I woke up early this morning, feeling unrested, achy. Today was the first day in many days that I was able to sleep in, and I’ve been so burnt out lately that I really thought I would. But I didn’t. I woke up around 7, unsettled. I’ve been having a rough few days, so while reaching for my Dexcom, I thought to myself, I need a good number. Please.
:::::: 313 ::::::
A heavy stone formed in my chest, because that is what happens. No falling to my knees, no screaming, no crying. I might have said Fuck out loud. But this quiet weight, hard to hold, rolled through me.
It got worse when I zoomed out to get an idea of my entire overnight blood sugar situation. Not only was it 313 right then, but it had been for hours, and for a while before that, it peaked at 400.
I took insulin. I drank water. I made coffee. I sat curled up on the couch in my quiet apartment.
I don’t know if I’m angry, or sad. I don’t feel sick. I don’t want to hear words of sympathy. I don’t want to dissect what went wrong at 11pm last night, what I did and did not do. I don’t want to think about the pile of these hyperglycemic nights that have happened lately. I don’t want to consider this a lesson or a punishment.
I just want it to be what is has been: hyperglycemia that is now coming down.
I just want to do the next right thing, which varies, but is some form of self-care:
a phone call, an appointment, a snack, a deep breath.
To be kind to myself through this is incredibly important,
because it happens, and it will happen.
And because the bottom line is:
I am never not trying.