5:58 a.m. Shit. Today of all days my alarm doesn’t go off. Thank my angels that No. 2 came to bed with me about an hour ago and I’ve been in and out ever since.
6:05 a.m. BS is 97. Geez. I really thought and hoped I’d be higher than that. I only took half my Lantus last night and had a big glass of whole, chocolate milk before bed. OK, we’ll just have to deal with it. Five hours until surgery…this is going to be rough. Open an 8 oz. Sprite and down the hatch.
6:50 a.m. BS is 150. That’s good, but I really thought that soda would have taken me over 200. This definitely won’t hold me over until 11 a.m.
8:02 a.m. BS is 90. Well, shit. I’m dropping. I’ll never last until we get to the outpatient center. One, two, three, four big sips of white grape juice. Ahhh. Just one more sip for kicks.
8:31 a.m. BS is 143. Good, the juice worked. Hopefully it will carry me through. Knowing me and fruit, I’m hoping to continue to climb. We leave to take No. 3 to the sitter and No. 2 to school. Take one more sip of juice just for good measure.
8:59 a.m. BS is 173 and we’re on the road to the outpatient center.
9:24 a.m. BS is 133. Still good, but I dropped 40 points in 30 minutes, which isn’t so good. **big sigh**
9:57 a.m. BS is 108. We’re at the outpatient center a full 45 minutes earlier than they told us to be here, but I’m glad. I’m checked in and they know I’m diabetic.
10:25 a.m. BS is 89. OK, time to act. The soda and the juice are making me crash, which is exactly what I feared, Exactly what I knew would happen. I go to the registration desk and talk to the lady who checked me in.
“My sugar’s not low, but I’m going low,” I told her. “I’m 89 now and I was 108 half an hour ago.” She says OK and I walk away. She gets right on the phone and I hear her telling someone my name and my sugar situation. Roughly two minutes later, a nurse calls me back.
Sherrie Perry starts an IV and checks my sugar with blood she got when she started the IV.
“73,” she says, and we look at each other knowingly, both thinking “good catch.”
“They should have had you come in on a day when they do surgery in the mornings,” Sherrie Perry said.
“Oh, I asked for a Thursday because my husband is off on Thursdays,” I said.
Now that you mention it, though, that seems like it would have been a great idea since I am sugar impaired. Since the physicians’ assistant knows I’m diabetic, knew how long I’d have to go without eating and was the one who scheduled the surgery, seems like he would have been the best candidate to have said something like “Gee, I know you asked for a Thursday, but we do early morning surgeries on Tuesdays. Do you think you could come in then?” I don’t even know if they do early morning surgeries, so I could just be getting bent out of shape for nothing.
10:40 a.m. Another nurse comes in with about the biggest syringe I’ve ever seen…a 25 gram syringe filled with 50% dextrose. Sounds like fun, I thought.
“You should just have your hubby come in and kiss you. That would sweeten you up,” she joked.
She slowly squeezes in just half of the solution. It makes my elbow hurt and the nurse covers up my arm with a warm blanket, which immediately makes it feel better.
11:08 a.m. BS is 144. Nice. That worked well. Hopefully that will carry me through. Sigh and relax.
Meanwhile, The Mr. and I talk about our lunch options. Steak N Shake, Ruby Tuesday, Applebee’s and Bob Evans are all top contenders.
11:30 a.m. The Mr. says my face looks flush.
11:33 a.m. BS is 102
11:53 a.m. EKG done. Second IV in.
“Give me my meter so I can check my sugar one more time before I go in,” I tell The Mr.
11:54 a.m. BS is 88. Push the little red button to call Sherrie Perry.
“I’m 88,” I tell her. “Thirty minutes ago I was 102.”
She walks off and I hear her rattling off my numbers to someone. Massive-syringe-nurse comes back. 12 more grams of dextrose. It makes my elbow hurt worse than the first time. The first dose lasted about an hour; this one should get me through the surgery, we all think aloud.
I get some nice sleepy drugs and next thing I know I’m seeing ceiling tiles and saying “I’m waking up.” “Good,” the anesthesiologist tells me, “because we’re done.”
“I want to see it,” I begged.
They shove a specimen container close to my face and I see a blob stuck to the side of the container. Someone hands me my glasses and I get a better look at it. About the size of a pea and about the color of baby flesh—very light pink.
“Can I take a picture? A picture, I want to take a picture. There’s a little digital camera in my bag…”
But they wisk it off before I can have my Kodak moment, and before I know it, I’m talking to Debbie.
12:30 p.m. They wheel me into recovery. Debbie is there taking my vitals.
“Will someone check my sugar, please?” I ask her. I think I asked twice. It was a mild sedative, but I was still super loopy. “I’m just fascinated by modern medicine,” I say to Debbie. “Why did you want to be a nurse?”
12:35 BS is 131. Wonderful. Debbie gets me some peanut butter crackers and a Diet Pepsi. My left hand is incredibly floppy and tingly. My hand and arm up to my elbow are covered in yellow goop that makes my skin feel tight.
“So, I’m thinking no sit down restaurants,” I joke to The Mr. and holding up my arm just a bit.
1:30ish p.m. We finally drive away.
“Food. Now.” I instruct.
“What do you want?” The Mr. asks.
After a junior Whopper and onion rings, I’m still hungry. (Well, you didn’t eat breakfast, The Mr. says.) On our way out of town, I get a large chocolate cone from DQ.
3:30 p.m. We’re home. I pump and dump and we go after the kids.
6 p.m. Dinner. Hardly any carbs. I had planned to have biscuits (No. 2 chose breakfast for dinner since it was her first day of school), but they didn’t get made.
6:30 p.m. I’m wickedly tired and go rest on the couch.
7:30ish p.m. I do another pump and dump. The baby's not happy about the formula bottle I fixed her (won't take the bottle from Daddy either), but does take some juice from a bottle.
9:13 p.m. I’m ready for bed. Better check my BS. It’s 122.
10 p.m. Take 15 units of Lantus (normally take 20).
6 a.m. Friday morning, fasting is 89.