Did you ever have one of those days at work when you just couldn't make time for a break?  One of those days when you didn't stop to eat, drink, or go to the restroom?  One of those days when you were fully aware of the need to take a break, but you just couldn't stop for one?

Right about now, that's how life with diabetes is feeling for me. 

I just need a minute to breathe.  A minute to not think about this.  A minute wherein my mind isn't  consumed with my last inexplicable, frustrating number - or with the next test and the mystery and aggravation it could hold.  A minute to not think about the destruction this disease causes - the destruction that it is causing in me. 

And I know that I'm not going to get that minute. 

Over the past month, two women with whom I went to the Clara Barton Camp died from complications of diabetes.  Forty five and thirty years old.  I hate you diabetes.  I hate you.  And there is no hesitation or but about that.  You have no right.  No right to steal away lives that held such promise.  If you had a face, I'd punch it. 

Over the past week, my bloodsugars have been all over the map.  I spent three days with my pump basal rates set at 60% below my normal dose and my bolus rates adjusted down by 30-40%.  Still, I could barely keep my bloodsugar above eighty.  There was nothing odd going on.  There was no explanation for the bloodsugars that swooped from 80 mg/dl to below 30 mg/dl within forty minutes with no insulin on board.  There was no explanation, either, for the moderate ketones I was spilling for those same three days.  I wasn't sick, I wasn't overly stressed. 

And then today, with the rates adjusted downward still, I spent most of the morning above 300 mg/dl.  When I did turn back up toward the afternoon, still I stayed over 300 mg/dl.  I barely ate.  I gave insulin, full doses, for the few carbs I did consume.  But I spent the better part of the day in the way-too-high-for any-one's-good range, and I felt like hell. 

Whiskey?  Tango?  Foxtrot?  Seriously.

I'm feeling so out of control.  So weak.  Like I'm letting diabetes, and its injustice and incomprehensibility get the best of me.  But I am frustrated.  And I am just so freaking tired. 

I would give almost anything in my possession for a two hour break from diabetes.  Almost anything.

But I know all the money, all the stuff, all the wishing in the world won't buy me a break. 

So I go back to work.  And I hope for serenity, to accept this thing I cannot change.