I woke up and my blood sugar was extremely high. Of course it was; I had been miserable, and eaten and drank too much last night. I thought I had taken enough insulin to cover it, but I was wrong. So I gave myself my shot and had breakfast and gave myself my other shot and headed out to my date with the chamber.
It was only the third day but I was already growing comfortable with the routine. And they were ready for me too, they even had a print out of the movies in their library printed out like they’d promised. I lay down on the bed and they checked my ears, which they said still looked red but not dangerously so. My hearing had not improved in the night, I still felt like my head was stuffed with taffy. My blood pressure was good. My glucose was 107, which ordinarily would be considered perfect. But they require it to be above 130 because the machine has a tendency to lower it.
They gave me a vanilla milkshake, thick and syrupy, and when they retested fifteen minutes later my sugar was 104. They laughed and said they didn’t mind waiting if I didn’t. Surely it would go down; the milkshake was loaded with carbs, I’d read the label. The three of us chatted –it was the woman who’s becoming my usual tech, and the really cute one, whom I don’t see as often. We talked about cats, about the machine, about some news story about an international flight that had to turn around because a load of maggots spilled out of an overhead bin. Someone had put a fish in their suitcase and it had caused maggots to rain down on the passengers.
They checked my sugar again. It was 97.
The tech went to get the doctor who said I should go home; despite the fact that the milkshake should be kicking in any minute, they wouldn’t take the chance of my having a hypoglycemic episode while locked in the chamber. The doctor asked how much insulin I’d taken and she said, “Well that’s too much.” I told them my metabolism is just very slow but they said not to worry about it, that missing a session is not a big deal “Besides, it’ll give your ears an extra day off,” they said.
The wind was cold and bitter and as I trudged up the hill toward the bus stop I saw my bus drive past, which meant I’d have a full half hour to wait. None of this was tragic but I suddenly felt like I couldn’t take anymore. I couldn’t fight the misery, irrational though it was. My treatment was moving forward, I was getting the help I needed and hopefully I would soon be showing signs of improvement. I was on the road to healing.
But my mind reeled with all the medical bills and paperwork needed for long term disability, with never ending loneliness, with my artistic failure. Most of all it swirled with shame that I was still, after all these years, so shitty at taking care of my health. “How long have you been diabetic?” the tech had asked. I told her I had been diagnosed when I was fourteen. Surely I should be better at this by now.
Sitting in the bus shelter, the thoughts spun like a vortex, like a cyclone in my head, sucking out all the air. My ears pounded and the wind whipped around me and when I got home I collapsed into bed and wondered if I ever needed to get out of it.
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