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.















