagon on the bedside table. He said yes. I asked if he could please hand me a towel so I could mop the sweat off my forehead. The whole discussion was so calm, so structured, so oddly practical in contrast to the panic of being intensely low, the voice in the back of my mind screaming “AAAHHHHHHHHH!”
Makes me think I could solve quadratic equations while putting out a car fire while sitting in said car. And the car is moving. Fast.
Actually, that’s sort of what we do when severely hypo.
Unconsciousness due to a low blood sugar is the unexpected I think about the least, but prepare for the most. I mean, I think about it, but not obsessively. I just prepare all over the place, just-in-casing myself with juice boxes and raisins stashed in my frequently visited spots. I try to always have fast-acting sugars on hand no matter where I am. I share my CGM data while traveling. I keep that glucagon shot on the bedside table.
We’d talked about glucagon a few weeks early, after I’d refilled my prescription. We almost used it when I was throwing up from the flu and my blood sugar was stuck at 45 mg/dL, not able to keep down the juice or tabs I was consuming. It’s part of planning for the scary moments while simultaneously pretending, “Oh, that could never happen.”
Eventually, my blood sugar came up. Exhausted from treading the hypo-waters for so long, I almost immediately fell back asleep on the damp pillowcase. When I woke up again, I looked over at the glucagon kit, thankful for the fact that it was still sealed and hoping it continues to collect dust.
Apr 7
“Can you scan these so I can open them now?”
“Sure thing,” as she reached her arm over the conveyor belt to scan the package of Skittles in my sweaty palm.
BEEP.
I ripped open the package clumsily, my phone screaming out the Dexcom urgent low alarm tones. Jammed a handful of Skittles into my mouth – way too many to be chewed at once – while simultaneously and awkwardly unloading the carriage.
“Do you have a Target red card that you’ll be using today?”
” … mmmfff …”
My jaw was busy processing a dozen Skittles at a time. I took a second to hang on (hopefully casually but most likely looking like a drowning man clutching the edge of a raft) and concentrated on chewing. When I remembered, I would retrieve another item from the cart and place it on the moving track.
The lady behind me switched lanes, properly assuming I was a hot mess.
“Are you okay?” The cashier was about 20 years old and probably accustomed to a flurry of weirdos coming through her cashier line.
I finally mashed the Skittles into something I could swallow. “I’m fine. Sorry – I have diabetes and my blood sugar is really low. It happens here a lot. Target makes me low.” I was rambling and couldn’t stop. “It always makes me low.”
She nodded slowly, putting my items into a bag as I loaded them onto the conveyor belt, one every fifteen seconds or so.
“I bet.”
She was kind. I was probably drooling colorful drool.
“You can keep eating those,” she added.
So I shoved the rest of the package into my mouth, a hypoglycemic cow chewing on taste-the-rainbow cud.
Mar 22
Was just 106 mg/dL. Tumbled fast to 40.
Took minutes. Felt like seconds.
Dizzy.
Wait – get phone.
Put the baby in his crib.
He’s safe in there.
Already drank juice – plenty of it – now wait wait waaaaaaaait.
…. waaaaaaiting.
Wall edges seem wiggly, like if I poked them they’d shudder like Jell-O.
Baby is safely in the crib, giggling and playing with his feet. I sit on his floor with my phone in my hand, ready to make a phone call to a neighbor if the waves of confusion start to erode my mental shore.
Briefly wonder what I’d say if I called. “Hey, this is Kerri. Can you come over? I feel like I’m going to pass out.” I’m sure I’d try to sound casual when casual is not how I feel. I keep 911 dialed so if I need to just hit the call button, I’m ready.
Emergency plans. I have them.
My tongue becomes less thick, less clumsy in my mouth. I flex my fingers, which are attached to my still-shaking hands. They feel responsive but like their wings are still clipped.
Juice starts to change the course of my blood sugar. CGM alarms still blaring from my phone, less urgently now. Walls seem less gelatinous.
Baby burps and then laughs at his own burp. I laugh, too, the fog of hypoglycemia unwrapping itself from my brain. I remember that it’s morning. That it’s a week day. That I’m due on a
conference call in 20 minutes.
CGM shows me a comforting arrow.
Emergency over. Status quo returned.
Before I retrieve the baby from his crib, I grab a cloth and clean up the juice that leapt from the glass while my hands were birds.
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