Tag Archives: time

We need to take care of ourselves.

Wow, what a difficult morning… or was it?

Yesterday, I got out of bed a little late (maybe 15 minutes), and like most mornings, I had a list of things to do before I left for work. Shower, shave, get my clothes on, go downstairs, let the dog out, feed the dog and cat, start the coffee (always high on the list), make my own breakfast, pack my lunch, and…

Take my medicine. I mean that both literally and figuratively.

Fifteen minutes doesn’t seem like a lot, but it is a lot when I also have to look after my diabetes. I forgot to do a BG check before I made breakfast (I am definitely a pre-boluser), and that frustrated me. So I stopped what I was doing, washed my hands like a good little boy, and performed the finger stick. I’m home free, right? Wrong.

I forgot to take my oral meds. This includes a multivitamin and a baby aspirin every day. That’s another thing I have to stop for.

Then, when I was within five minutes of leaving, I realized: I needed an infusion set change. There wasn’t enough insulin left in my reservoir to last through the workday; so once again, I had to stop what I was doing to focus on, you know, doing stuff that will help keep me alive. I arrived at work just in time, and started a full schedule of meetings and testing.

This kind of morning really bothers me. Until I’m actually out the door. Then I’m all business, not thinking about the things I have to do for my health and how much time they take out of my life. I mean, I get it: I’m extremely fortunate to be able to buy drugs and vitamins, and have an insulin pump to help me manage my diabetes. I don’t like the extra time that managing and worrying about my diabetes takes. But I also tend to sweep it under the rug a lot. My Midwestern upbringing taught me to not complain about things I can’t change; just deal with them and move on.

And I can usually handle that, until I’m confronted with it in a way that makes me stress over the time these things require, in a very tangible way. Then everything is different, and the relentless nature of diabetes is manifested in ways that can make me very unpleasant to live with for a while.

In the end though, what can I do? I just did what I had to do… I took care of myself. It’s easy for us to forget that, isn’t it? We need to take care of ourselves. Regardless of the time it takes. We are worth that effort. Our health and well-being come first. And though it might make a few of my colleagues uncomfortable to read this, work will still be there if I’m five minutes late.

Despite the time it required, once everything was finished, I was ready for the rest of my day. Diabetes frustrated me yesterday, but I was still able to tame it by taking the time needed to take care of me.

There should be stoppage time.

There’s not really a lot that depresses me about diabetes. Okay, there’s a lot that could depress me about diabetes. But I’m the kind of person that would let those things really get me down if I let them. So often, I choose not to think of them. Very often, I choose not to think of them, if you know what I mean. It’s one of the few parts of my life where I try to remain positive at all times.

But every once in a while… well, you just have to let yourself rant.

I was working around the house Saturday afternoon, cleaning, doing the laundry, that kind of thing. At some point, I went upstairs to make the bed that had been left unmade since morning. I had a couple of other things to do up there too, so I took the iPad with me and started up the Pandora® so I’d have some music while I worked.

Some 45 minutes later, the bed was only half made, and I was sucking back juice and honey. A bright 43 mg/dL showed on my meter.

Hey, as much as we would like them not to, these things happen. But where was my brain during this time? What happened to those 45 minutes? I have a right to ask… I’ll never get those 45 minutes back, and I feel cheated somehow. For three quarters of an hour, my brain was jello. It let me down.

Then I had to explain it to everyone in the house, and answer the questions like: “Did you know you were going low?” “Did you bolus too much at lunch?” “Why didn’t you get some juice sooner?”

The answer to all of those questions is, I DON’T KNOW. My brain checked out for that time. I have almost no recollection of anything other than fidgeting too much with the sheets and blankets and pillows on the bed, and walking around the bedroom what seemed like a hundred times. I don’t have an explanation for any of that either.

But I want my 45 minutes back. I feel like someone, something, some cosmic timekeeper, owes me 45 minutes extra. Stoppage time, they call it in soccer. I want my time back! At the end of my life, there should be a lot of stoppage time left over.

If, somehow, I ever do get my time back… trust me, I’m going to make very good use of it. What would you do with your extra stoppage time?

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