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ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about how some men act angry when they are actually afraid. This is true for the men in my life, at least. I used to find it confusing. I still don't quite understand it but at least I understand which emotion I'm dealing with and can react accordingly. This is important due to the fact that I have a tendency to scare the men in my life. As a kid, I first observed the reaction in my father. Now, I see it in Jeff.
I'll give a little background about how I frighten them. Due to a glitch in my DNA, my immune system destroyed the insulin-producing cells in my pancreas. A normal body releases insulin whenever a person eats. This keeps the blood glucose (i.e. sugar) at a fairly stable level of between 90 and 120 mg/dL. To keep my own glucose level in line, I've taken insulin shots since I was 8 years old. If I don't take enough insulin, my glucose will go very high and leave me feeling ill and run down. If it stays too high for too long, it will cause damage that will limit my lifespan, among other things.
On the other hand, if I take too much insulin my glucose will drop too low. At about 70 mg/dL, I start to feel tired. At about 50 mg/dL, I will feel and act a little drunk and stop making sense when I talk. At about 20 mg/dL, I might pass out. If it goes much lower than that, I have convulsions.
There are cases where people have died or gone into an irreversible coma from too much insulin. My life would be easier if Jeff didn't know this. I once had a doctor tell me that he didn't believe that any of the shots I take are of a dose high enough kill me or leave me permanently incapacitated, and that my body should be able to recover in the case of an accidental overdose. I took comfort in this and cheerfully passed the news along to my husband, who only looked stressed. I guess that some people are just hard to please.
Because I've lived with this condition for so long, I'm good about keeping everything in check. I've never lost consciousness. I know the signs of low blood sugar and I correct them when they happen. I carry candy or at least money to buy a soda on me in case of an emergency. I keep boxes of apple juice in my glove compartment. To make Jeff happy, I also wear a Medic Alert to notify anyone who looks about my diabetes. Still, he worries. A lot. I don't bother worrying myself, because he worries enough for two people. If I do have an incident during the day, I know not to tell him about it, as he gets snappish and irritable. Even if the story is funny to me - if I said or did something bizarre under the intoxicating influence too much insulin - he won't see the humor. He can't appreciate gallows humor if he thinks I'm the one standing on the gallows.
The times I scare him are in the night or in the early morning hours. While I haven't ever lost consciousness, I've failed to regain it on occasion. If I'm asleep, I can't notice the signs that are so apparent to me when I am awake. To make matters worse, I take my biggest dose of insulin before bed to keep me from waking up with a glucose level that is devastatingly high. Usually the dose works and I wake up with a normal blood sugar level.
Still, a correct dose of insulin is an educated guess based on the knowledge of what I've eaten and what activities I've been up to, and sometimes I miscalculate. At times I've miscalculated to the point of having a seizure, though not lately. I wake to bed sheets that are soaked in sweat and to Jeff holding a box of apple juice to my lips. When I come to and am coherent, he lectures me about being careful. He looks and sounds angry, but I know him well enough to know he isn't. He's terrified. Instead of arguing with him, I've learned to placate him, to promise to be more careful.
"What if I weren't here?" he asks, "What would happen then?"
I could remind him that I once lived alone and survived nicely. I also survived him working the night shift. When my blood sugar drops low enough to trigger a seizure, my liver releases glucose that it stores for "fight or flight" situations. I eventually come out of the seizure and regain consciousness. I used to try to remind him of these things, but not anymore since it does no good. He isn't arguing with me so much as he is arguing with the boogieman of losing me forever, of not being there to save me in my hour of need. Because this isn't my boogieman, I can't fight it for him.
I don't feel sorry for myself about having diabetes. It's an inconvenience and little more to me. Unless you turn my bracelet over and read the back of it, you would never know that there is anything wrong with me just by how I look. Still, sometimes I feel sorry for Jeff. The thing that only irritates me has a tendency to tear him up. Even if he never has to revive me with apple juice again, he will worry about possibly needing to. I carry his boogieman around with me, and his love for me feeds the beast.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
I'll give a little background about how I frighten them. Due to a glitch in my DNA, my immune system destroyed the insulin-producing cells in my pancreas. A normal body releases insulin whenever a person eats. This keeps the blood glucose (i.e. sugar) at a fairly stable level of between 90 and 120 mg/dL. To keep my own glucose level in line, I've taken insulin shots since I was 8 years old. If I don't take enough insulin, my glucose will go very high and leave me feeling ill and run down. If it stays too high for too long, it will cause damage that will limit my lifespan, among other things.
On the other hand, if I take too much insulin my glucose will drop too low. At about 70 mg/dL, I start to feel tired. At about 50 mg/dL, I will feel and act a little drunk and stop making sense when I talk. At about 20 mg/dL, I might pass out. If it goes much lower than that, I have convulsions.
There are cases where people have died or gone into an irreversible coma from too much insulin. My life would be easier if Jeff didn't know this. I once had a doctor tell me that he didn't believe that any of the shots I take are of a dose high enough kill me or leave me permanently incapacitated, and that my body should be able to recover in the case of an accidental overdose. I took comfort in this and cheerfully passed the news along to my husband, who only looked stressed. I guess that some people are just hard to please.
Because I've lived with this condition for so long, I'm good about keeping everything in check. I've never lost consciousness. I know the signs of low blood sugar and I correct them when they happen. I carry candy or at least money to buy a soda on me in case of an emergency. I keep boxes of apple juice in my glove compartment. To make Jeff happy, I also wear a Medic Alert to notify anyone who looks about my diabetes. Still, he worries. A lot. I don't bother worrying myself, because he worries enough for two people. If I do have an incident during the day, I know not to tell him about it, as he gets snappish and irritable. Even if the story is funny to me - if I said or did something bizarre under the intoxicating influence too much insulin - he won't see the humor. He can't appreciate gallows humor if he thinks I'm the one standing on the gallows.
The times I scare him are in the night or in the early morning hours. While I haven't ever lost consciousness, I've failed to regain it on occasion. If I'm asleep, I can't notice the signs that are so apparent to me when I am awake. To make matters worse, I take my biggest dose of insulin before bed to keep me from waking up with a glucose level that is devastatingly high. Usually the dose works and I wake up with a normal blood sugar level.
Still, a correct dose of insulin is an educated guess based on the knowledge of what I've eaten and what activities I've been up to, and sometimes I miscalculate. At times I've miscalculated to the point of having a seizure, though not lately. I wake to bed sheets that are soaked in sweat and to Jeff holding a box of apple juice to my lips. When I come to and am coherent, he lectures me about being careful. He looks and sounds angry, but I know him well enough to know he isn't. He's terrified. Instead of arguing with him, I've learned to placate him, to promise to be more careful.
"What if I weren't here?" he asks, "What would happen then?"
I could remind him that I once lived alone and survived nicely. I also survived him working the night shift. When my blood sugar drops low enough to trigger a seizure, my liver releases glucose that it stores for "fight or flight" situations. I eventually come out of the seizure and regain consciousness. I used to try to remind him of these things, but not anymore since it does no good. He isn't arguing with me so much as he is arguing with the boogieman of losing me forever, of not being there to save me in my hour of need. Because this isn't my boogieman, I can't fight it for him.
I don't feel sorry for myself about having diabetes. It's an inconvenience and little more to me. Unless you turn my bracelet over and read the back of it, you would never know that there is anything wrong with me just by how I look. Still, sometimes I feel sorry for Jeff. The thing that only irritates me has a tendency to tear him up. Even if he never has to revive me with apple juice again, he will worry about possibly needing to. I carry his boogieman around with me, and his love for me feeds the beast.
no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 09:08 pm (UTC)An insulin reaction is not scary to have, but apparently it is scary to watch. I've noticed that people (not just Jeff) are jittery and nervous long after I'm fine. Women tend to nurture and fuss, and men go into drill-sargent mode. It's one of the reason's I'm so good about avoiding having a public reaction; I hate having to deal with the aftermath of everyone else's fear. Me, I'm fine within 5 minutes of drinking a Coke.