I just linked to this blog from my facebook account. I don't know if that was stupid or what, but I'm not worrying too much. (I have quite a few "work" friends that may or may not stumble onto this blog. FIRED CUZ OF MAH BLOG. What can I say, I have been nothing but honest. And let me reiterate that I think this job / company is a great place to build a career . . . for someone else. Oh, and I've been writing my blog entries on my lunch break :D No worries!) Okay enough spinelessness.
This weekend was interesting. I woke up on Saturday morning at 11:45. Barely the morning. I felt like SHITE. Awful. Awful. Horrible. But Kendra, you say, you got over ten hours of rest! Isn't that wonderful?
Not when your fasting blood sugar is 177, I say. Keeping in mind that that's probably the lowest it's been in hours since it was nearly noon by the time I got around to testing and I hadn't eaten since 7pm the night before. Mind and body felt like gum. Gummy gum. Husband, chipperly asking if I was well-rested after such a long sleep.
I rather brittlely replied: "Next time I sleep so long, could you help me out and test my blood sugar to make sure I'm not too high? Maybe even give me a correction bolus? If I'm out of range I'm going to oversleep. Sometimes I'm not really that tired, but my body is out of whack." (Lows wake me up, but highs make me sleep the oversweetened sleep of sludgy blood.)
"Uhh, sure, I guess . . . I mean I've seen you test lots of times but I don't think I've ever done it . . . "
Huh, I guess he's right! I've tested his sugar at least three times in our relationship. Once, he was drinking a grape soda and was a cool 120-something. The next time he was something too perfect..a pre-dinner 88. The next time he had just come in from a several-mile summer bike ride into the city, and was an exhausted 68 (! Of course I would've been -868 at that point.) He sees me test anywhere from 2 to 10 times a day. But he's correct, he has never wielded the lancet himself.
I sense a time to be smug, ho-ho! And in my hyperglycemic state I couldn't resist the urge to be snarky. I "let" him test my blood sugar allllll day...AND the whole of the next day, until he was whining to be released from duty! "But honey, I do this ALL THE TIME, what's the big deal!" I couldn't resist, I couldn't. I know, I know. He did have the gall to reply "I'm not diabetic, though." (Implied: It shouldn't be my problem, toots. Oh-ho.) I did take my small delights here and there, though - watching him fumble with holding the meter and squeezing blood out of a finger at the same time. Watching him struggle to get a slippery/sticky test strip out of that infinitesmally small strip bottle opening. "Why don't all of these damn things have automatic dispensers for the strips?!" (insert mad cackling here from myself) Watching him squeeze a freshly-pricked finger, only to have no blood emerge. How puzzling. Watching him wrinkle his nose up at how to dispose of the leftover blood. Such a messy, fussy disease.
Later that day I did apologize, thinking maybe I might have come off too bitchy - blaming him, maybe, for not having the diabetic sixth sense to test me while I snoozed. I know he's worried about me as I slept before, so I thought - why not empower him? I would love some help now and then, if he was willing. He assured me he knew he wasn't being attacked, and that he was glad he now had better finger-prickin' skillz. He also acquired some familiarity with my pump menu (due to premenstrual hormones, there was plenty of correcting to be done this weekend). Next up folks, the partner pump site change! Ha. Now there's trust!