Hmmm, that title could be misinterpreted by anyone not diabetic. I get funny looks when I take a blood test, whistle under my breath at the result, and say “Wow, I’m high.” People at my table look over to see if I am shooting up or rolling some weed. (I’ve noticed I also get funny looks from urbanites when I mention mowing marijuana. The corrals fill up with weeds, including that weed, and you mow it down with the tractor. Ranchers just let it lay- no reason to bale, it has no feed value for the cows. I find NO pleasure in mowing down that dusty, pollen laden crap. It stinks to high heaven and gives you a terrible headache.)
But I digress… my bloodsugars have been on the high side lately. A lot of 200’s and some pesky 300’s I can’t get rid of at night. Ahhh, I can hear your judgments already. “No wonder she has complications with her diabetes.” You are the same people who criticized Paula Deen for eating butter and getting diabetes.
But here is what you don’t understand. I could tighten up control. I could be more generous with my carb ratio. But it just takes just one low, one low that scares you enough. You tend to run higher out of fear.
I had that low. It was after ReeRee’s birthday party. I was exhausted and drug myself off of the couch. It was 8:45 pm, but I didn’t care. I was so tired I thought about sleeping in my clothes. I felt fine, got ready for bed, and almost forgot to take a bloodtest.
37. Hmm, my meter must be off. I took another test. My finger was steady as I applied the drop of blood. 36. My lowest bloodsugar I have ever taken on myself. I wandered to the kitchen and downed a bottle of glucose, ate 3 glucose tabs, and stirred up a very large glass of chocolate milk. (For those adding up carbs, you are correct. This does not equal 15 grams. Death was knocking at my door and I was overdoing it.)
Sleep was nonexistent that night. I told Newt how low I was and told him to wake me in 15 minutes. 84. I forced myself awake for another hour. 96. The next hour- 88. I finally fell asleep and woke up at 114.
A neighbor was fixing his pickup when his jack slipped off and the pickup crushed his neck and head. It should have killed him, but it only scraped off a little skin and bruised his face. He told me that he “never given death a thought before, but this time I got scared thinking how close I was to being killed.”
That low of 37 (or 36.5 if you average it), got me scared of how close I was to being killed.