As much as it pains me to do so, I have to admit that I've grown a bit overconfident in the last couple of years in regard to my skill in maintaining my blood sugar level. So overconfident in fact that I haven't bought juice or candy in ... well ... I think it's been at least a couple of years since I've purchased juice or candy to have on hand in case my blood sugar suddenly dropped. I stopped buying those items because my blood sugar never drops anymore ... I can't remember the last time I passed out or shook like a leaf or yelled at whomever happened to be in the line of fire when my blood sugar took a dive below my uh-oh number of 80ish. Perhaps overconfident isn't a strong enough descriptor to fully identify my lackadaisical attitude ... perhaps it's more accurate to say that I had become downright prideful and cocky about how well I keep my blood sugar in check. And we all know what pride cometh before ... pride cometh right before a big old terrifying reminder that I'm really not the one in control at all.
Last Tuesday evening after I got home from work, I ate dinner and headed out to take Ollie for a short walk ... I had work to do, so I didn't have time to walk as far or as long as I normally do. I had planned to walk for 30 minutes or so ... way, way less time than I usually walk ... and I was right on schedule as I turned onto the sidewalk for the short 5-minute walk home. The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, however, I suddenly went from strolling along at my normal pace to feeling as though I was plodding through quicksand, breaking out in a cold sweat and becoming so nauseated I thought for sure I was going to throw up. And to make matters worse, Ollie the wiener dog began running back and forth in front of me, growling at me and tugging on my pants leg. I didn't realize it then, but now I know my little pup was trying to tell me he knew something was terribly wrong. I tugged on his leash and kept repeating the words, "Come on, Ollie ... we need to get home, buddy ... let's just get home, little guy ... help me get home."
I have no idea how I did it, but I managed to make it home, open the garage door, get into my kitchen and grab my testing kit. I peeled off my by then soaking wet sweatshirt, pricked my finger and waited for my reading to appear on the screen. For those of you who are unfamiliar with diabetes, a blood glucose reading of less than 70 is considered to be the point when things can get really serious really quickly. Everyone has different thresholds, of course, but to give you a frame of reference, I get the shakes when my blood sugar drops below 80 or so, and the very few times it's dropped to 65, I've passed out. When my reading finally popped up on the screen Tuesday night, I thought for sure my meter had malfunctioned. So I stuck my finger again and waited for the number to appear ... and again ... and again ... and again. I stuck myself six times in six different fingers and got within a point or two of the same reading each time ... 15. I'll spare you the details of what went on for the next hour or so, but suffice it to say that Ollie growled until he was hoarse and I ate enough peanut butter, yogurt, cheese and cashews to kill a horse. And yes, I've spoken with my doctor and have an appointment next week for testing and blood work ... she thinks the episode on Tuesday was most likely just a sign that it's time for a medication change. Not long after I was diagnosed, I read a quote from a fellow diabetic that has stuck with me all these years ... "Dealing with diabetes is like wrestling an octopus every single minute of your life" ... truer words were never spoken.
I'm willing to bet I know what some of you are thinking, and trust me, I've been thinking the same things myself ... in fact, I've been thinking those things nonstop since Tuesday evening. Why didn't I pass out while I was out walking? Why didn't I have a seizure right there on the sidewalk? Why didn't I realize my blood sugar was crashing? Why didn't I fall and crack my head open on the concrete? Why didn't I go into a diabetic coma after I made it home? Why didn't I ... insert very deep breath here ... why didn't I die Tuesday evening? And while those questions continue to haunt me even now several days later, there are some others that I think may continue to haunt me for a much, much longer time. Why didn't I immediately call 911 when I realized my meter was giving me the correct reading? Why didn't I call anyone and tell them I was in trouble? My phone was in my pocket ... why didn't I use it to call for help? After much thought and the deepest of pondering, I can only come up with one answer to all of those questions ... I don't know.
The truth of the matter is that I shouldn't be alive to type these words, friends ... people don't survive when their blood glucose level drops to 15 ... I should have died Tuesday evening. At the very least I should be lying in a hospital bed right now in an irreversible diabetic coma ... people slip into comas and never come out when their blood glucose level is 15. I most certainly shouldn't have been able to think clearly enough to test my blood sugar when I got home that evening, much less be able to eat enough food to get it back to a still too low but high enough to survive level. And yet, here I am ... typing away as if Tuesday evening never took place. Except for those questions, of course ... except for those damn questions that I simply cannot force out of my mind. There's no denying that Someone far greater than me has a reason for keeping me around for a while longer. I don't know why, but after what happened Tuesday evening, there's no denying that He has a reason.
Why didn't I? God only knows, friends ... only God truly knows.
I have no idea how I did it, but I managed to make it home, open the garage door, get into my kitchen and grab my testing kit. I peeled off my by then soaking wet sweatshirt, pricked my finger and waited for my reading to appear on the screen. For those of you who are unfamiliar with diabetes, a blood glucose reading of less than 70 is considered to be the point when things can get really serious really quickly. Everyone has different thresholds, of course, but to give you a frame of reference, I get the shakes when my blood sugar drops below 80 or so, and the very few times it's dropped to 65, I've passed out. When my reading finally popped up on the screen Tuesday night, I thought for sure my meter had malfunctioned. So I stuck my finger again and waited for the number to appear ... and again ... and again ... and again. I stuck myself six times in six different fingers and got within a point or two of the same reading each time ... 15. I'll spare you the details of what went on for the next hour or so, but suffice it to say that Ollie growled until he was hoarse and I ate enough peanut butter, yogurt, cheese and cashews to kill a horse. And yes, I've spoken with my doctor and have an appointment next week for testing and blood work ... she thinks the episode on Tuesday was most likely just a sign that it's time for a medication change. Not long after I was diagnosed, I read a quote from a fellow diabetic that has stuck with me all these years ... "Dealing with diabetes is like wrestling an octopus every single minute of your life" ... truer words were never spoken.
I'm willing to bet I know what some of you are thinking, and trust me, I've been thinking the same things myself ... in fact, I've been thinking those things nonstop since Tuesday evening. Why didn't I pass out while I was out walking? Why didn't I have a seizure right there on the sidewalk? Why didn't I realize my blood sugar was crashing? Why didn't I fall and crack my head open on the concrete? Why didn't I go into a diabetic coma after I made it home? Why didn't I ... insert very deep breath here ... why didn't I die Tuesday evening? And while those questions continue to haunt me even now several days later, there are some others that I think may continue to haunt me for a much, much longer time. Why didn't I immediately call 911 when I realized my meter was giving me the correct reading? Why didn't I call anyone and tell them I was in trouble? My phone was in my pocket ... why didn't I use it to call for help? After much thought and the deepest of pondering, I can only come up with one answer to all of those questions ... I don't know.
The truth of the matter is that I shouldn't be alive to type these words, friends ... people don't survive when their blood glucose level drops to 15 ... I should have died Tuesday evening. At the very least I should be lying in a hospital bed right now in an irreversible diabetic coma ... people slip into comas and never come out when their blood glucose level is 15. I most certainly shouldn't have been able to think clearly enough to test my blood sugar when I got home that evening, much less be able to eat enough food to get it back to a still too low but high enough to survive level. And yet, here I am ... typing away as if Tuesday evening never took place. Except for those questions, of course ... except for those damn questions that I simply cannot force out of my mind. There's no denying that Someone far greater than me has a reason for keeping me around for a while longer. I don't know why, but after what happened Tuesday evening, there's no denying that He has a reason.
Why didn't I? God only knows, friends ... only God truly knows.
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