Hypos

Same, Stupid Mistakes

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I wrote this last night, hence the timing may not make any sense if you’re reading this morning.

My blood sugar was a perfect 4.8 when I woke up this morning.

Yet right now, I can taste the sickly residue of skittles that are stuck on my tongue after all of the hypos I’ve treated today.

I wonder where I went wrong today. I wonder where I keep going wrong.

I’m exhausted, just writing this, but I need to get today off my chest.

It was one of the first real winter mornings of the year. I woke up after a comfortable 8 hours sleep. Feeling the early morning chill, I began to prepare one of my favourite winter morning breakfasts – a hot bowl of porridge with half a cup of milk. The sweet smell of Espresso was brewing in the kitchen, as per usual.

36 grams of carbs for my breakfast, a carb ratio of 1 unit for every 6, and I dialled up 6 units on my insulin pen. For a moment, I considered opting for 5 or 5.5 units instead, seeing as I was close to the hypo range. Add to that the fact I would be at work and on my feet shortly, meaning greater insulin sensitivity. I don’t know why I dismissed that thought, but I did. I dismissed it, and went with the full 6 units of insulin instead.

By the time 8.30am rolled around, my blood sugar was 3.9. Three point fucking nine. Fuck diabetes, I thought to myself. Fuck diabetes, I told myself as I reached for the canisters of skittles in my locker and started shoving them into my mouth.

It was the stupidest mistake. I’ve made so many stupid mistakes like these recently that it’s not funny. I should know better. I do know better. Yet I just don’t seem to be thinking clearly. I feel like shooting myself in the foot.

I was in awe of the DOC members yesterday who took part in sharing a #dayofdiabetes on Twitter. I’m in awe of expectant people like Kelley and Kerri who are so diligent with their diabetes. I’m so happy for them, but at the same time I feel like I’m failing. I feel like I can’t even give myself the diligence that I deserve.

It was one of those days where I just had the words fuck diabetes on repeat. I ripped open a bag of Malteasers (which I did share, FYI), because I really couldn’t give a fuck for today. But at the same time, I think to myself, how much longer can I afford to keep saying this?

One of the best things about today was reading this from Brianna.

And learning that she’d never heard of Malteasers. Malt coated chocolate balls, FYI.

DOC friends for the win.

Here’s hoping tomorrow’s a better day.

Daydreaming

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sunny-summer-catcher-feathers

Slice, empty and flatten.

Slice, empty and flatten.

Slice, empty and flatten.

I was slicing open cardboard boxes at work yesterday, but my mind was well and truly elsewhere. It was just gone midday, and I was in a daze.

I could hear the sound of the fan, making more noise than what the air it was blowing back at me was worth. I could hear the whining sound of the cardboard press, groaning back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I could hear the sound of vehicles passing by from the open roller door looking out onto a miserable, grey autumn day.

I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead, starting to trickle down the side of my face. I felt ever so warm, and desperately wanted to take my shirt off.

I felt weak. I was standing, barely. I leant heavily onto the table where I was working, half expecting my muscles to give in at any moment.

I felt light headed. I was yawning, constantly. My brain wasn’t functioning properly. I couldn’t connect what I was doing with the next action I needed to take.

The thought every action in itself felt like an ordeal. I didn’t know where I would find the energy to will my body to make its next movement.

Slice, empty and flatten.

Slice, empty and flatten.

Slice, empty and flatten.

I was fighting against every fibre of my being to keep going. My body was ridden with exhaustion. I so desperately wanted to give in and sprawl out on the cold, hard concrete floor.

My mouth was bone dry. Robbed of all it’s glorious moisture, and replaced with the sickly residue of processed sugar. I was desperate for a drop of water, anything to rid that horrid aftertaste of a hypo treatment.

The fact was that I’d treated a hypo a little less than 15 minutes ago. A hypo that I wasn’t expecting. A hypo that I had no explanation for. A hypo that knocked the wind out of me and turned a relatively good day sideways.

A hypo isn’t necessarily over after I’ve shoved 15g of carbs down my throat. A hypo isn’t necessarily over 15 minutes after it happened. And a hypo isn’t necessarily over by the time my meter produces a reading over the number 4.0.

Some days, it feels like a hypo can last a whole lot longer.

Join the Oz Diabetes Online Community for our weekly diabetes support chat Tonight at 8.30pm by following #OzDOC on Twitter.

Tennis, With a Serve of Diabetes

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By far, my favourite thing about January is the tennis.

Two weeks ago I went to the Hopman Cup in Perth, one of the tennis tournaments traditionally held in the lead up to the Australian Open this week.

Having seen Andy Murray last year, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind as to who I wanted to see this year – Serena Williams. I was so damn excited to see her play. She is just such an entertaining player to watch. I love her expression and her attitude, which she doesn’t try to hide. I love seeing her come onto the court with a bandage on her leg, seemingly injured, and yet still thrash her opponent. And I love watching her talk down her performance after a killer win.

Needless to say, I was so damn excited to see her play that night.

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When I arrived home after work that day, my blood sugar was 10.4. Which was okay, considering I’d only had my lunch 2 hours ago.

I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I knew I’d be hungry later. Wanting to avoid junk food after all of my festive eating, I packed myself a Burgen Bread sandwich of leftover cutlets from the night before. Even though the Arena had a strict no food policy, I was pretty confident I’d be able to sneak it in. But hey, I could always milk my diabetes for all it was worth, if I had to.

I was still 10.4 as we were getting ready to leave, and I gave myself a generous correction of 2 units.

When we parked the car at the Arena, I dialled up my Lantus dose. It was a little earlier than normal, and I knew that I’d have an hour or so of overlapping insulin. But it would save me the hassle of doing it while I was in there. I knew that the game would be a long one, and I’d likely be eating less than I would at home. I dialled up 10 units, rather than the 11 or 12 that I gave the night prior, and left my pen in the glovebox.

Going past security was a piece of cake. I managed to sneak my sandwich and water bottle through, hidden safely underneath the pile of jackets. Apparently water must be uncapped, in case we decide to launch the cap (rather than the empty bottle) at the court.

Serena came onto court, and it was so damn exciting to see her. She had pulled out of her match the previous day as a precaution, and I was so worried that I wouldn’t get to see her play.

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Unfortunately after the first set, she had to forfeit the match as a precaution for her inflamed knee. It was disappointing, but an hour was still better than no Serena at all.

I was ready to eat that sandwich, and tested my blood sugar. 5.7. I finished it, and quickly went off to the bathroom to bolus 5 units before Lleyton Hewitt came out to play in the Men’s match.

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That night, I was trying so hard to be good. I turned down lollies. I turned down hot chips. I turned down more lollies. Until 8.32pm, when I went hypo.

Not exactly my ideal, carb counted hypo treatment, I really had to give it my best guess. I measured out a handful of lollies into my palm, and began to chew them down. Still feeling shaky and in doubt a few minutes later, I grabbed another handful.

When I headed back to the car at the end of a great night, I was a lovely 19.0. Insert your swear word of choice here.

I had tried so hard to be good that night, and yet one small error with the bolus for my sandwich mucked it up. Yeah, I was bloody annoyed with myself. But it happens. It’s always going to happen, because I’m only human.

But at the end of the day, it’s not the hypo that I’m going to remember about that night.

I’m going to remember one awesome night of tennis that I got to watch.

Defeated In The Darkness

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I could feel the sweat dripping from my forehead. My favourite red checkered cotton pyjama pants were stuck to my thighs, drenched in sweat. My entire upper body was trembling. I felt like I’d woken up from a bad dream that still felt very real in the dark of my bedroom. I pulled off my blankets, which I usually hid underneath to stop myself from freezing in the air conditioning.

The red numbers 12.40 were glowing back at me in the dark of my bedroom early on this Thursday morning. I reached over to flick on the lamp beside my bed. I pulled back the cap on my tube of test strips, grabbed one and feverishly stuck it into my meter. I pricked my finger and navigated it over to the test strip. 2.1 mmol/L. Just the number I wanted to see at 12.40am on a Thursday morning.

I heaved myself up to reach for the bag of marshmallows on the bed head behind me. Too weak to support this upright state, I leant over to one side. My elbow rested on my pillow, supporting my upper body weight. Marshmallows were in hand.

I opened the zip lock bag and pulled the marshmallows, stuck together from the heat, apart. One, two, three, four, five. I mentally counted to myself as I placed them into my hand, knowing my hypo-muddled brain would lose count of how many I’d eaten midway through.

By the time I was down to that last one, I couldn’t even remember eating the other four. I collapsed back onto the bed, relieved as my head sank back onto the pillow. I felt absolutely exhausted, and too weak to move. I reached over for the remote to the air-con, dialling the temperature down a few degrees. I so badly wanted to close my eyes, but knew I had to stay awake and see this hypo through. I turned and faced my bedside lamp, hoping the bright light would keep my weary eyes distracted.

I’ve always felt very in control of my diabetes. Throughout the day, I’ll test as often as I want. Those tests produce numbers. Numbers that give me a sense of security. Numbers that keep me in the know while I’m riding the wave of an unpredictable disease.

But when night comes and my body switches off, I’m forced to give up all control.

Laying there in that moment, paralysed in front of the lamp, I couldn’t help but feel a little defeated by my diabetes.

I roused again at 2.24am, having dozed off in front of the lamp. I switched it off, rolled over and closed my eyes with a sigh of relief.

(And I’m only now realising why my shoulders were aching the following day!)

May The Force of Low Blood Sugars Be With You

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Because I was on holidays, because the fridge was empty and because I’d been wanting one for several weeks, I had a Subway footlong Italian BMT sub for lunch last Wednesday. I dialled up 18 units of insulin, and I was rather pleased with the way the results were tracking in the hours that followed. I was 14.1 at 2.18pm, 8.7 at 3.09pm, 5.7 at 4.04pm and 7.6 at 5.15pm.

At the time of that last test result, I was getting ready to go and see Star Wars. Still feeling full from that Subway, I figured that I would skip dinner (sorry, Mum!). I gave my Lantus dose an hour and a half earlier than normal, and headed out the door. I parked the car at 5.59pm, and a quick test showed I was 5.1. I knew straight away that I was on a downward trend. Definitely a combination of overlapping Lantus doses and skipping dinner that night. Which I should have anticipated, given this just happened a few weeks ago.

We walked in, bought our tickets, and went to sit down in the theatre. I knew that I was hypo, and that I would need some sugar to last me through the movie. For a lack of personal space in the theatre (brother on my left, stranger on the right), I decided to go and test outside. I leaned over to my brother and asked him for my ticket.

A quick test outside the theatre confirmed that I was a borderline hypo 4.0. I headed over to the candy bar, where thankfully, the line was empty.

“Do you have any juice in the fridge?” I asked the attendant, squinting at the drinks fridge behind the counter. I returned to the theatre with a very overpriced bottle of orange juice, noting the 34g of carbs on the label.

I sat back in my seat, reluctant for a few moments to open that bottle of juice in front of the two people I was with who I hadn’t brought anything for. I decided I could excuse myself later, and skulled two thirds of the bottle.

Thankfully the guy on my right had moved down 2 seats, giving me some personal space to test again 15 minutes later. By this point, it was dark. I was relying on the bright scenes on screen in order to see what I was doing. My meter backlight told me I was 2.9, and I quickly skulled the rest of my juice.

Another 15 minutes later I was 7.4, and at last I could finally focus on the movie.

While the force of low blood sugar levels were with me that night, I was pretty proud of how I handled the situation. One year ago, I would have sat that hypo out in the theatre until I truly felt those low symptoms coming on. 

Today, I have the confidence to attend to a hypo in public right away.