Yesterday was a highly productive day, as far as Summer Break days go.
I spent the morning blogging and then drove over to our moonwalk warehouse down the street to wash my truck.
And boy, did my truck need washed.
I got my truck in September of last year -
I have not washed it once.
It actually didn't look that bad, all things considered... well, so I thought, until I actually started washing it, that is.
After I got it hosed off and got a good coat of soapy cleaning solution rubbed in, I realized that my truck had been so dirty that you could hardly tell how white it really was. The difference was akin to the difference between a pothole and the Grand Canyon. I didn't even know that white could feasibly be that dirty while still managing to be white. The start of my cleaning left streaks of pearly white crisscrossing all over the tepid grey coat of dirt that had settled on my truck for far too long.
I had figured I wouldn't be out there too long, so I didn't bother with sunscreen. I just stayed out in the brilliant, blinding hot Floridian sun with my white-white pale skin.
And fried, unsuspectingly enough, as I scrubbed and windex-ed, washed out the tailbed, vacuumed, waxed and launched an all-out offensive attack against any lovebugs that dared settle on my newly-cleaned car -- err, truck.
Sure, I could have saved myself the trouble, the effort, the slight hypoglycemia, and the searing sunburn by just running my truck through an automatic car wash for $5. But there's something purely satisfying about a clean, hand-washed truck. That and I was being a total cheapskate. That and I'm clearly a masochist because I just love getting highly painful sunburns in addition to testing my blood glucose and giving myself insulin shots.
I felt a little shakey after being out in the hot sun for at least two hours, so I took a break to let my car dry before applying the waxing spray. I tested my blood sugar and it was at 67; not too bad, but I didn't want to let that 67 slip into anything worse since I planned on being out there a little longer. I munched on a small granola bar and sipped a Diet Coke that I had brought along with me in the shade.
After I was convinced that my car was clean enough to be presented to the Queen, I stood back, admired my work, and drove home. It wasn't until about an hour later that I started to notice the painful sunburn developing on my arms, shoulder, neck and upper back. My blood sugar had also dropped to 57. Don't you just love your body sometimes? So I went ahead and made myself a quick dinner; tuna sandwich and an apple.
Low corrected, I let dinner settle and then was off - I have finally been inspired to work out again. I packed my meter and strips, lancet, water, a couple of snacks, glucose tabs, and glucagon kit into a backpack and biked over to the track. 2.5 miles of running-jogging-walking later, I biked back home. I ate a rice cake to stave off any low blood sugar and relaxed for the evening.
I tested before bed: 167. Kind of spiky. Hmm. I will admit to having snacked a little more than I should have. I only had a piece of fruit for bedtime snack since my sugar was that high, then gave myself Lantus, then went to bed.
My eyes flew open.
Mmmmphhhh. I muttered. Ugh.
The AC hasn't been working and the house is literally hotter than it is outside. But I am not much of a sweater, and I had woken up drenched - seriously drenched - in sweat.I felt like I had just been swimming in a pool of it. Conscience-Lacy suggested that perhaps I should check my blood sugar, just in case - now that I'm not waking up 5 times a night to use the bathroom anymore I usually sleep soundly unless low blood sugar wakes me up, which it has done only a few times before.
I turned on my bedside light and then realized how shaky my hand was. It all started to hit me. My heart was beating in my ears. I could hardly hold the lancet steady and it was two or three times before I could get a pinprick and slip the ruby red dot onto a test strip. 35. Mmmmkay, tired Lacy thought groggily.
Waaaiiit. Wha?
35?
I had never been that low before. I had exercised at 5:30 pm. Maybe this was delayed hypoglycemia from the exercise.
But ohmygosh.
35.
OHMYGOSH.
WTF.
My body suddenly seemed to realize, "Hey, woah, wow. 35. I'm gonna be a real pain, as I always am, and start freaking out on you now. More than usual." And I suddenly felt so weak that I didn't think I could have gotten up to get to the kitchen even if I had wanted to. It was paralyzing. I thanked God I had decided, on one of my OCD cleaning raids, to put my rice cakes in the drawer in my nightstand next to my bed. I whipped the drawer open, struggled to undo the plastic, and munched on one as fast as I could.
Then it was official. The beast had been unleashed.
NEED.FOOD.NOW.
I waited a sec to regain some strength and was off to the kitchen like a marathon runner.
FOOD!
I grabbed peanut butter, I grabbed cereal, I stuck cereal in peanut butter, I ate the cereal in the peanut butter, I grabbed graham crackers, I ate graham crackers with peanut butter and graham crackers with peanut butter and blackberry jelly, I ate scoops of peanut butter with jelly, I ate just scoops of peanut butter, I ate just scoops of jelly.
Oh, how I ate.
In actuality, I didn't actually eat all of that in such copious quantities as I made it out to be, but yeah. I still ate way too much. I over-corrected. And I knew it.
As I scooped spoons of peanut butter in my mouth, I knew that I had no business eating food anymore, I had already corrected myself more than enough.
But it was like... I didn't care.
I have divided my excuses onto two hands:
1.) On one hand, hypoglycemia makes you want to shove all food, any food, in your mouth, as soon as you can get it.
2.) On the other hand, as guilty as I feel to say it, hypoglycemia is the closest I can get to feeling like a normal person again.
To feeling like you.
To feeling like I can eat what I want, when I want, without inhibitions, without the constant carb-calculator, counting away, in my head 24 hours a day, without the nagging: "DIDYOUTAKEYOURSINULINYESITOOKTHEDAMNINSULIN" conscience of mine.
And it's a really crappy feeling.
I hate it.
I feel degraded, I feel defeated, I feel beaten.
I feel like diabetes wins in moments like that.
I HATE IT! Can you possibly understand how intolerable it is sometimes? I hate feeling guilty every time I eat something. I used to feel guilty about eating because of the amount of calories, what it would make my body look like, but that is no longer top priority! I still care, but that can no longer always come first!
Now it is because of the carbs, the blood sugar, the amount of insulin I'll need, my meal plan, what my Doctors will say, my A1C, my entire well-being. Every time I eat, it is not just the carb calculator in my head but the consequence calculator, adding up all of the consequences of my actions, what I have chosen to eat, advertising my shortcomings, blaring them in my face, on full-screen TV.
I hate that Diabetes, like an unwanted guest, has entered my life uninvited, unasked for, has taken over everything. I try my best to control it but it is times like this that I feel like Diabetes is the real boss. I hate that Diabetes makes me feel bad about doing something that I am naturally supposed to be allowed to do - but because my body has failed me - I can no longer do, well, naturally. I cannot eat a sandwich without thinking of it. I cannot mindlessly spoon peanut butter into my mouth any longer. Gone are the days when I can eat free cookies at Publix like I always used to, even though I am no longer 12. And then that makes me want to cheat, because not being able to eat normally makes me want to pretend like I can eat normally any chance I get.
And you know, Irony would have it that I would have never done those things if I hadn't gotten Diabetes. I never wanted to. But now it's not because I don't want to, it's because I can't, and I no longer have the choice.
Live or die Lacy, Live or die? Is sometimes the only option that I seem to have now; the one and only, terrible question that Diabetes will ever ask of me. What kind of a choice is that?
Now that I can't, I wish from the bottom of my heart that I had dared to live more before my diagnosis. Even if it was living in that simple way. Even if I had appreciated my good health more, my ability to eat without the hassle, the strain, the calculators, the insulin, the guilt, The Diabetes.
Yes, I over-corrected for my low. I knew that I would get a high from it. I knew better. My mind was telling me I knew better the whole time I sat there, over-correcting. I knew the consequences. I knew I would wake up and my blood sugar would be something along the lines of 229. UGH. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,
And yet I did it anyways.
I am human, I do stupid things, I succumb to weakness.
And I don't want it to happen again, but I can't honestly tell you if it will or not.
Because I am new to this, I am full of mistakes, I am Lacy Elizabeth Ball and I hate having Diabetes but I have to suck it up and live with it anyways, because to not live with it is to die.
So yes. This time, at 2 AM, the hypoglycemia struck back.
Who knows when it will strike again? Will I be ready?
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