Woke up late.
Not good on Important Meeting Adventure Day, so I rolled immediately out of bed and began the morning ritual: Test bloodsugar, toss the cats off my legs, kiss Chris’s shoulder, stumble into the bathroom, take a hot shower, and read one of his fitness magazines while I blowdry my hair (Today I learned about the omega-3 benefits of walnuts and what the best kind of boxer briefs are).
Iron clothes. Dress in a hurry. Haphazardly toss necessary items into my purse. Recover the tube of lip gloss from Siah’s meddling little paws. Throw in a bottle of juice and some emergency crackers. Grab my kit and …
“Where is my kit?”
I knew I had my kit earlier when I tested first thing this morning. I checked under the bedside table – no kit. I looked on the bathroom cabinet, where a collection of pump caps sit in a soap dish and assorted lotions stand at rapt attention. No kit. I looked in the walk in closet, just to make sure I didn’t have it in my hand when I grabbed my shoes. No kit.
Chris had already left for work so every light in the bedroom was on. Relatively clean, I couldn’t see anything out of place. The closets were neat and the bed was made. Everything appeared to be in it’s place.
Checked my purse, just in case I was ridiculously remiss and didn’t notice my kit in there in the first place. No kit.
“Where the hell did I put that stupid thing??” Getting mad now. The time to leave was rapidly ticking closer and I knew I had to have it before I left the house. Checked the fridge, knowing that I put the remote control and my car keys in there by mistake before. Systematically trashed the entire bedroom, rummaging under the bed, opening dresser drawers and yanking out the contents,
Throwing my hands into the air in complete frustration, I grabbed my back up kit from the closet. I received it as a demo from Roche: an Accu-Chek Aviva. Feeling kind of crummy and potentially low, I opened the box for the first time and assembled the new kit. The black zipper case was crunchy and stiff from lack of use. After coding the machine, I reached for the lancet device that came with it.
Diabetic for 19 years, I figured that I would be able to load the thing up and test my bloodsugar without much of an issue. I’ve used countless meters and pricking devices. Surely this one would be a snap, right?
I could not have been more wrong.
Couldn’t assemble that frigging thing to save my life. I couldn’t get the cap off. I couldn’t fit the drum inside neatly. I actually had to bust out the instruction manual an even then, I couldn’t figure it out. Nothing clicked to let me know it was in place. The barrel of the device kept rotating and my only response was to curse at it.
Then, like the cryptex from The DaVinci Code, the cylinder lined up. The barrel clicked into place. The device deployed and pricked the top of my knuckle by accident.
“[insert blasphemous curse word]!!” Flinging the blue MultiClix across the room, I grabbed a lancet from my stash and manually pricked my finger tip. The AccuChek Aviva flashed me an hourglass, then a “113 mg/dl”.
“Meow?” Abby was standing on the edge of the bed, pawing at something.
I threw the Aviva into my purse and grabbed my keys.
“Meow?” A little more insistently this time. She was nudging something under the blankets with her enormous paw.
“Abby, what is the problem? What are you sniffing around at? I’m late for my meeting, I can’t find my stupid kit, and now I’m having an animated conversation with my fat cat…”
I reached over and pulled back the covers of the neatly made bed to reveal my kit, lying flush against the sheets.
“Meow.” Smuggly purring, Abby retired to the couch.