It’s 7.25pm on Sunday evening. I am battle-scarred from a hypo that hit me like a ten tonne truck. It was 6 hours ago now, but I am still foggy and so fatigued.
We were out – at our local shops picking up a few things. All of a sudden, I felt like I was going to fall over. One of my legs gave way, I was dizzy and I couldn’t find the words I needed. Focusing hard, I looked at the kid and said ‘We need to get out of here.’ I passed her my phone and she called Aaron who was in another shop nearby, asking him to come and find us.
Where had this come from? My CGM started wailing at the moment that Aaron joined us. But when I looked over the previous few hours, I could see that I had been sitting around 4mmol/l for the whole time. Until I dipped – suddenly – and it seemed the CGM trace took a little while to catch up. The wailing continued as I gulped back orange juice and groped for my pump to silence the alarm.
It was almost fifteen minutes later before I was ready to move. As I sat there, I very consciously started to notice the fuzziness in my head, the overwhelming and all-encompassing exhaustion hit. My eyelids began to droop and my eyes were having trouble focusing, my hair was wet at my neck making me shiver, and my hands were shaking a little. The noises around me sounded like they were coming through a tunnel – everything echoed, but sounded muted and fluffy.
Eventually, we got up and got home and I went straight to bed. I took off my shoes, lay down, and was shivering as I fell asleep, almost instantly. And I slept – a deep, heavy, dreamless sleep. Two hours later I woke up and was ready to move again – slowly and gingerly at first.
And now. Six hours later. I am sitting on the couch, and in between writing I stare out the front window onto our street. It’s a gorgeous night – warm, but not too warm, with a gorgeous cool breeze blowing through our open front door. I hear the leaves flutter in the trees in the garden, people walk by, chatting to each other, and the folk across the road are having a band rehearsal. It’s peaceful; it’s Sunday night and I’m starting to think of the week ahead.
And in my thoughts about school lunches, and work schedules, and everything else, I have another thought. I don’t have it often, but when I do, it’s always the same.
I feel a pull at the bottom of my stomach.
My breath catches in my throat.
Tears spring to my eyes.
I wish I didn’t have diabetes.
7 comments
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February 1, 2016 at 10:18 am
StephenS
I am glad you’re physically better, but not happy that this happened to you and happens to others too often. Keep writing about these things so people can read and understand, read and know they are not alone. Be well.
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February 1, 2016 at 11:02 am
Dayle Carroll
I continue to wish I didn’t have diabetes too. I have been a person with diabetes for 39 years. That’s 3 quarter’s of my life. I feel your distress.
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February 1, 2016 at 11:09 am
Sandra Leone
I’m just so glad Renza you had someone to help you. Love Sandra
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February 1, 2016 at 11:46 am
Sherl Westlund
Hi Renza
Thank you for sharing your tough experience, it actually brought me to tears at the end. It also reignites my passion and drive to find the solutions to diabetes, it helps me stay in touch with why I do what I do. I do feel a level of frustration knowing we still have a way to go before things will change but I’m determined to do whatever I can on the research front.
Sending you a bucket full of hugs and hope
Sherl
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February 1, 2016 at 12:50 pm
Di Daley
I know just how you feel Renza. I too had tears in my eyes reading this. That hopeless, helpless feeling that diabetes with its curve ball highs and lows can leave you with is so scary sometimes.
Hope the coming week is brighter for you.
Jellybean Di
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February 1, 2016 at 2:29 pm
Jeann
Sending hugs, Renza. Diabetes is no picnic in the park. I have been battling unexplained highs…hit 33.3 at one stage. I am still feeling so exhausted.
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February 1, 2016 at 7:19 pm
Bec3116
Renz… as always you have surmised this one perfectly. One of the cruelest things about this disease is the way it blindsides you. Right when you have all your strategies in place and you’ve made all the right decisions to make the play. And then it just smacks into you full pelt. BAM!
I was blindsided on new years eve. The rather warm night and hot day before it, paired with the low carb meal (because no one likes to eat anything more than a salad when it’s 35 degrees out) and then the 2 standard alcoholic drinks I consumed over the space of 6 hours (hardly anything to be raving about) all conspired to drop my blood sugar enough just after midnight without me having any idea.
And just like that, for the first time in 36 years, my eyes rolled into the back of my head and I fell into a chair and then ended slumped on the ground right in front of my children… just after midnight struck. Unable to speak but still able to hear what was going on around me – I could hear my hubby directing the 20+ people at the NYE party around us to do all sorts of things from calling an ambulance… bring him some honey… find him my meter… to can someone find Sam (our 8 year old) who had run off in fear to sit all by himself in the dark on the trampoline as the ambos arrived because he had no idea what was happening.
I thought I was immune to severe hypos. Haven’t had one for 3 decades. Watched heaps of people around me have them and have always known what to do. But not me, no way. So the ambos arrive, administer glucose gel (first time I have ever had to have that stuff) and check all the “vital signs” until finally I climb over 5 (half an hour later) before they depart. Then the astonishing nausea and fatigue hit me and I collapsed into a deep sleep. All night.
The next morning I awoke with post hypo hangover-like headache and feeling all over my body, as well as the shame of getting out of bed to see all the people who had witnessed this event the night before come over for breakfast.
This disease is heartless and cruel. It knows your weaknesses, plays them against you and never leaves your side. I wish i could have spared my children the lesson they learned on January 1st this year, but what is worse is I know it will happen again.
Sending my hugs and love to you, Aaron and the kidlet. From Me, my Kidlets and Adrian.
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