An Odd Science

I am sorting papers upstairs for good 'ole Office of Admissions.

I feel it - if you've read my blog before, I don't even see the point in describing it anymore, because I've written about so many lows. I ignore it for a second, but quickly acquiesce - I can't fight this one, even though lunch break is just 20 minutes away.

I scramble downstairs to my bag to grab a snack and test.

Test first - other hand is sorting through bag for granola bar. 

World is buzzing. Can't focus. Number is 42 mg/dL.

"You alright?" Boss MaryAnn asks. 

MaryAnn has been more than nice with me. I'm low a lot - and she always sympathizes and gets me juice and lets me go to lunch early. But I've already done that twice this week, and I feel bad for having to do it again. I don't tell her, because it doesn't seem fair to do that and take time away from work again. 

"I'm fine." I say. "Just getting a snack."

I run out of the office and back towards the stairs to the sorting room upstairs.(and blah blah blah oshie was here - don't leave your unfinished blog up. hehe - love you baby, by the time you actually read this I will be in the laundry room - outside of your influence. ~Oshie) (That's not funny baby. I'm not good at laundry, but I can get it done... and get the washer replaced before anyone finds out I broke it) I have the wrapper torn open and I'm eating the granola bar, but as I'm running towards the stairs I am overcome by weakness and suddenly climbing those stupid stairs seems equivalent to climbing Mt. Everest. I have to stop mid way, and I lean against the wall, wiping sweat away from my brow. 

"I hate this," I mutter to myself.

I manage to climb up the stairs one at a time, then use a last burst of energy to make it to the couch just around the corner. The third floor of Wesleyan College's Olive Swann Porter Building is what we call the "furniture graveyard"; old antique couches, desks, rugs and chairs are scattered around the landing, and the offices and sorting rooms are through a door situated on one of the walls. The couch I plop on is not comfy, but my low self doesn't really care. 

At the moment, to me it is simply: couch. 

This low hits me hard. Lows are an odd science: some you don't feel, and others will knock you off your feet faster than being shoved will. I lose track of how much time I sit there, but instead sit and wipe sweat from my forehead. Susan comes by and I sit up, slightly embarrassed at my current state.
"I'm just low. I'm resting until I feel better, I don't feel so good."
"Oh, dear, are you ok?" She asks. "Rest as long as you need to."
I feel like crap but know I'll be fine, this has happened before, and so she walks down the stairs.
5 minutes later Mary Ann comes up the stairs holding a glass of juice. Susan has clearly told Mary Ann (as any concerned person would do) that I was laying upstairs looking pale and drawn. I don't say anything, just "hey" and drink the juice. It touches me that Mary Ann cares, but I wish that Diabetes didn't interrupt my life like this so much.
I don't want to be the sick kid, the liability, the one that has to interrupt a campus tour because of a low.
I don't want to have to leave work early, or take 30 minutes off, to treat. In truth, it makes me a little ashamed.
I have so much I'm capable of - being driven is one of my strongest traits.
It sucks when you feel like Diabetes limits you, no matter how much drive you have.
But such is life, no?
"Take care of yourself," she says.
I promise, I'll keep doing my best.