It’s hard to explain how badly my confidence was shaken after that bad low on Christmas Eve.
I went from a lifetime low A1C of 6.9 in November, to a two-year high of 8.0 in February. Scared? Yeah. Running high? You bet.
That low totally rocked my world, and it’s going to take some time to recover from it.
It didn’t catch me off-guard. It didn’t happen while I was travelling or dealing with some other unusual circumstance. It hit me smack-dab in the middle of my normal routine. That’s the part that stings the most. That I can’t explain it away. That I have to know it could happen again at any time.
Five years ago I wrote that diabetes was like carrying a football player on my back. I still feel that way. But it’s worse now.
He’s whispering in my ear. Planting seeds of self-doubt, fear, and worry. He’s telling me that I can’t do what I need to do. That I’m not strong enough or prepared enough, or careful enough. That he’s going to take me down over and over again until I don’t have it in me to get back up again.
I don’t listen to him. I take his whispered threats for what they are; words coming out of a guy trapped on my back going wherever I decide to take him.
But I’d be lying if I said those words never penetrated. Especially when I’m tired of diabetes, or when I’m frustrated, or burned out, or scared.
It happens to all of us from time to time, right?
