I sit here, at my desk in my cubicle as the rain pours outside, raging at my body.
On Wednesday morning, I woke to a very pleasant blood sugar level of 16.2 mmol ( ketones, meet body - body, meet ketones; now why don't you go bug someone else?). My body cackled maliciously as I spent the whole day going to dangerous lengths to see at least an 8.0 on my little grey meter. I temp'd my basals up, going as high as 200%. I bolused indecently unsafe amounts of insulin, both via the pump and the needle stashed in my glucometer case. I cleaned the (work) place out of water (and styrofoam cups) and ate bird-worthy snacks throughout the day. I checked the infusion set, changed the infusion set, swore at the freaking infusion set in the privacy of the ladies washroom while my stomach pitched violently in an effort to invade my throat. And oooh how convenient it was for my body that I had removed the CGMS part of my pump the previous night in anticipation of a break. Yep, I got broke but good.
I learned that it was not my infusion set. It was not the insulin in my pump. I did not have the flu or any sort of cookie-tossing-related illness (I have the immune system of steel - take that invading pathogens!). It was not a full moon or the result of parting my hair on the right instead of the left.
I learned everything externally possible that it couldn't have been. What I never learned is what it was.
Hello, deja-vu, come on in and sit your black-cat butt down. Recent history is repeating itself today. 
And though I'm wearing my CGMS it's not doing me a bit of good. Unless it's considered good that the fricking thing confirmed my high BG level this morning (after I slept in and was late for work - and let me tell you I am NEVER late for work!) only to decide that the day-and-a-half old sensor on my upper abdomen is bad. Beeeep beeeep beeep beeep...BAD SENSOR. Excuse moi, Monsieur CGMS, but can we please discuss your bad-sensor ass and the fact that you're pissing me off and when my BG is high I turn into the Witchiest Bitch in the West so can you please just DO AS I TELL YOU!?!? Thank you in advance, your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Fucking you sincerely, The Mile-High Bitch.
OK, OK, so the whole asshole-no-good-CGMS thing was a slight white lie. A fib, if you will, for dramatic purposes. And to prevent the word-spewing from becoming monitor-through-the-widow spewing. The 24-hour screen on my pump did disclose the fact that last night, at 12:58 a.m., my BG level was a nice steady 5.8 mmol until the jets were fired up aaaaaaaaand TAKE-OFF! Ladies and gentlemen please fasten your seatbelts and refrain from sexual activities in the washroom because we've got turbulence ahead! Captain, there's a 14.3 at 3 o'clock! Shoot the bastard down! But wait, today's lotto 6/49 includes the coveted prize of sleeping through the siren of the pump! (merchandise is final sale, and cannot be returned or exchanged) And as a bonus, we will throw in a little bit of sleep-button-pushing, which you will not remember but will silence the shrill wail of the machine that is trying to help you! Yes indeed, ladies and gentlemen, what a ride it has been! Thank you, buh-bye.
The latest BG lottery number: 9.4 mmol. Under the 'O'forfucksakes...
And the five-minute numbers on my pump screen have resumed. HA! Ha-Ha-HA-HA and a little bit of nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah! When all else fails, result to verbal vomiting. It's cheaper than stomping.
Now, I wonder how I go about having a nice little chat with my liver...
I sit here, at my desk in my cubicle as the rain pours outside, raging at my body.
On Wednesday morning, I woke to a very pleasant blood sugar level of 16.2 mmol ( ketones, meet body - body, meet ketones; now why don't you go bug someone else?). My body cackled maliciously as I spent the whole day going to dangerous lengths to see at least an 8.0 on my little grey meter. I temp'd my basals up, going as high as 200%. I bolused indecently unsafe amounts of insulin, both via the pump and the needle stashed in my glucometer case. I cleaned the (work) place out of water (and styrofoam cups) and ate bird-worthy snacks throughout the day. I checked the infusion set, changed the infusion set, swore at the freaking infusion set in the privacy of the ladies washroom while my stomach pitched violently in an effort to invade my throat. And oooh how convenient it was for my body that I had removed the CGMS part of my pump the previous night in anticipation of a break. Yep, I got broke but good.
I learned that it was not my infusion set. It was not the insulin in my pump. I did not have the flu or any sort of cookie-tossing-related illness (I have the immune system of steel - take that invading pathogens!). It was not a full moon or the result of parting my hair on the right instead of the left.
I learned everything externally possible that it couldn't have been. What I never learned is what it was.
Hello, deja-vu, come on in and sit your black-cat butt down. Recent history is repeating itself today.
And though I'm wearing my CGMS it's not doing me a bit of good. Unless it's considered good that the fricking thing confirmed my high BG level this morning (after I slept in and was late for work - and let me tell you I am NEVER late for work!) only to decide that the day-and-a-half old sensor on my upper abdomen is bad. Beeeep beeeep beeep beeep...BAD SENSOR. Excuse moi, Monsieur CGMS, but can we please discuss your bad-sensor ass and the fact that you're pissing me off and when my BG is high I turn into the Witchiest Bitch in the West so can you please just DO AS I TELL YOU!?!? Thank you in advance, your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Fucking you sincerely, The Mile-High Bitch.
OK, OK, so the whole asshole-no-good-CGMS thing was a slight white lie. A fib, if you will, for dramatic purposes. And to prevent the word-spewing from becoming monitor-through-the-widow spewing. The 24-hour screen on my pump did disclose the fact that last night, at 12:58 a.m., my BG level was a nice steady 5.8 mmol until the jets were fired up aaaaaaaaand TAKE-OFF! Ladies and gentlemen please fasten your seatbelts and refrain from sexual activities in the washroom because we've got turbulence ahead! Captain, there's a 14.3 at 3 o'clock! Shoot the bastard down! But wait, today's lotto 6/49 includes the coveted prize of sleeping through the siren of the pump! (merchandise is final sale, and cannot be returned or exchanged) And as a bonus, we will throw in a little bit of sleep-button-pushing, which you will not remember but will silence the shrill wail of the machine that is trying to help you! Yes indeed, ladies and gentlemen, what a ride it has been! Thank you, buh-bye.
The latest BG lottery number: 9.4 mmol. Under the 'O'forfucksakes...
And the five-minute numbers on my pump screen have resumed. HA! Ha-Ha-HA-HA and a little bit of nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah! When all else fails, result to verbal vomiting. It's cheaper than stomping.
Now, I wonder how I go about having a nice little chat with my liver...