Hola, Low, We Meet Again.

It is 10:52, and I've just checked my blood sugar. 113. I smile, happy that I've dosed my insulin right. I'm getting good at this, no?

Spanish class begins, and I sit alert in my seat. Everything is fine at first, as we watch videos and go over drills, preparing for our next test.

Then I feel a little bit dizzy. It is 11:32. My fingertips and toes and then my whole body get a slight tingle. I'm not low, am I? There's no way. Anyways, I can just sit it out. We get out in 18 short minutes and I'm sure I'll be just fine. I sit for a while, confident that I can beat out this low until lunchtime. Besides, if it gets really bad I have a snack right?

Right?

Oh. That's right.

Not right.

In my rush to get to class this morning (having woken up late - again) my mental checklist definitively did have "grab 2 snacks and put them in my backpack" on it. That's great, except I'd forgotten. No worries, I'd thought, getting to my research methods class. At any rate, I'd probably run high all throughout the morning up until lunch.

But apparently I'd been dreadful wrong. The low was getting worse now, becoming hard to ignore. I turned to Crystal who sat next to me, a little bit panicked at this sudden realization. "I'm low and I don't have any sugar," I told her, my voice full of worry. She checked to see if she had anything in her backpack but she didn't. We were watching videos now, and it would be hard to get the attention of Professor Smotherman without disrupting the class. I really didn't want to call attention to myself, or interrupt anything. Sure, it was a medical emergency, but that would be rude and embarrassing. Ugh. My logic.

So I tried once again to ignore the low, meeting each attempt with less and less success. I finally pulled out my meter just to test and see where I was at. The meter flashed back at me: 59. I didn't need a Dexcom to tell me that I was most certainly still falling. I could practically feel it with each and every passing second. I got dizzier, the room span, my breathing grew slow and measured as I tried to control the weakness seeping through my limbs.

This wasn't even the lowest I'd ever been, but I felt worse than I ever had in a very, very long time.
I gave one last effort at waiting it out until I knew that if I stayed in class any longer it might end with somebody sticking a glucagon injection in me. Those needles looked plain nasty, but I figure if I'm ever low enough to need one, I probably won't care.

Note to readers: In case of a severe low, someone please stick me with this.

But getting a glucagon injection wasn't exactly at the top of my to-do list today, or ever. So I gathered up my belongings and quietly walked to the door, pausing by Professor Smotherman, hoping she'd turn around. When she did, I hurriedly said, whispering, "I have low blood sugar. I need to leave early and get something to eat." It wasn't as bad as I pictured it, actually. "Go," she told me, and I made quick work of leaving the room. I did my best to walk in a straight line. They say being low is similar to being intoxicated. I don't know if this is true, as I've only felt one of those sensations before, but I'd be hard-pressed to say that any alcohol drinker has ever felt as bad as I did in that moment. It felt like gravity was weighing down twice its normal pressure on me. My body shook, sweat dripped down my forehead and back. I had to grab hold of the rail to make sure I didn't fall down the stairs. Someone probably should have gone with me, just to make sure I made it to the cafeteria okay, but I managed myself. It was the longest walk of my life. 

I finally made it to the lunchroom, a panting, sweaty mess. I found an empty table, incapable of words at the moment, threw down my stuff, and walked as quickly as I could. Get.food. That was the only thing I was sure I could do at the moment, though making it to the lunch line and back to the table still seemed a pretty daunting task. Once I did, I sat down and scarfed it down as quick as I could. In the newfound heat of the coming early spring, sweat continued to bead down my back. I felt gross and sticky. I felt groggy. My tongue was numb. 

I wanted to cry, full of renewed bitterness towards what this disease had done to me. No person should ever have to feel this way. Not me, not my friends, not my family, not strangers, not other PWOD's, not my enemies. 

But I was okay. It was a close call, but I'd averted the emergency before it was too late. Yes, it was miserable, and yes, it was inconvenient, and I was upset that Diabetes had won out and made me leave Spanish class early. I hated being a shaky, sweaty mess. But I guess at the end of the day what's important is that I'm still here. Diabetes could have taken my life from the get-go, back when I was diagnosed. It very nearly did. But it didn't. And I learned a lesson. Next time, don't forget snacks. Tomorrow, give myself less Novolog for breakfast. If I'm low, don't be afraid to interrupt and leave class. 

It's a learning experience, slowly but surely. With Diabetes, more so than anything else I've ever experienced, knowledge is power. I can't always prevent lows, but next time, what I can do is be more prepared. And that's exactly where I've got the upper hand on Diabetes - so being more prepared is just what I plan to do.