Sunday, March 25, 2012
I found you in my freezer last night. I'd forgotten you were there. Hidden behind a bag of broccoli and some frozen cauliflower was you, my old friend. Small and round, with little bits of onion and pepperoni, I knew you would hit the spot. So, I brought you out of the freezer. That was my first mistake.
I read the instructions on how to microwave you -- 2 minutes on high, rotate the plate, 1 minute more. As I pressed the buttons I knew in 3 minutes I was going to enjoy just a little pizza. While you cooked I looked at your carb count and calculated my insulin dose accordingly.
While you spun around in my new microwave I tested my blood sugar. It was 94. I tested the pen needle to make sure insulin was flowing. A jet of insulin, which smelled almost exactly like Band-aids, shot out of my pen. My next steps were an alcohol swab, a quick shot, and I was all already to enjoy you, my dear lovely pizza. However, removing you from the oven was the last thing that went right.
Little did I know you had a diabolical trick to play on me. I didn't realize your gooey cheese, sausage and pepperoni conspired with the crust to create an evil midnight surprise. I trusted you, my old friend. Why did you wake me up in the middle of the night with Dexcom buzzing and beeping: 200 HIGH!
High? How can this be? When I ate you five hours ago I counted my carbs. I calculated my insulin dose according to my insulin/carb ratio. Why then did my blood sugar rise to 200. And then 208. And then 222, and then 259? What did I do to make you so angry, pizza? Why did you delay digestion for so long? Your carbs showed up long after my Novolog was finished. You took me for a ride to a place I didn't want to go.
With Dexcom alarming every five minutes and my blood sugar showing no signs of going down, I got out of bed and did a rage bolus. Hours passed. I dozed and woke up to more alarms. Finally my blood sugar plateaued and started coming down. Today I've been confused and weepy inside from lack of sleep. I had an awful night. It's all your fault Pizza. I think we need to go our separate ways.
Pizza, you and my other old friends Oatmeal and Chinese Food, are going to remain a memory. You make my blood sugar go high. Perhaps when I get an insulin pump I can let you back into my life. I would like that because I do love you still. But, until I get a pump I have to unfriend you because my pancreas unfriended me.