Keepin' It on the Low

I have been having a bit of a "situation" lately.

But seriously, people, since I've moved into my new apartment, my blood sugar has been hanging out on the low end of things. In fact, I think I have more lows in the last two weeks then I have in the last two months. It's really quite peculiar. Initially, I had just chalked it up to the additional exercise of moving things to and fro. Yes, to and fro.

However, the majority of my belongings have been unpacked and moving to and fro has been brought back down into normal range. Yet, I'm still finding this increase in lows. Maybe it's a reduction in stress since I am no longer living out of my car and know exactly where I am going to sleep each night. Maybe it's just being back into a regular routine, cooking for myself, eating the way I usually do.

Whatever it is, it couldn't have come soon enough since I'm scheduled to see my endocrinologist (so dreamy) to get a new a1c result on Valentine's Day. Coincidence?

The Lowest Low

I like to think that I have already had my lowest low. The low so low that you never want to be low again. That's how low your lowest low is. In case you didn't catch it....it's pretty low.

When I was diagnosed, my first night in the hospital, I experienced my very first  hypoglycemic episode. My head was spinning. My brain slowed down. My body didn't cooperate. Nearly passing out, my entire body tingled. I did a very dangerous thing that night.

I waited.

Not knowing what was going on or what to do, the whole concept of hypoglycemia as a life-threatening event being completely new to me, I waited. The nurses were doing regular checks each hour and I figured that she would come eventually. Rookie mistake. 

I have quickly learned that hypoglycemia is not something that you wait to treat. The longer you wait, the shittier you feel and more dangerous it becomes. I think this is in part to the "slow down," where my brain slows to the point where stringing together a coherent sentence becomes increasingly difficult as though I am a recovering stroke victim. My only diabetic friend says that she knows she's in trouble when she finds herself staring at the same box of cereal for an uncertain amount of time.

Occasionally, I read blogs written by other diabetics. Some of these bloggers talk about lows so low that other people might need to intervene to help them treat their hypoglycemia. Posts like that make me nervous.  I felt pretty cocky content that I haven't needed help to treat a low. That was until I realized that I was lying to myself.

This realization happened the other night. Jerry and I had been out drinking, which is always tricky at the end of the night since alcohol may initially cause a high blood sugar but drop my levels later on. I'm not sure which happened first, Jerry getting out of bed to use the bathroom or my waking up sweaty and shaking.

When Jerry got back from the bathroom, I asked him to get my tester from the living room. Through bleary, sleepy eyes, I held my shaking finger to the test strip. Before I had even heard the familiar beep of my meter announcing my low, Jerry was standing there with an apple sauce packet in his hands.

Could I have gotten up and retrieved my tester myself? Yes. Did it help that he was there? Certainly.

It definitely doesn't reach the level of not being able to get out of bed and needing someone there to guide my arm to my mouth, but it counts as an intervention, as help.

Namaste, Bitches.

I've done it. I'm taking the plunge.
No, I'm not engaged and I'm not pregnant.
I am even better then those things! I'm a yoga teacher. Yay!

Okay, okay, I'm not quite a yoga teacher yet. But I will be soon.

The plunge I am taking is into a 200-hour yoga teacher training with my favorite yoga studio, The Yoga Room in Astoria, starting this Friday.

I love yoga. I've been practicing for over 7 years now and I'm always amazed at what a difference yoga makes in my life. Besides the physical affects of feeling more fit, lean, and flexible, yoga also has an amazing impact on my mind as it reduces my anxiety, calms me down, and makes me more midnful.

Over the last few years, becoming a yoga teacher has become more and more appealing to me. I had just discussed what a life-changing experience it would be when my old yoga studio in Astoria sent out an e-mail annoucing its next 200-hour teacher training. I took it as a sign. Isn't that very yogi of me?

So I applied! With much anxiety. It's quite the commitment. It's two weekends a month on Friday evenings and all day on Saturday and Sundays for four months. In addition to the actual teacher training, I also need to practice at the studio at least three times a week. Eek!

As the days have ticked down to its actual start date, my anxiety has started to increase. Will I have the time? Will I be in shape enough? Will I be passing out every three hours from hypoglyemia?! Just kidding, Mom.

Now that it's finally here, I am really excited....and slightly overwhelmed. Here's to the next step in this crazy adventure.

Namaste, bitches.

Tomato: To Eat or to Throw?

One of the experiences we were most looking forward to on our trip to Spain was La Tomatina Festival. It is an annual tomato fight in the town of Bunol, where locals and visitors alike prepare themselves to be pelted with tomatoes.

The experience was definitely intense, to say the least. It's basically a mosh pit with tomato juice.
Everyone pushes into a small square in the center of Bunol and wait for large trucks filled with tomatoes to plow through, leaving buckets of sauce in its wake. As the trucks come in, insanity ensues! The crowd pushes together to make room for the trucks, to get leverage, to cop a feel (which I was on the receiving end of, the downside of the festival), to catch a breath, grab a tomato, whatever else you can do in a crushing crowd of hundreds of people.

At one point, I had to yell for Jerry's help as I wasn't able to breath in the body crush of the crowd. Finally making it over to a wall that provided a little bit more stability, there was a lull in the onslaught of trucks, allowing me a quick moment to hold out my hands.

Shaking hands. Not a good sign.

Jerry looked at my hands and immediately asked, "You're low?!"

Tears began forming in my eyes. The festival had just started. There was no easy way out of this crowd and I had stupidly not brought in anything to treat a low. I checked for the other usual signs. Was I getting hot? Was my mind slowing down? Did I feel shaking anywhere else in my body? Was this just the result of an adrenaline boost to the system from being squeezed by tomato-soaked Spaniards? Should I just start eating tomatoes in the hopes that it rises my blood sugar?

I took a deep breath. Calmed down a bit and said no. I don't think I was having a low. Just a slight panic attack. I promised Jerry if I started to feel weak, we'd push through the crowd and get something to treat it immediately. We stayed in the center of the madness for another 20 minutes before we both agreed to call it quits. Once out of the pit, all feelings of hypoglycemia faded away.

We warned to not carry anything as things got a little crazy and would pretty much be destroyed. I took that suggestion too far, forgetting that, as a diabetic, the concept of "not carrying anything with me" just does not apply.