That title is likely a bit dramatic when compared to my poor father, who’s currently paralyzed from the neck down, or people with debilitating conditions that eventually make them lose control of their own body. Even when compared to my Diabetic peers, I’m pretty much the top tier of how one should control their condition. If that sounds like I’m bragging, it’s because I am. I’ve worked extremely hard over the decades to maintain proper blood sugar control, stay healthy and in reasonably good shape and show Diabetes that I’ll fight back and won’t go down easy.
All of that being said and as noble as it sounds, it doesn’t change the fact that Type-1 Diabetes is a condition that essentially makes one a prisoner to their therapies. Without it, and as I’ve often written before, the average Type-1 Diabetic will only survive roughly ten days before slipping into a comatose state and dying. It’s a harsh reality that I am reminded of on a weekly basis when my blood sugars drop or spike, or I fall ill and have my whole bodily system go haywire. But on the whole, and for the past ten years or so, I’ve become a model citizen of a shitty place I like to call Diabetesburg.
Once in a while, my condition will do something that shakes the dust off and scares the ever-loving fuck out me, and reminds me that I always have to be vigilant and prepared. It’s a shitty way to live but a necessary one. It simply means I lack some of the day-to-day freedoms that most people get to enjoy. This brings us to an unfortunate incident that took place last Wednesday when my family and I decided to go out to dinner after I got off of work. It reminded me of just how prepared I had to be.
It started late afternoon, when my wife and I were discussing supper options for when I got home. We had previously agreed on a taco salad and were discussing who would stop and gather ingredients to prepare it. My wife suddenly remembered she had a free desert at one of our favourite sit-down restaurants in the city. This was a perk she had received for her birthday last month, but it would expiring at the end of the week. The unfortunate part is she couldn’t simply order it and pick it up; it had to be consumed on site in conjunction with a meal.
We decided to treat ourselves to dinner so that the complimentary desert wouldn’t be lost. This involves convincing our two sons, who are extremely picky eaters, to leave the house so that we could indulge. My wife was successful in this endeavour and we all piled into the family vehicle and headed over to the restaurant. An important detail to note is that when I left work, my blood sugar was sitting at a very comfortable, very normal, 5.5 mmol/L. My CGM showed no indication that I would headed on a downward trend or any issues. Considering we were going to eat, I thought I was good to go.
Good to go, for me, means that I don’t have to drag my “man purse” with me. This usually contains a glucometre, fast-acting carbs, as well as a small first aid kit and an assortment of small self-defense implements that I almost always keep on my person. Again, since we were going to eat, I felt I could drive from my home to the restaurant, which was only about five minutes away, without much cause for concern. I would realize very quickly just how very wrong I was…
We started by placing our drink orders. Waters for my wife and I, and chocolate milk for our two ankle-biters. We placed some simple meal orders, including a cheese pizza for my oldest and chicken fingers for the youngest. My wife and I decided to split an order of boneless wings with some fries. The reasons for listing all of our food choices becomes important shortly. Besides a trip to the “potty” with my youngest and downing my water within two minutes, which is pretty common for me, we received our food without incident. Them my pump buzzed against my hip and all hell broke loose.
I felt it was strange that my pump would be asking for a calibration around 5pm, which is not when I usually do my testing. But lo and behold, it was a low blood sugar alert. I had dropped to about 3.2 mmol/L. Okay, deep breath… Not a big deal, food is going in, right? Wrong. Within a few short minutes, my pump alerted me to “Below 2.8 mmol/L,” which is its polite way of telling me that it could no longer gauge what my blood sugar was actually sitting at. This is problematic for two reasons. The first, is that my breaded chicken wings would provide some carbohydrate but likely not enough to reverse this extreme low. The second is that on average, most people will lose consciousness right around the 2.0 mmol/L mark, and I was sitting in a fucking restaurant.
I’ve gone almost twenty years without having to call an ambulance for something Diabetes-related, and that night was not the night I intended to break that streak. One big issue is that over the decades, I’ve worked towards keeping myself reasonably high-functioning when hit with low levels. This is safety measure I trained myself for as a result of my law enforcement career, where I may not always have the ability to stop and eat whenever I choose. By virtue of this, I often won’t feel the symptoms of low blood sugar for typical lows. But this was far from a typical low.
I began to sweat, my hands were shaking and my vision blurred. My fine motor skill began to fail and I was wolfing down wings like my life depended on it… because it did! Usually, and to be clear, this is no fault of the restaurant staff, but usually we barely take two bites and someone’s at our table asking how things are tasting. On this occasion, and because life hates me, our waitress was nowhere to be found. The couple of times I saw her, she was rushing off with food or taking payment from someone. All I needed was to put in an order for a Coke or Pepsi so I could get something fast-acting into my system,
Time was draining away and I didn’t have a great window of opportunity before I would need medical intervention. I started contemplating alternatives. Gulping down my children’s chocolate milk? Stagger across the parking lot to the gas station and grab a pack of Skittles? Go figure, the one time I leave the house without my pack and this happens… And where the fuck was our waitress??? She finally comes by and I mumble out that I would like a Coke or a Pepsi. She carries on asking about anything else and my wife, to her credit, piped up and said, “He needs that soda right away.” The waitress quickly scurried away and got it.
I gulped that fizzy fucker down like it was liquid ambrosia and 600 mL was gone in seconds. I sat, woozy and disoriented, for almost ten minutes before my vision slowly started to clear and my wife indicated my eyes were no longer bloodshot. I ate sparingly for the reminder of the meal, trying to allow my system to focus on the syrupy sugar I had just introduced. By the time we were ready to leave the restaurant, I had increased to 4.4 mmol/L. By the time we got home, I had blown my opportunity to work out or do anything productive with my night. My body was blasted, I was exhausted, and I hadn’t come that close to an actual Diabetes-related emergency in quite a number of years.
As with all things, I try my best to look at the positive side of things. This incident taught me that as I get older, things will get worse, not better, and it’s on me to always ensure I’m prepared and equipped to deal with my condition, no matter where I am or how close to home it may be. While my blood sugars showed absolutely no sign of dropping when I left home, Diabetes is a fickle mistress that will stab you in your sleep without notice. I should point out that until I decided to go to bed, my blood never got above 5.0 mmol/L. Nothing a few jellybeans couldn’t fix but I have no idea what happened. Next time, I’ll be better prepared to ensure this never gets this bad. ☯️
The Blogging Buddhist 