We strolled 5km to the beach after breakfast, relishing in the novelty of suddenly having no time constraints or geographic constraints, of breathing different air and taking in a new view. As we rolled out our towels and delighted in the simplicity of it, I discovered I’d left all of my diabetes equipment, sitting happily together, in the guesthouse. I’d taken it out of my carefully packed beach bag to do a BG check before we set off on the walk, and by force of habit had returned it to my normal handbag.
What to do? My new state of relaxation evaporated as I considered my options and lambasted my stupidity. We’d walked so far. The BG check – the catalyst for the situation – had been solid. I had hypo snacks galore at least, and no plans to eat for the foreseeable. The sudden awareness of being detached from my lifeline played on me, but I resolved to tune into the body in the way that years of experience has showed me that I can, and feel my way through the next few hours. Which was fine, until the pod on my body indignantly clocked that it was nowhere near the PDM and was having none of it. Cue that haunting, unmistakable alarm, unrelenting and needy. While bathers in the vicinity winced as my shrill siren interrupted their idyllic afternoon, I frantically tried – and failed – to hit the reset button. I gave up, wrapping it in my towel and burying it at the bottom of my backpack, embarrassed and annoyed by it all.
With my basal now thwarted and no idea of my current blood sugar, I resigned to head back to the guesthouse via taxi and reunite with my insulin. Which I did, and my blood sugar was a highly satisfying 4.8.
Not the ideal start to independent travel, but the safety of the guesthouse had brought my guard down where it simply would not in a hostel. At the time I was baffled by myself, but looking back now I think that falling out of such an intense month of work, I can only assume a lack of sleep, a day of travelling and then hitting the sea air – so intoxicating, so hypnotic – had left me in a rather potent daze, heightened by the sudden lack of pressure or need to be anywhere at a specific time. And so the type 1 lessons continue…
1 Comment
Why does diabetes always seem to pick the worst possible moments to have a failure? Couldn’t have a pod fail at home on an ordinary day – nope, beach for us too this summer. AND a CGM failure at 1am in the morning after a double hypo. Evil sod.