I really wanted a piece of pie last night.

Really bad.

Usually I avoid those kinds of things. You know. On account of the ‘betes.

On Sunday, the wee one and I had made a family favourite: Banana Blueberry Cream Pie. Graham cracker crust. Banana and blueberry filling. Toasted marshmallows on top. YUM!

I took extra insulin for it when I injected my dinner dose. I felt I had earned that little slice of heaven after the whole comment fiasco (see There are pussies, dicks and assholes.) and a busy weekend camp out riddled with the sniffles. But post-fiasco, once the adrenaline dissipated, I was left with very low blood glucose levels. I was crashing.

Business of ‘Betes

Stress, for me, can be deadly. There are incredible consequences that result from stress. For me, it drives my blood glucose levels sky high. Dry mouth. Confusion. Extra trips to the loo. Irritability. Stress related highs are really difficult to manage. I find them both challenging and infuriating. If I use my insulin to correct them I run the risk of a really serious plummet. A bad crash. If I exercise to burn it off I run the risk of crashing hours later. Unexpectedly. In the middle of the night. If I do not correct with insulin or exercise the risk of a bad crash is less, however, the low is inevitable.

AND, if the inevitable does not happen? AND, I still do nothing? My blood sugars will remain high. Dry mouth. Confusion. Extra trips to the loo. Irritability. Kidney Disease. Nerve damage. Eye troubles. Gum Disease. An internal massacre of my organs and nervous system.

This is a side of diabetes most people do not know about. Unless they have it or have someone close to them does. And, it is one some people will say does not exist. People like my biological mother. She believed my diabetes was a ploy for attention. Something I had fabricated. All in my head, as it were. Her diabetes belief structure and the fact that she tried to convince my husband he should take my baby and leave me, are just a couple of reasons why that relationship has failed. Not once. But twice. Anyways. My diabetes is not made up. It is not pretend. I prick my fingers countless times a day, give myself numerous injections and endure other tortures on daily basis just to stay alive. But it really isn’t all that surprising. Her attitude towards my disease. The majority of the world has what I believe is quite a fucked up view of diabetes. Take, for example, my government’s view: insulin is NOT life-sustaining therapy. What??? That’s right. I take it to stay alive but it does not sustain my life. Hmm.

Anyways.

Waiting It Out

While I should have been eating pie, possibly to comfort myself, I was instead trying to fight for a blood glucose reading of 4.0 or greater – I was engaged in a quest for the magic number. The Glucagon didn’t come out for this event (as it did during The Hours Long Crash) but anytime those blood sugar levels dipsy-do into the low 3’s it is worrisome.

So.

Did I have pie? YES. I had to wait for nearly an hour for my sugar levels to resume normalcy. Testing every 15 minutes with my fingers crossed for an improvement. My hubby pacing and asking, is there anything I can get for you? And, when I had that piece of pie I had to take an extra injection. An injection I would not have taken had my levels not done such a dangerous dance after meal time.

Was it worth it? I don’t know. My tummy has two schools of thought about that one. My “inside” tummy was happy – yippee! – likely because it was drunk on a satiating over-indulgent dose of sweet sugar. But. My “outside” tummy, riddled with needles holes, was hurt. The injection site bled. Ouch. And today I have a new bruise.

Not a Little Lady

A new one for my collection. I keep them on my abdomen. Battle scares. Evidence of my war on diabetes. Self-esteem issues aside, you can imagine why this girl doesn’t don a belly exposing bikini come summertime. Self-censorship.

I am not reeling per se from my experience last night. The diabetes incident is par for the course. Typical. But dishonesty would be abound if I said that the comment fiasco was all water under the proverbial bridge.

I am offended that in this day and age such ignorance still runs rampant. And, while I may not be a bra-burning feminist, I find it really disappointing that there are men out there who believe it is okay to pat women on their heads in a condescending manner. It is unacceptable that the lack of armature between my legs denotes I am a lesser being. That I am unintelligent or incapable of separating emotion and common sense. That I view the world through rose-coloured glasses. Just because you boys have an extra head doesn’t mean you have more brains.

I try really hard to see the good in people. And the world around me. I find those strong inclinations I have to be sad. I do it by being positive. Or in the very least I put forth an effort to stay afloat. To rise to the top of those murky waters. To grab a little bit of sunshine.

I am not a type of person.

I do not fall into a category.

People needing to shuffle others into designated slots are terribly misguided I fear. Misguided and often incapable of accepting difference.

We are all human beings.

And there are some decent ones out there. Not as many as one would hope. But all great numbers started out small. Right?

I wish we would spend more time encouraging each other in a positive manner.

Do I think the meanies should be silenced? Censored? Not necessarily. I believe completely in the freedom of speech (or type). Within reason. Police yourself. Do not say something just for the sake of saying something. Do not go out of your way to be inappropriate. Do not make everything personal. Do not go to unnecessary lengths to have your voice heard. Do not dampen the sound of another.

We all deserve a piece of pie.

But that doesn’t mean we will all be having one. Regardless of the reason, respect that.