Happy coincidence

Period 1 today, I was at the front of my year 10 class, all eyes on me. Suppose I was striding around a bit, waving my arms as I tried to make some point about the film The Sixth Sense, which we're studying at the moment. I had everyone's attention, and then I heard the computerised tones of Fur Elise, coming, I supposed, from between my breasts. (My insulin pump, wearing its baby sock, fits very snugly between the girls.)

Anyone who wears an Animas 2020 insulin pump will no doubt be familiar with this tune.  It's a warning that you're getting low on insulin or it's a reminder that you've suspended your pump.

I also seemed to be contravening the 'switch off your mobiles in class' rule, much to the amusement of 25 students.

I did the only thing possible. I reached inside my shirt front to press the button to stop the sound. As I did so, cos you've got to admit it would look funny to see your old teacher grovelling between her tits in the middle of a lecture on a film, I explained that I wear an insulin pump and that it was warning me my insulin was running low.

At the same time a boy in the back row interrupted.

"Actually, miss," he said, "I think it's mine."

And it was.

Snap.

It was a unique and strangely joyous experience for me finding a fellow Type 1 in such close proximity. Let's face it, unless you work in the industry, or you're at a special conference or some-such, you're unlikely to find two insulin pumps - let alone Animas pumps - in the one small room. What are the odds?

Numbers.

5.48*

Peered closely at the digital clock simultaneously reaching for the 30 year old glass Moccona coffee jar that still contains my handy store of jelly beans.  I had that feeling.  Vague; light-headed; spacy; heart pounding.  I grabbed a handful, stuffed them into my mouth and started chewing as if my life depended on it.  Worried then that the chewing motion was further depleting what little glucose was in my blood, exacerbating the hypo.
 
2.3**

That was the reading on my blood glucose meter..  I'd checked my BG while still lying on my side ( - thanks, Accuchek Mobile, for inventing a meter that doesn't require me to mess with test strips.)  Al had already woken at the tell-tale sound of my jellybeans rattling in the jar. 

'I'll get you a juice,' he said.
'I may not be here when you get back,' I murmured, but he'd already darted off to the other end of the house. I thought I might lose consciousness, as in general anaesthetic black-out

I tried to relax; reduce the palpitations that had increased since I'd seen how low I was. I breathed through the fear of losing consciousness which has only happened three times in 31 years. 

Somehow the horror of that first time hasn't left me.  That was back in 1985.  We'd just flown to England; my first time dealing with the change in time zones with my relatively recently diagnosed diabetes.  I was on three injections a day - two fast-acting insulin and one fast-acting protaphane combo - and somehow the exhaustion of the trip had me waking out of a deep sleep and jamming a couple of complimentary hotel toffees into my mouth before passing out.

Props to Al.  He managed to call for help and get my 28 year old body into undies and tee-shirt before the ambulance arrived.  All while I was seizing.  Al says I was out to it for about twenty minutes.  I was conscious when they put me into the ambulance and took me to Emergency at London University hospital, where of course, I was discharged within an hour or so.  I didn't need an ambulance, I needed a shot of Glucagen.  But I didn't know that.  I didn't know that the n-th degree of a hypo was losing consciousness.  Just part of a steep learning curve on a lifetime journey.

I recovered quickly from that hypo, as I usually do.  It took a bit longer for the cuts on the palms of both hands to heal.  I used to have long nails back then.  While I'd been seizing I'd clenched my fists, my nails consequently digging into my palms.  I'd also bitten chunks out of the insides of my cheeks.  No doubt the mother of all cold sores that plagued me for the next six weeks was a result of that hypo fear too.

I didn't think all this today as I was breathing through that hypo, but I was mindful of the same pre-losing consciousness symptoms.  When my blood sugar is that low it seems to get me in the eyes.  Hard to describe.  They 'burr' and feel like they're turning in my skull.  It's a terrifying feeling, as if my eyes are being pressed with wads of cotton wool.  Why cotton wool?  It sounds so benign and fluffy.  Soft, thick pressure?  Feel like I'm back in France searching for the right words.  The other feeling that I get when I'm this low?  Imagine having your eyes pressed into your skull as you're pushed backwards off a cliff with no safety harness.

Then there's the heat and drenching perspiration and no energy to throw the doona off.

But I got over it. And this has only ever happened to me when I've been sleeping.  When I'm awake I test frequently to avoid being stricken unawares.

Glad today, as I frequently am, that I'm working part-time and today's a day off.  I struggled out of a deep sleep at 8.47. 

Damn you, digital clock.

BG 9.0

Thanks for reading.

* That's a.m.
**  Normal blood sugar ranges between 4 and 8 mmol.  Yeah.  I wish.

La rhume et la grippe en France. Farque alors!

Made one of my infrequent phone calls a couple of weeks ago to sister Reggie. She commented on how relaxed I sounded on my cycling holiday in France. Of note, she said, was the fact that I hadn't mentioned my diabetes at all. Well, I've still got it. Don't mention it much, just the rare blog. I know I should be a proud advocate of Type 1 D, but it gets on my nerves. Generally I play it down.

My diabetes has been our constant companion on this trip. Al carries juice packs on our long cycles. I've been hitting the carbs & taking more insulin during the rides; something I'm experimenting with as per Ginger Vieira's book. I've actually managed my blood glucose really well this way. We stop cycling after an hour. I check my bg., have some insulin, eat a croissant!! Lol. I'm in France. Have also had 'pain chocolat' - more or less a chocolate filled croissant-ish treat. I bolus for roughly half the carbs & 'roule' on. That's ride on. Bgs have almost invariably been normal & I don't think I've gained that much weight. If I have it's more likely due to fromage, pate and grands vins blancs sec.

So why am I going on about D now? Because I've got high bg that I'm constantly bolusing down, my throat hurts, nose & eyes are streaming. Yes I've got a cold. And I'm pissed off at getting it & I know exactly who gave it to me. I didn't get away quickly enough.

Al & I took refuge from the rain in the medieval town of Loche in a bar. Ordered our drinks. Sat down. No other customers. So far so good.

Then in came a paisley panted bespectacled American tourist with her emaciated blond friend. They ordered their drinks & got their novels out. Paisley pants sat with her back to me at the next table. As she settled to her book I heard her gurgling the mucous back in her nose, followed by some soggy tissued wet nose blowing. Sneezing.

'Oh-oh,' I said to Al. 'She's at the droplet infection stage!'

'Why do you always think you're going to get it?'

'I always do. Come on, let's go.' I knocked back 100ml of wine in one gulp & we wandered off to find somewhere less toxic to eat. (Btw we had crepes & they were disgusting clot cold abominations with which we toyed. The maitre d was all effusive & wanted to know if we'd enjoyed them. 'Pas mal - not bad,' I lied.)

Anyway I'm still cross with selfish snotty paisley pants. She should have read her book in her room rather than spreading her germs. Just in case there was someone around with a chronic illness who's now going to struggle with the complications of this cold & have to do extra blood tests all night, & for the next few days, to keep her bg under control in a bid to shorten the duration of the cold & avoid subsequent chest infection. Grrhhh!

I wrote a little note in French for the pharmacist & Al cycled off into the village - St Amand-Montrond - to get me some cold & flu tabs. I've isolated
myself to avoid spreading it. Wish frickin' paisley pants had done the same.