September will mark 25 years for me with type 1 diabetes, but I still haven’t learned that an afternoon of lazy 200+ mg/dl’s that won’t budge, even after multiple boluses (and one really solid rage bolus where I actually grunted “You. Frigging. Diabetes.” as my fingers mashed the buttons), after repeated tests that showed climbing numbers … wouldn’t you think I’d inspect that infusion set? Maybe just give it a peek? See how things are doing there, on the back of my hip, where that 6 mm cannula is resting (hopefully) comfortably?
Oh, you mean I shouldn’t have waited until I smelled that distinct scent? The one that smells like a cross between bandaids and the dentist’s office? And then, when I dabbed at the gauze patch around my site and felt the dampness, I still didn’t really hone in on it because I was so high that everything was on like a 20 minute delay?
Yes, I should have responded to the alarms on my Dexcom but I was so spaceshot, I didn’t. Instead, I regrettably spent over three hours at about 300 mg/dl (the Dex was off, saying I was 400 mg/dl plus when I was actually 304 mg/dl). With, of course, the corresponding morning low this morning:
And then the slight bounce after over-treating the low by about two sips of juice. I understand the “glucocoaster,” but this is frigging ridiculous.
Today is a new day. Today is a new day. Today is a new day. (I need to have that tattooed on my hand.)
*This blog post was originally published at Six Until Me.*