The dreaded hypo’s are back. Uh-oh. Man the barricades. When I have bad hypos, I turn into something like the monster from the black lagoon, all growly, pale and nasty. And over the past week or so, I’ve been having some rather nasty ones in the vein of at least two a day whereupon my poor other half has to pour copious amounts of apple juice down my throat.
Yesterday, we decided to go shopping. And the supermarket we decided on was about a half hour walk away. Fifteen minutes down the road, I start noticing some weirdness going on with my eyes. Then the legs start shaking and the words start slurring.
“I dunt feel fery well…”
I’m trying to get my point across to my other half in the middle of a very busy street. Things are blurry and the world is spinning, and he laughs at me for a moment before making me sit on a wall and making me check my blood sugar.
“Oh dear…I think you need some sugar”
With eyes that seem to be making the world jump around and have a crazy party, I see the number on my meter. 1.6mmol/L. And silly little hypo me starts panicking and, with what must have been rather funny for any passers-by, I tip my handbag all over the pavement. My purse starts rolling away, my gloves flop uselessly on the pavement and various receipts start flying away. In my lack of sugar state, I’m trying to find myself some glucotabs. And I can’t. There is nothing in my handbag.
And then, to make matters just that tad more embarrassing. I start crying. My poor other half helps me put my things back in my handbag before helping me to my feet. Something is muttered about always making sure I have something on me, how come this time I don’t. So our next mission, should we choose to accept it, is to find me some juice. I’m muttering all the way to co-op about wanting juice.
“I want some juice. I need it. I’m soooooooooo hungrrryyyyyyyy”
It earns me yet more funny looks, but I stumble on with a grin. And then, I magically find some chocolate in my coat pocket. And it’s good chocolate, half a bar of Thorntons milk chocolate. It’s thrown in my mouth with the fervour of someone who hasn’t eaten in days. And then the hunger starts. My tummy rumbles so loud that my other half looks at me with raised eyebrows, “Hungry honey?”
I fall into Co-Op, and mutter something to the employee stood at the counter “I need juice. Where’s your juice?”
He points me in the right direction. And I see the biggest drinkable bottle of juice in history. It’s huge. And it’s shining at me, like gold. DRINK ME. DRIIINNNKKK MEEEE. So I grab it, and in the process end up knocking half of the other bottles over with a crash. But I don’t care; I rush over to the counter, drop a pound on the side and start chugging that sweet, sweet orange juice. The cashier is looking at me funny, and I grin at him.
“Diabetic” I say with a goofy grin, “Hypo diabetic. Not good. Need juice”
He just smiles and nods and I go back outside. The world is coming into focus by now; after all I’ve just polished off 500ml of orange juice. And that’s when I start feeling like a prat.
“Seriously…how much did I embarrass myself there?” I ask my other half.
He just looks at me with a grin and shrugs, no answer given. It’s probably best for him not to tell me I think, as we make our way around to the supermarket, where I still want to eat everything.
Samantha is Type One and regularly blogs at http://www.talkingbloodglucose.com/