It's 8:30 pm on a Saturday night. Naturally, I'm on the couch under my favorite blanket- the position I'm guaranteed to assume following the longest workday of the week. Indeed, It started off that way. Until an unexpected turn of events.
Not long after getting set up for the work day, I noticed an odd sensation. My heart was kinda racing, so I made a joke about my Coffee Bean almond latte and assumed it would dissipate. But it wasn't. Maybe anxiety? Fatigue? I was definitely feeling both for reasons I was unsure, but this symptom- at least in how I was experiencing it- was kinda new. Against my better judgement, I refused to believe that something was wrong and kept working
Maybe I should check my blood sugar? But, this wasn't a blood sugar symptom. It had to be the coffee. Well, whatever it was wasn't improving. Suddenly, I couldn't bend over or move too fast or I'd get light headed and winded. I continued going about work like everything was fine, hoping my slower pace would go unnoticed.
My symptoms were growing worse, and so was my concern. I really couldn't keep up with my task and crept off to check my blood sugar real quick.
Uh, oh. 396. I had filled my pump up this morning and reinserted it before work without an issue. Or so it seemed. But maybe, as diabetes is always a guessing game, just maybe it was an error on my part. So, I quickly drew up an insulin injection and went back to the floor determined to continue with no evidence that anything was wrong. That wouldn't last long. As I was ringing up a customer, this sudden wave of panic came over me. I instantly knew why and what it meant. I could feel it. There was no brushing off the nausea anymore. It was happening. Like Bridemaids.
Ok, not totally like that. Same same, but different.
I hurriedly tried to finish up with the customer. Barely able to crack a smile or acknowledge conversation. Man, it was right there. And, as soon as they took their receipt, I was out.
I just needed to sit down and let it clear before I could tell anyone what was going on. I've never liked making diabetes an issue at work. How do I not worry anyone yet get across that I feel shitty enough that I would need to sit a while? That's all. Just sit and let it pass. It would, and I'd go on with my work day, workin' those sugars down.
However, two words ended it all.
"...banana pudding."
Let's just say, thank the lawd my chair was steps from the bathroom.
(btw, totally nothing against banana pudding. That stuff from Magnolia Bakery is life changing.)
I sat there for a while on the cool bathroom floor, still convinced this would totally pass. Leaning against the wall with the sun hitting my face, I truly was feeling better, and finally good enough to go back to my chair.
Of course, upon exiting the bathroom, I was met with an "Are you sure you're ok?" to which I assured, "Oh yeah, really I'm fine."
"Taylor, you were dry heaving in the bathroom." Damn.
"Oh, uh. You could hear that? Really, I'm fine." Still convinced. Despite the offers, I wasn't going home. I just needed to sit. What I also needed to do was to get straight to the bottom of this. So, I did the deed and pulled out the tubing that connects my insulin pump to my body to deliver the insulin. Except it wasn't delivering insulin. And it hadn't been all morning.
You see, with diabetes comes a lot of error. To no one's fault. And, often times, it's too late to catch it before, well, things such as this story take place. The tubing had never broken my skin. Instead, it sat bent up underneath the hard plastic piece protecting it. I needed to get this replaced asap, but thankfully I had insulin from my previous injection on board because, for the time being, I wasn't moving. Unless it was back to the bathroom. Which I would do several times, locking the door and just sitting on the floor. Each time I'd get up, convinced that I was feeling better. I tried walking out slowly to help customers but could barely get through one at a time. Each time going back to hide in the bathroom before another tracked me down.
I was honestly surprised that my blood sugar hadn't been higher by the way I was feeling. I needed to drink water and lots of it to warn off possible DKA (diabetic ketoacidosis). Another symptom that struck me as off was that I was also struggling to hold my eyes open. It wasn't that I was tired, per se, but they felt so heavy. During a brief moment of fighting this by staring deeply off into space, a customer caught me.
"Did you have your edibles today?" He teased. That's how intensely I was out of it.
Each attempt to get back to the floor was met with more nausea. And, after one final journey into the bathroom, I exited and finally succumbed to the offer to go home.
"I'm useless anyway," I finally professed. I could barely stand for a minute. My eyes were heavy. I could barely make a sentence, and my muscles had barely enough stamina to function. I wasn't getting better (enough) any time soon.
Back at my apartment, I collapsed right into bed not necessarily wanting to sleep. I did, off and on while watching a movie (Beautiful Boy on Amazon Video) and sipping water until my blood sugar finally hit an acceptable 166. I finally felt like eating and thankfully had some Trader Joe's instant ramen (shhhh) on hand. Still feeling weak, lightheaded and nauseous, I was grateful to have been able to come home from work to rest my body as it absolutely needed, and I went back the next day, still on the weaker side, but feeling like the previous day was only a dream.
So, why did I keep insisting that I was fine? Why didn't I give in sooner? Why was I going to fight tooth and nail to stay when I couldn't even stand?
These questions fall in an all too common list which I constantly present with another question: why?
Why can I never put me first?
Why do I always have to be the hero?
Why do I have to look stronger than I need to be? Than it's safe to be?
Because I don't want anyone to count me out because I have a chronic illness. I don't want it to ever be the reason why "I can't." I don't ever want to say those words. There's always even the smallest part of me screaming "I can." And, I do, to my detriment more often than not. I make offers. I say yes. I don't even hesitate to my own needs.
Even before that previous "episode," I was feeling a little rough. The fatigue that I often battle was creeping up with intensity. I can't even believe I'm finally able to finish this post compared to how crippling the brain fog has been since before the fatigue even hit.
I'm frustrated. Anxious over how long it's going to stay. Nervous that work is too much to handle. Missing yoga and my projects and dancing around- well, everywhere. There's no bounce in my step. A smile takes a lot, and just forget having a conversation with me.
Thankfully, I've tangoed with this beast before. I know the outcome as well as I know the process. I'm resting and appreciating the littlest of milestones as I wake to the promise of a day where I feel like I'm actively living in the same world as everyone else.
This is my life. It's all real. It's deep. There's so much I never even elude to. But, as I have been moving through the trenches of these moments, I knew I had to share. I can keep playing strong. I can keep playing healthy. And, people will treat me that way. They'll believe me when I say I'm fine and will never catch when I slip up on a sign that I'm not. However, I'm not sure that's how it needs to be anymore. I want to be understood, but to not fear that I'll be counted out. I don't want those around me to worry, but I want reassurance that it's ok not to be ok and to slow down or even sit it out. Don't tell me that I'm young and fit because that doesn't mean that I'm healthy. It means I can survive. Even if it takes an extraordinary amount of strength to do so.
trainliketaylor@gmail.com
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