As we rolled to a stop at the red light I pulled out my meter and checked my blood sugar.
You think texting and driving is bad? Try checking and driving… there’s blood involved.
I knew I was high, my CGM had already chirped at me, I wanted however a more accurate number to work with. I also had a forty-five minute drive back to the music festival we were working, hence the checking while driving.
My paramedic partner asked if I was okay. I replied I was and explained the afore thought process to her. Curious she asked what my number was.
“You don’t want to know,” I replied, half jokingly as we pulled away from the now green light and I bolused.
“No, really, what’s your number?”
Her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped slightly open as she stared at me in disbelief. Her medic skills then kicked in, “Do you need fluids?”
I replied I did not. It would help but I was not to that point yet (not even close). I told her I had just eaten to much in response to a low when we had begun transporting an hour ago. Because I was going slightly low and would be required to transport a patient almost an hour to the hospital, I wanted to be safe. Of course that safety turned against me, but running high does not initially impair my judgment as a low would. In a choice between the two…
Further down the road we turned our conversation to obtaining lunch. The choices were slim, if you can imagine the choices in an area forty-five minutes from the nearest emergency room. There was a small pizza place in the town, however, “It’s probably not a good idea for me at this moment” I commented. “I would like this lovely descent to continue to the best of its ability, not be bumped up and held there with a vengeance… as pizza is apt to do.”
She again became curious, “It must be from all the sugar?”
“Actually, no” I replied. “The red sauce.”
We proceeded to talk about the weirdness that is a blood sugar response to red sauce. How it’s not tomatoes, as they’ve never given me any issues, but specifically red sauce or pizza sauce or even spaghetti sauce to an extent.
And milkshakes, not ice cream, but milkshakes.
I realize now it sounds like one of the word games we used to play — Green Glass Door and the like. “Glass can enter, but not the window” and etc.
Conversations with a diabetic. Spreading knowledge and confusion whenever I can.