What if...

(Sorry if this is a repeat for some of you. I originally wrote this a while back for my www.diabetessisters.org blog.)

Do you ever play that “what-if” game in your head?  What if I hadn’t gone on that high school surf trip where I began to fall in love with the man who turned out to be my future husband?  What if I hadn’t taught next door to the other new teacher who is now one of my best friends?  Most of the time this little game ends with me being reminded that everything seems to happen for a reason.  But then sometimes I wonder, what if I didn’t have diabetes… 

I guess it’s similar to the “why me” question.  It’s easy to go down that road of what ifs… maybe I could have had complication-free pregnancies and deliveries of my babies.  Life would be nice without shots, infusion sets, finger sticks, visits to the endocrinologist, eye doctor, dentist, or perinatoligist.  I wouldn’t have to worry about my kids inheriting this disease, or the possibility of something happening to me because of diabetes.  Or to just be able to eat a big pizza dinner (my favorite) with a scoop of ice cream afterward and not have to wake up with a blood sugar of 300 at 3 am.

But then I have to stop myself because some other thoughts enter my head.  The truth is that just maybe my life without diabetes might not be as sweet as it is.  Without diabetes I don’t think I’d know my body as well as I do. The food my family and I eat probably wouldn’t be so healthy because I’ve learned so much about a well-balanced diet (not just for people with diabetes, but for everyone!).  I know I wouldn’t have met some of the amazing friends I have who also live with diabetes.  My life would be missing some phenomenal women!  I’m pretty sure I never would have trained for and run a marathon, and I don’t know that exercise would be such an important aspect of my life.  Ironically, I wonder if I am in fact healthier because of this disease!

 But lately, most scary is to think that I may not have my three beautiful children.  I was motivated to have my kids sooner rather than later because of my diabetes.  I figured the less time diabetes had to take its toll on me, my organs, my eyes, before getting pregnant, the better.  So I sometimes wonder if I may have ended up teaching longer, if I may have put off having children and not ended up with the three angels I have.

I often joke with my husband that maybe our kids are sweeter because of my diabetes.  They did grow for 9 months in my overly sugary body.  Maybe that extra sugar seeped into their personalities.  (Okay, I know that didn’t happen, but I do think they are a little more understanding at times.)  They’ve had to learn at a young age that they may need to help mommy if my blood sugar gets low.  They understand that sometimes they can’t have a juice box, candy, or snack because mommy needs it.  They are patient for their age.  Waiting in the car while I check my blood sugar and then run back into the house for a snack.  “Mommy was your blood sugar low?” my daughter will now ask.  They know it sometimes hurts when I have to insert a new infusion set or prick my finger tips, and they quietly watch me do these tasks with a little bit of worry mixed with wonder in their eyes.  

So, life would be different without diabetes, but maybe, just maybe, not quite as sweet.

Running Low

Luke was home and it had been a few days since my last run, so I decided to head out one evening for a quick run through the neighborhood. Like the “responsible diabetic” that I am, I checked before leaving. 120, good, but just to be safe I had a little juice and crackers. I changed my basal to 60%, and was ready to go. I wasn’t planning on being gone long, so I decided not to wear my “running pack” that has my lifesavers and glucose gel in it. The bumping and bouncing of the pack sometimes drives me crazy. It’s just nice to run with the least amount of equipment, and I’m already carrying my pump on my waistband.

About 20 minutes into my run I started feeling a little sluggish. But this was my chance to get my run in before Luke returned to work, and I wanted to get some distance. Maybe I just felt funny because I was running in the evening rather than my normal morning runs. Then the nausea crept up. I was coming up on the point when I needed to decide if I wanted to head home, or add an extra mile and a half loop to my run. “Okay, it could be that my blood sugar is low.” I finally admit to myself

Is it the low blood sugar, and inability to think straight that causes me to deny the symptoms? Or do I just not want to ruin my run, my time to exercise because of a low blood sugar. Getting out to exercise is hard enough and then having to cut it short because of a low blood sugar just plain sucks.

Okay, so I decide not to do the extra loop, but now that I’ve admitted to myself that my blood sugar is low I start to get a little nervous. How low might it be? Can I make it home? Should I run home which would get me there faster, or walk so that I’m not working as hard and maybe preventing my blood sugar from dropping faster. Walk. I’m not feeling good anyway, so I’ll just walk home.

I’m coming up upon the little market in my neighborhood. I think to myself I should probably stop and get something to put in my body. A juice box, candy bar, something. But I’m not that brave. I wish I were, but the thought of marching into that store all sweaty and shaky and saying, “Hi, I have diabetes, I’m out on a run, and my blood sugar is low. Do you think I can have a soda or juice? I swear I’ll come right back and pay you. I just don’t have any money on me right now. I live just up the street, and I’ll be right back to give you the money I owe you. I promise.” I’m playing out what I would say as I walk past the store. I just can’t. I don’t want to be the crazy lady who can’t take care of herself. The “diabetic” who might pass out or freak out without someone’s help. I can’t do it. I’m too embarrassed. Too shy. I don’t want to have to ask for help.

So I continue on my way home. I play out the worst-case scenarios in my head. If I did pass out, who would find me? Would my head hit the cement? How long would it take for the paramedics to get there, to figure out I have diabetes, to get in touch with Luke? I have no identification on me. How would I explain to my family, to Luke, to my kids what had happened? Why didn’t I just put on my stupid running pack? “Literally they are lifesavers.” Luke’s comment keeps running through my head.

Suddenly I’m almost home. Rounding the corner, the panic starts to subside. I open the door and grab my glucometer. 56. Low, but at least it wasn’t 30. At least I’m home. I head to the fridge for some juice. The screaming and arguing of my kids never sounded so sweet, and being home to start dinner never felt so good.