I need a vacation—from work, from dogs, from my slowly-being-remodeled bathroom, from my why-aren’t-my-lilies-coming-up life. Luckily, I have a weekend planned in Philadelphia, where I will see beautiful artwork and the Liberty Bell (among other things).
The one thing I won’t be able to take a vacation from, that I really, truly desperately need, is the dreaded disease. I’ll spend at least 15 of my 30-minute packing on diabetic supplies and just-in-case back-ups and food.
There are days when I wake up and say to my husband. “How about you take the shot today, you count the carbs, you exercise.” Sometimes I even ask my dog. No one ever takes me up on my offer.
I’ve done partial vacation days. Checked my sugar just once in the morning and once at night and said to hell with it for the other 14 hours of the day, just going by how I felt. Feeling low? Eat. Feeling okay? Don’t eat. I did that on Sunday and I must’ve guessed well enough because at bedtime, my sugar was 114. I won’t guess what I was the rest of the day.
I’ve also had days where I’ve just been so hungry that I ate what I wanted to and just braced myself for the number 147 or 152.
I know that’s bad. I know I shouldn’t do that, but it’s as close as I can come to having a vacation from diabetes.
I know I’m lucky in that I haven’t had to live with it all my life, but maybe that makes it a little worse sometimes. I know what life was like before DKA. I know what’s it’s like to enjoy a really great meal in a restaurant without having to mentally count carbs in my head while reading the menu. I know what’s it’s like not to have blood smears on doorways, on sleeves and on my keyboard. I know what it’s like to say “I’m going on vacation” and only having to remember to pack my sunglasses.
My husband and I once had the conversation about “Is the glass half empty or half full?”. I said someone drank my glass. It’s not half empty by choice.
As always, more to come…