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.