It was 10pm on Tuesday night, and I was getting ready to go to bed. We had Pasta for dinner, a family favourite in our house. Pasta usually produces really good blood sugar levels by bedtime. However, being a low glycemic index food, Pasta also tends to have somewhat of a delayed effect on my glucose levels. Once I fall asleep and the majority of my rapid acting insulin wears off, my blood sugar levels tend to creep up. And I’ll wake up the next morning with something crazy like 15.
I was a perfect 7.3 at bedtime that night, but I wasn’t confident that my blood sugar levels would settle there. So I decided to set the alarm on my phone for 12.50am, so that I could test and correct later on. I turned out the light, and went to sleep.
The next thing I knew, I began to stir as my Dad came and opened the door to my room. I could see light streaming in from behind the closed vertical blinds, and the clock on the side of my bed read 6.38am. I was convinced it was Saturday. I was still lying in bed at 6.38 in the morning because it was Saturday. Until Dad asked me if I was going to work that morning. And I realised that it was, in fact, Wednesday.
What the hell had happened? My mind was foggy, and for the life of me I couldn’t even remember hearing the alarm go off. Which was unusual. I hate my alarm. It’s one of those awful buzzer-like sounds that startles me awake in the morning. It’s so startling on a sleepy brain that I usually scramble to silence it each morning. But I also love it for the fact that it has never failed me. Until now.
I didn’t even hear that alarm go off at 12.50am. Well, at least I couldn’t remember hearing that alarm go off at 12.50am. As I tried to put the pieces together, the only reasonable explanation that I could come up with was that I had hit snooze at 12.50am. And in doing so, I hadn’t been able to re-set the alarm for the morning.
I angrily got up out of bed to test my blood sugar. I knew it would be high, but I was hoping for a miracle. The last thing I wanted to deal with that morning was a high blood sugar and the shitty mood that would inevitably go with it. But, as expected, diabetes gave me a lovely 15.6.
I furiously threw the covers on top of the bed and got dressed. I began swearing, and throwing every curse word I could think of at diabetes. I jabbed in 8 units of insulin. A couple of units to cover my usual morning requirements, and a couple to combat that stubborn 15 that I’d been sitting at for the past 8 hours.
I was so furious with myself that I decided I would go straight to work. I didn’t deserve breakfast with such a high blood sugar level. I didn’t deserve that coffee that I so enjoy relishing in the morning either. And the last thing I wanted was to go into work later and let diabetes take my afternoon away from me.
I clocked on at work at 6.58am, just in the nick of time.
And I added a second alarm to my iPhone, to ensure that this would never happen again.