Cured?

If you’ve kept up with me lately, you know I was incredibly sick the week after Christmas. It didn’t last long, but the lasting effects sure did. After not eating anything for more than 24 hours, I was able to eat a few bites of rice. The next day, a few more. I managed to eat about half of a baked potato the next day, and I added peanut butter crackers into the mix a day later. Saturday, I felt my appetite coming back. I love food, and my tastebuds had been longing for something NOT on the BRAT diet (BRAT standing for bananas, rice, applesauce and toast).

I spent Saturday in Nashville for a long overdue visit with friends. Breakfast included a stop at IHOP in Smyrna where I wanted eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy. But the memory of hugging the toilet was far too fresh in my mind so I ordered potato soup instead. It was delicious, but I knew it was high in carbs and fat (it was a very cheesy potato soup), so I gave what I expected to be the correct amount of insulin for such a meal. When we sat down to eat, my blood sugar was about 90. Before we left the restaurant, I was in the 80s. I moaned about how I needed the soup to kick in but I didn’t worry much about it. I said goodbye to my friend and headed toward Centennial Park so my girls could have some play time. (Not sure where you live, but Saturday in Nashville was ah-mazing. The sun was bright, the wind was calm and it felt more like the onset of spring rather than New Year’s Eve.)

While driving to the park, Ben (my CGM) continued to yell at me saying I was low and continuing to drop. How was that possible? Even if I had over-bolused, there was no way it could’ve been by that much. I was on the interstate and couldn’t pull over to check, so I checked while driving. (Please don’t try this at home — far more dangerous than texting and driving). When I saw the 49 pop up on my meter, I was shocked, confused and angry. I ate an entire tube of glucose tablets (10) because I knew I was about to be running around a park. I pulled into Centennial Park about 20 minutes later and retested. I was 53. I ate five more tablets and waited another 20 minutes. (And for what it’s worth, making two dogs sit and wait in the backseat of a car while staring at a vast, green promised land is not something I would call fun. My dogs actually whine — as in moan and groan — when they want something. They might have been more agitated than I was.)

When I retested, I was 51. That was it. I downed another tube of glucose tablets, a 15-gram tube of gel and a 15-gram tube of juice. If I wasn’t at least 250 in half an hour, something was terribly wrong. I leashed the girls, and we started walking toward the Parthenon (not the real one — that would be a loooong walk — but this one.) I made it probably 25 minutes until I heard the infamous four beeps of Ben. I was talking to a lovely tourist family with a couple of little kids who stopped to pet Lucky and Barkley. I pulled Ben out of my pocket and saw “LOW” with an arrow straight down. Since I felt low, I slowly started to panic. What in the world was happening to me? Was I cured? Nothing happening to me made any sense whatsoever. I politely excused myself from the family and headed back to the car. I questioned whether to call my mom since no one technically knew where I was, but I knew she’d already spent the last three days worrying about me, so I decided not to call. (She will inevitably be angry when she reads this post, by the way.)

I checked in the car and saw a 57. OK, not quite as bad as a downward “LOW”, but I still needed to eat something. I was out of glucose tablets, gel and juice in my car. I headed to Walgreens down the street where I bought more glucose tablets and a Gatorade. I downed the Gatorade and waited. I rose to 73 and decided to try again. I didn’t think it was the best idea for me to take off on a walk, so I headed to the dog park instead. I felt comfortable after everything I’d consumed in the past two hours. In fact, I was even worried about spiking high later. For the next hour or so, the girls made new friends at the park, and I sat on a bench hoping they behaved themselves. (And they were great — definitely NOT the worst dogs in the park. Little victories, people. Little victories.)

I was planning to meet another friend for lunch, and I wanted to do some shopping in my favorite neighborhood before we met. I checked before leaving the park and when my meter flashed 45, it was all I could do to not cry. I felt low, but I didn’t feel 45. I retested. 67. (Hey One Touch. BIG difference between 45 and 67. Thanks.) The most logical thing for me to do was to retest a third time and use the average number to treat. (Smart. While low. Winning.) The retest said 65. I ate a few crackers, four more glucose tabs and left. This had to be over soon. I’d eaten so many glucose tabs I would’ve been fine never seeing another one for the rest of my life. When I arrived in Hillsboro Village, I tested again and was 83. I could live with that. Finally, I’d made it to favorite bookstore in the world (seriously, The. Best.) and I could enjoy myself without treating lows or worrying about being low. I checked Ben one last time and saw the following:

For three hours, I’d been low. And I’d been treating those lows with far more than was required. By the time I sat down at Boscoe’s for lunch, I had only spiked to 189. I should’ve been 300. I barely touched my lunch, (which made my tastebuds very sad) and I gave very little insulin for it or for the 189. After arriving back in Huntsville, I was sitting around 200 and I was OK with that after the day I’d had. I didn’t correct until I went to bed around 1:30 a.m. I skipped dinner and spent New Year’s Eve at church sans champagne. Sunday, I didn’t eat breakfast and enjoyed a sub sandwich at lunch. Just like Saturday, I gave the normal amount of insulin required for the fat and carbs. And again that afternoon, epic lows. I stayed in the 50s for nearly two hours. I treated, corrected and nothing changed. Again, I skipped dinner and went to bed with a 137.

Monday, I didn’t eat breakfast and spiked throughout the morning. I typically have some serious dawn phenomenon going on, so spiking during the mid-morning hours was no surprise. For lunch, I had soup with some crackers. I gave about half the amount of insulin I would normally give and two hours post lunch — 147. Go figure, right? I still haven’t figured out what’s going on, and I’m not sure I will. That’s the thing about diabetes — no two days are the same. Ever. You can do one thing with one result on Wednesday and do the same thing with a different result on Thursday. For me, it’s one of the frustrations. I don’t mind the needles, the finger pricks or even the bionic parts — but never knowing exactly what’s going to happen is beyond frustrating. Fortunately for me, I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl, so I’ve learned to roll with the flow as best I can. I would’ve mastered it by now if diabetes didn’t affect my moods and emotions.

But I will continue to do the best I can with the knowledge I have. I don’t have a magic password or a code for the answers or even the reasons why, but I do have hope — even if it’s hope for a perfect blood sugar day. Every day I wake up, it’s a new opportunity for a no-hitter. (And an opportunity to find the best used editions of “Pride and Prejudice” for a friend who collects them.)