My body hurts.  And I cannot find the words to describe it.

I am crippled by the stiffness in my muscles.  I am utterly exhausted to the point of defeat.

No wonder.  Hell of a night.

I spent the night fighting for my life.  Literally.

Thank you Diabetes.  Only you know how to make a gal feel…shitty.

The first low hit me around noon on Monday.  I was in the middle of painting the wee one’s toy room (struggling to stay on schedule as his first ever birthday bash is now less than two weeks away – eekI!) and I was sweating much more than the work I was doing warranted, then came the shakes and that strange inside-of-myself feeling.

Better test.

I trudge my ass up the stairs, grudgingly (I really wanted to paint!), snatch up my glucometer, pop open the drum of test strips, slide one out and insert it in the slot.  Then I pick up the lancet device and prepare to draw blood.  PRICK!  And a tiny dot of scarlet appears on my finger tip only to be rushed over to the tiny line on the strip, where it is sucked up and initiates the five second countdown…

5

4

3

2

1

2.5 – oh fuck.  Really?  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I guzzle down a juice box, grab a pack of blue fruits (these tiny all fruit gummie treats with the perfect amount of carbohydrates for me to bring my glucose levels up) and mosey on back down to the basement and start painting again.  About two hours later I head back upstairs.  I test.  The result is just as bad as the last time I was above ground…fuck.

I addressed the low blood sugar and cleaned up my painting crap.  It was time to pick the little guy up from school.  Then make an exchange (the outfit my nana got him for Christmas, which we picked up when we saw her on the weekend to celebrate her birthday, was a size too small) and pick the hubby up from work.  In the midst of what appeared to be a blizzard.  All before heading over to the pool for the wee one’s swimming lesson.

We returned home around 6:30 and I felt it again…

Night Fighting

I went to bed around 9 pm.  Hubby was concerned and so was I.  These were not typical lows.  They were bad ones.  And these bad hypoglycemic episodes continued every 90 minutes or so all night long.  Until about 5:45 am on Tuesday.

In the middle of all of that going on, the little one found himself very stuffy and in need of cuddles.  In our bed.  Argh.

I probably would have been okay if not for the last two lows.  That 2.2 and 2.4 hit especially hard.  The latter of the two found me confused and alone in the kitchen with sweat seeping through my night gown.  Hubby arrived just in time to find me questioning whether I had just pissed my pants or not.  The answer was not.  Phew.  It was sweat.  I was quite literally dripping with sweat.  And shaking.  Not phew.  And struggling to catch my breath.

Your chest is red, hubby observes.  I guess he has picked up a few of his own “tells” over the years, this is a really bad one, isn’t it?

YUP.

And it was.  Scared me a little.  Especially since I have yet to figure out why it happened.  And I likely won’t.  As these things just happen.  Sometimes.

Juice Boxing

I have long joked with my husband that his mum will live a long time.  Quite possibly forever.  Likely due to her sugar intake.  I believe that her love for and consumption of any and all things sweet may inevitably preserve her.

Between 9 pm Monday and 5:45 am Tuesday, I drank four or five of the little guy’s juice boxes.  And several handfuls of Nerds.  Plus several packages of blue fruits.  The lows had rendered me ravenous for all things sugar.  However some of what I consumed was done so based on fear more than necessity.  The amount of sugar I consumer during those hours is more than likely at least double what I would normally ingest over the course of a month.

And boy, can my body feel it today.

There is glucose crystalizing around my joints.  My knuckles are stiff, swollen.  My knees achy.  My hips immobile.  I am lethargic and unmotivated.  Easily frustrated and emotional.

Back to the sugary youth serum…it totally grosses me out.  All of the juice.  The candy.  The sweetness.  The sugar.  I was never the kid who went for the pop and candy.  Give me the carbs.  Bread and potato chips were (are) my weakness.  But when my lows are really bad I can get pretty crazy hungry.  For anything.  Even sugar.  And candy.  And juice.  *gag*

So I will likely die old and hag-like.  Oh well.

I have never known another Type 1 Diabetic, in the flesh or otherwise, to have the kind of chat that would enlighten me as to whether what happens to me is common or unusual.  Every T1D is unique.  The disease varies person to person.  Partly because of biology and environment.  Partly because of management.  Anyways.

**Note – the above was comprised the day after the episode, what lies beneath (oooh) came the day after the day after.**

#BellLetsTalk

The physical side of my diabetes can be a real pain in the ass.  I am an active person.  I like to be busy and keep a full plate (ha ha).  In no way am I saying that those things are difficult or impossible because of my diabetes.  I refer to the fact that occasionally you feel like shit because of it and feeling like shit usually renders one not highly motivated.  Getting passed the physical parts of my diabetes is often easier than the mental parts…

There has long been a connection between Diabetes and Depression.  And no wonder.  But I believe mental health is something everyone needs to be mindful of.  And not in a PC or polite kind of way.  I mean you need to be mindful of your own mental health.  Regardless of whether you are someone who “struggles” or not.  Personally.  I think (especially nowadays) we all suffer from a little something.

And that is nothing to be ashamed of.

The world is an incredibly fast-paced, judgemental and unforgiving place.  More and more there is less and less community between us.  We backbite each other scandalously on every level.  Leaving scars of every nature.  We have stopped supporting each other.  In favour of shiny baubles and trinkets.

With all of that it is no wonder people feel anxious, nervous, worthless, ashamed, scared, apprehensive, sad, dismayed, disappointed…whatever it is that you feel, in my opinion you’re probably fucking justified man, so I wouldn’t worry too much.  But if you do, well.  That’s cool too.  PLEASE just talk to someone.  Anyone.  And if one person doesn’t work.  Try another.  And another.  We, the listeners, are out there.  And we WILL listen.  But you have to come find us.  You can be too easily hidden sometimes.

I will post this on January 28^th, Bell Let’s Talk Day.  I encourage you to check it out.

Body of Work

My low blood sugar troubles started Monday at noon.  I type this around 9 pm on Wednesday.  And my body still hurts.  You can see it in my face (I worked today and even my co-workers inquired, you alright?).  In my eyes.  Apparently…as I casually roll them…

Our bodies are mysterious things.  And yet not.  Often we focus too much on the biological aspects and not enough on the stuff we are truly made of.  And that we know.  But it gets muddled by all the peripherals.  I try really hard to do right by me, to do right by my body.  And that includes my mind.  And my soul.  Because that is all of me.  But I am a work in progress.  So there will always be room for improvement.

Unfortunately, the little one is on the verge of a cold.  Poor lad.  Had a rough night last night.  Again.  There were too many in the bed, so this one said frig this, I’m outta here!  And, I left all of the boys – man, child, dog, cat – to escape to the little guy’s room for a few hours of less-than-restful sleep.

Hopefully tonight we all get a bit more rest.