I passed out again yesterday. I was waiting to see a new Urologist when I got a twinge from the low-sugar fairy. I remember trying to find my emergency glucose supply in my bag, and then I woke up three hours later in the parking lot, my chair wedged against a red van. Not my red van, mind, but one close by. I have glimpses of the time in between where the new doctor asked me questions and I replied “Uh…huh?” a lot. And of him saying he wanted to see me in six months. And of me driving up and down strange hallways, as well as in circles in the lobby, running into furniture a lot.
The lesson? Make sure I carry something sweet at all times, and don’t hesitate to eat it. Okay, I thought I was already doing that, but apparently not. After all, I have these tubes of glucose tablets in every room in the house. I probably used the one from my bag and forgot to replace it. So I guess I’ll have to try harder.
I’m a little bit surprised the new doc didn’t spot the symptoms of what is commonly called an insulin reaction. It was very obvious, and he knew from my records (I always provide my doctors with lots of detailed records) that I am diabetic. After all, the brain runs on sugar, and one of the first signs of low blood glucose is acting stupid. It used to be common for diabetics to get arrested for drunk driving for that reason, until it became part of police training to look for the symptoms (acetone breath, confusion, medical alert bracelet). And I wear an alert necklace just to make sure anyone who finds me knows about my little problem. And since the final stage of extreme low blood glucose can be death, you’d think a doctor would be on the lookout for such things.
She Who Must Be Obeyed reminded me later that the Urologist would only have been looking for Urology stuff (Her motto, developed from years of being an RN, is: if you want to know the answer, ask a nurse not the doctor — sorry, Victo Dolore), but I figure that if a policeman can be expected to figure out the difference between drunk and diabetic, you’d think that a doctor would be able to figure out the difference between stupid and diabetic. Although, I must admit, I’m pretty sure I put on a good show of stupid to him. At least I’ve called his office and explained things to them. He’s supposed to call me back and tell me what the outcome of the office visit was, since I don’t remember.
I guess a couple of good things came from this little episode. First there’s the reminder that I have to take better care of my emergency supplies. Plus my marriage has received a boost. Since I always use my electronic leash (smart phone) to keep Her appraised of my situation (where I am, that I’m okay and haven’t fallen some place, etc.), She got very worried about me when I didn’t check in for awhile. Why is that a good thing? Well, we’ve been married forever and the escalating concern shown in Her messages on my phone tell me that after all the medical bother and all the usual married crap, She does still care — a lot. It turns out that I forgot to tell Her just where the new doctor’s office was located and She was about to call the cops on me when I finally got some sugar in my system and let Her know what was happening.
Since then She’s been fluttering all over me like a momma hen. And you know what? As independent as I like to be, I’m not minding it one bit. It’s nice to be cared for some times…
Later edit: heard from the Dr’s staff — apparently I checked out of the office like a normal person; made a future appointment and everything. Don’t know how I did it, but wish I could see a film of that.
Oh, and the thing I thought might be a tumor turned out to be edema. Well, that’s one worry less…