On and off I’m convinced I’m cured.
I’m convinced I’m cured whenever I don’t look at my blood sugar for a period of time. Or I check, and it’s not high. Or I check and it’s not very high. Any of these registers in my heart as cured.
Other times I check my BG and it’s ba-aack. And it’s worse. This is how Joslin said it would be. My brain is not surprised. Regardless, my heart is flabbergasted. Are you sure you mean me?
I had a tiny surgery on my foot on Tuesday. When I got home I was looped up on Vicodin, and nauseated, and desperately thirsty. I hadn’t looked at my BG for days (what with being cured), so I tested, thinking maybe minor surgery is the trigger! My blood sugar was 185 mg/dL. Not that high but high. Recheck: 178 mg/dL. Not as cured as I like, but not a catastrophe. However, I hadn’t eaten anything since the pre-op fast had begun the previous evening. So this got me curious.
The next morning, I clippity-clopped down the stairs in my velcro bootie and I tested. Fasting BG: 134 mg/dL. That’s not so cured. Quickly I found an internet science reason: surgery can cause hyperglycemia, even in normies, sometimes, kind of.
But this got me curiouser, so this morning I stuck a Dexcom transmitter on. When the time came for double drops: 108 mg/dL, 103 mg/dL. Ha! Solid! Cured. I guess I’d just needed to, uh, metabolize the anesthesia. Or for whatever inflammation response happens during surgery to calm itself down.
To illustrate my remission, I kept track of what I ate and confirmed Dexcom #s with Verio. All very orderly. For science.
For breakfast I ate one flipped-over egg, a slice of smoked salmon, and a heap of wilted greens. And tea. This barely budged my BG: it got up to 126 or so. And went back to the 100s.
For a snack I ate a Kind bar with 9g CHO. Humped up to 150 and settled right back down. Cured like a Huckabee on the cinnamon.
I had lunch at about 2PM and I was cocky. I ate some avocado, baby greens and a glob (maybe 3/4 cup? Maybe 30g CHO? The cocky don’t measure) of baked sweet potato. Double arrows up, 2h PP plateau at 250-ish. Later I noticed the line post-plateau peaked around 300. Fern.
Suddenly, front screen of brain is taken hostage by: Heath bar flurry. No—a peanut butter soft-serv cone. With jimmies. No—vanilla soft-serv cone. Rainbow jimmies. No—coffee soft-serv. I can’t stop thinking of sweet things I would like to eat. A frozen Milky Way bar. It could rip out a filling—I wouldn’t complain! A chocolate chip cookie-wich. Dipped in ganache. With a coffee shake. I’m thinking let’s stop recording the food for today. Let’s rip off the transmitter and try again next week.
And I am hating this velcro shoe! And the stupid knitted leg warmer thing that has already lost all of its elasticity, so I had to tie a ribbon around it to keep it from dragging, and a cruel old man in Target sneered at me while I clippety-clop shopped: hey, niiiice ribbon shoe. And then a woman I know from a long time ago who I try to avoid bumping into because she is talkative, but I worry she thinks I avoid her because she used to be the nanny for another woman I used to know, and maybe something weird happened between them: What happened to your leg? (I’m fine. I’m sorry I don’t really want to talk about it.) But there is no way to draw more attention to yourself than to say you don’t want to address something. But what happened? (Shark attack.) Really? Which beach? (I was just kidding. I just don’t feel like talking about it, you know?) No, but what HAPPENED? (I’m really fine. I’m gonna go. Nice to see you…) (I said, limping away at ludicrously slow pace.)
I’m a bitch. I’m a high bitch. I’m a monster. With a woozy head and a velcro bootie and a saggy stocking that I’m not allowed to take off for another week with a dirty old ribbon holding it up. And I’m ravenous. And I’m hiding upstairs, away from the kitchen.
Then Joe’s pouring seltzer. I can hear it hitting the glass, the ice cubes shifting. I am so thirsty. Then I’m downstairs drinking. Then I’m making dinner, eons in advance. Maybe if dinner is ready, I can eat that to normalize things and I can stop thinking about frozen Milky Ways and get on with my life. Then the Dexcom buzzes, double down, 77 mg/dL. And I test. 77 FTW!
But the arrows. Chickpea blondies are on the counter. One has, twelve (?) g CHO. Perfect. It’s in my mouth already. I have another before I realize. There may have been a third. 69 mg/dL, arrow down. I am not sure if I had a fourth. Clip-clop back upstairs as fast as my non-velcro foot can propel me—I have to hide! From the food!
My head hurts. My brain hurts. I just want to stare at a wall. Is this how it ends? Woman, unable to abandon sweet potato, succumbs.