The moral of this story is… Don’t eat.
Woke up this morning, barely, after my dear bride hit me because I ignored the alarm for the second time. Damned alarm…
I reached for the iPhone/alarm/life-device and turned off the alarm, peeked at the Dexcom app and saw a not-remarkable close-to-300 number. My brain somehow recognized this as a sign of, um, something. My darling spouse whacked me again, and realizing that this was a sign, an omen?, a message?, I realized that I had not turned the damn alarm off.
I then carefully and slowly poked the off button and again peeked at the Dexcom app. Yeah, 300. Okay, now to take action! Well, more like clear the excessive cobwebbing from my glucose-infested brain and body. So. Off to the kitchen. The resulting shot was no big deal but the guilt of having a high BG was, as always, large. After taking my shots (bear with me here, I am on a long hiatus from the pump. Ahh, another story!) I poured a cup of joe and zapped it. What to do, what to do? The thoughts s l o w l y rolled out of my brain pan and into my consciousness: Dammit, what did I do? My bedtime BG was ok, wasn’t it? Did I over-correct? Shit, it was the pasta. The Pasta. (Another story!)
As quickly as I was able, I managed my morning routine. Thank goodness it’s a routine or I’d be spinning like a top trying to figure out just what in the name of Elsie the Cow I had to do. Ahhh, Elsie, yes. Pour the milk and make the breakfast so my kid doesn’t starve. Thank you Elsie. Also, thank you Elsie for providing your pancreases over the past 100 years (give-or-take) so that poor creatures such as myself can live with Diabetes. OK, so the juice is now GMO, and I’m happy to have the GMO stuff (Insulin Analogs they call them: Novolog, Humalog, Lantus, Levemir, etc. etc. — it’s still insulin by any other name ok?) and I owe Elsie, and Elmer, and Porky, and Petunia a tip of my hat for providing my early years with the stuff. Anyway, I digress…
Elsie thanked, and breakfast made, I spin around like a top a few more times and realize I have to get dressed or look silly in my PJs as I drive to school looking like I just woke up (which, in fact, I did). Dressed and not shaved, my brain somehow gets out of it’s own bed, stretches and shakes, and then, proudly, jumps right back into bed and gives me the finger. I yell at it once, twice, three times, and, fearing for its life slowly creeps out of its own brain pan/Posturepedic and livens up a bit. Just a bit. BG is creeping down. S l o w l y. Dammit. The conundrum is that if I want the BG to come down fast I bolus up, only to crash in a few minutes. That, in a word, is suboptimal. It sucks. What ensues is a super-low BG, then massive carbs, then a high BG, then another shot, then more carbs, etc. etc. It’s not quite as easy as the docs, the CDEs, or the books (so many books!) tell me. Oh, just take so many grams of carbs! When my body is scrrrrreeeammming for carbs and resistance is futile. So after a few hours it finally settles and I can start my day. Yeah, around 1pm or so. You?
