Yesterday was one of those days.
I had one and I know several people I know had one. A few Facebook friends with wee ones shared reports that their little ones were out of sorts. My husband was supposed to go in to work, but they called and told him not to – which to some people would be wonderful news, but he works in retail, it is a new job, a training shift mind you, but income lost regardless – and all day we seemed to be crossing our wires; I always know something is up between us when we get too polite with each other.
Anyways, while it was an odd day here, as usual, there were quite a few good moments too. We all ventured out in the deep freeze to pick up the last few things needed to finish a project at home. We vowed to do the wee one’s bedroom first. Not only is his birthday a few days away (holy smokes!) but his bedroom was used as a giant closet by the previous owner and so leaves a lot to be desired. It is coming a long quite nicely, and the wee one is so pleased to be a part of the design process (you should see the curtains this kid picked out!), but it has not been without its own little speed bumps!
It took the little guy a while to fall asleep, and we tend to putter around until he is, so we did not actually begin the evening wind down until close to 9 pm (which is a bit later than normal for us). We had just sat down to watch something on PVR. I was going to work on a painting for the wee one’s new room. I had everything out, canvas, paints, brushes and even a small glass of vino tinto. It was fixing to be a nice night…and then…
My skin feels prickly.
I am sweating slightly.
And, I have the shakes.
My sugars are crashing (or if you prefer, more scientifically, my blood glucose levels are showing signs I am low), and I need to test.
My husband rushes to the kitchen to grab a wee juice box…do you need anything else?
I cannot answer because I am hoovering the juice box, trying to get the sweet glucose it contains transferred to me as quickly as possible. We have had discussions about this; do not expect me to answer your questions when I am trying to drink or eat to get my sugars up, is what I bark back. Granted, I am trying to save my life, but he means well and is desperately trying to help.
I do not envy his position.
I know what it feels like to be in mine. My position is a scary one; my blood glucose is a measure of my state of affairs, shall we say, but most of the time – even with a very bad low – I am able to maintain some kind control over myself. He has to sit there and watch someone he loves endure diabetic torture.
Testing over and over, every 15 minutes, waiting for improvement, the numbers not getting any higher, bringing another juice box, some cheese and crackers…contemplating the Glucagon.
A reading over four, hooray! It is almost cause for celebration. Almost.
I feel wretched. It took nearly 45 minutes to get that happy number (in the instance of a low, the goal becomes get the blood glucose over 4.0 – mind you I am in Canada, so this does not necessarily translate for diabetics elsewhere), but that is where the happy ends. My body aches. I feel wiped out completely. Energy zapped. Guess I am not painting anymore tonight.
We tidy up the art supplies, empty juice box, and the other paraphernalia, with the hopes of resuming our show. Do I even remember what we were watching? Oh yes, okay. I do, but I do not remember what was going on or the conversation (pleasant or otherwise) that I was having with my husband when the blood sugars first went down; I find during my ‘crashes’ I do not have much mental retention. Thankfully, no one (currently) takes advantage of this.
We sit and prepare to resume relaxation and I look at him. He knows why, jumps up and returns with the glucometer (or as we both affectionately refer to it, the GLOCK).
What the Fuck!
Another juice box. Another 15 minutes of waiting, then testing; another snack, then waiting and testing.
It has been 45 minutes again and no happy number yet.
Holy shit, I think, this is a bad one.
And then I get it, a lovely 4.8!
But I am destroyed.
I feel like I just got hit by a transport truck, then another, and maybe run over by a car.
The stiffness in my body renders me immobile. I am in a pile on the couch clinging to a pillow and the hope of finishing my glass of wine. What were we watching? Oh yeah. So we press play and finish the show. When it is done I meander to the bedroom, GLOCK in hand because after the evening I have had I do not want it far from me, should I need it in the wee small hours of the morning.
I had a rough night. I never sleep well after crashing right before bed. Sometimes it makes me nervous to sleep. You know, like, the diabetes is going to get you in the middle of the night, yeah…anyways, no real sleep for me (who already does not sleep well). I am okay with that, I made it to the morning. And sometimes, that is my only goal. Mission accomplished.
The coffee this morning went down too well. Nectar of the gods! I only started drinking coffee a couple of months ago. I used to poo-poo it and make funny faces at my coffee loving husband while drinking my tea, but I now quite enjoy a cup. Especially this morning.
I wonder if my husband will be told to stay home again today. As displeased as we were that he lost that shift yesterday, sitting next to each other on the couch right now, we both know we would not mind if that call came again today.
Alas, time for a second cup? Probably!
3 thoughts on “The Hours Long Crash”
Pingback: Let Her Eat Pie | A Soul is a Resilient Thing
Pingback: Busted Guts: The Middle | A Soul is a Resilient Thing
Pingback: Mind Junk | A Soul is a Resilient Thing