Lows are like Snowflakes

Each one is different.  Just like a snowflake.

Nothing with diabetes is ever predictable.  Ever the same.

I should know that by now.  Wouldn't you think?

But this morning.... not so much.

This morning I forgot.  This morning I let myself be lulled into a false sense of safety.

We've been battling lows.  Low after low after low.  We've pulled back basals.  We've changed carb ratios.  We've even called the hospital for extra help. 

And yet they persist.

Over the weekend, Sweetpea had a 39.

Yes, a 39.

And you wouldn't have known. 

She was talking and playing like nothing was wrong.  This isn't the first time.  She's been in the 30's before... answering questions, talking, recalling information, walking, running....

Over the weekend, however, the low hit hard.  Although inconspicuous at first, it reared it's ugly head and left her crying on the couch that her belly hurt. 

She's just starting to be aware.  She just now moving from "I feel hungry" (which was our only symptom and sign for so long) to "My tummy hurts.  I feel low."

This is a good thing.  At least, it's as much of a good thing as a low can be.

Yesterday was not a good day.  Her blood sugar was 76 after preschool.  She had 3 free carbs.  THREE. 

Two hours later she was 435. 

A correction was given.  And 90 minutes later she was 95. 

Her attitude was terrible.  She was angry, grumpy and mean.  She was tired. 

She hovered at 80-90 for awhile.  She was at a good number at bed - 145.  She stayed steady there for most of the night.

Until she started dropping. 

By 7:30, she was awake.  And she was low.

71

Not a terribly low number.  She felt it, though.  Said her tummy hurt.

We looked for juice.  None to be found in her room OR in the hall linen closet where we keep our stash.

I was in the process of getting dressed for work when this all started going down.  I had a meeting and I HAD to be there on time.

She said she'd go downstairs and get the juice.  On her own. 

"Fine" I said.  Thinking that would buy me a couple of minutes to continue throwing on my clothes in haphazard fashion.  No worries.  It wasn't that low....

The next thing I hear is crying. 

She is laying on the steps, at the bottom. 

She fell. 

She fell down the steps. 

At 71.

The rest of the morning continued in at a frantic pace. 

Pick her up.  Make sure she's ok. Get the juice.  Drink the juice.  Wait.....  Test again... She's coming up.

Get dressed.  Get HER dressed.  She's crying.  She's hungry.  She wants to go to McDonalds.  We NEVER go to McDonalds for breakfast. 

"We can't today, Sweetie.  We're already late and I HAVE to get to this meeting."

"THIS IS WHY I HATE SCHOOL!"  she shouts.  "I'm TIRED.  I don't want to go.  I just want to stay here."

"I'm sorry, hon.  I know you're tired.  I'm tired, too. But we have to go to school.  Please get dressed."

Pants go flying across the room.  Her door slams.  Yes, she's only 4. 

I start looking for my shoes and putting on my earrings. 

She appears in the doorway with her shirt over her head. She's stuck.  Needs help.  She's crying.

We fix it.  I get myself thrown together.  I try to do her hair.  She's still crying.  "I wish I was a Mom before you."  she says.  "Then I wouldn't have to do my hair.  You hurt me.  You always hurt me."

I explain that an easy solution is to cut off all of her hair.  She does not like this idea.

She can't find her coat.  She won't put it on.  She's still crying.

We finally get in the car.  We're late.  We're not going to make it on time. 

I look in the rear view mirror and see her staring out the window.  Blankly.

I wonder what she's thinking.  I wonder what's going through her head. 

I know what's going through mine.  I hate diabetes. I'm sorry, but I do.  I hate what it does to my child.  I hate seeing her like that.  I hate it.  I hate that I can't make it better.  I hate that my best isn't always good enough.  I hate that I can't protect her from this beast. 

We get to school.  We're late.  10 minutes.  We run upstairs and the join the meeting already in progress.  I test again.  145.  Good number.  The juice didn't send her sky high. 

She crawls into my lap and puts her head on my shoulder.  I finally relax. 

"I love you, Mommy."  she whispers into my ear. 

"I know baby.  I love you, too."