For the first time in months, I really wanted to go to the gym. I even lowered my basal rates and I ate a cracker pack.
But I still couldn't go because I was low. So I drank juice. I disconnected from my insulin pump. And I waited 15 minutes. Then I was 81. So I ate two cookies, had some more juice, and drank some milk. And I waited 15 more minutes. But I was only 95. Then I decided to be healthy and I ate a nectarine. I waited 15 more minutes, until 9:00. I tested. I was 109.
Lows be damned! I decided.
I walked through the rain to the Student Rec Center. In the entrance to the gym, I could feel my legs turn to rubber. I was already fatigued. I tested, but my meter only said 98.
I walked in, and checked out a lock. I went to the locker room. My hands fumbled with the lock. I put away my jacket and sweatshirt. I took my juice, and my CD player and my determination and I marched up to the track.
I looked around. I could feel that all-too-familiar ache creep into my legs and hands. You're not going to impress anyone by fainting.
I walked back downstairs. I trudged back to the locker room. I sat down. I punched a hole into the juice box with the straw. I sipped my juice. I tried not to cry.
I waited. The ache slowly dissipated. I retrieved my items from the locker, and returned the lock.
And walked back, through the rain, to my house. Soaking wet. Tired. Pissed off.
And my blood sugar is still only 104.
Have I mentioned I hate diabetes? Because I do.
Just in case you didn't get the memo.