Saturday started a new season of magical awesomeness that is college football. Specifically, Florida State University football!
My buddy J called me up on Friday and said, “Dude!”
I replied, “Dude!”
He said, “I have two tickets to Saturday’s game against Louisiana-Monroe! You want to go?”
I said, “Dude! Sweet!”
He said, “Sweet!”
And that is how we arranged to go to the game. We’re men of a very extensive vocabulary, clearly. We also hold multiple undergraduate, graduate, and doctoral level degrees between the two of us, so don’t get it twisted that we can’t be verbose when we feel like it.
I spent all night Friday night and Saturday trying to keep my blood sugar from bottoming out. I didn’t get up and go to the gym or spin class on Saturday morning, or go for a bike ride, or anything like that. I was just low, and dipping lower for no apparent reason. You’d think I had diabetes or something…I mean, wait…
It was the first game of the season, and everyone had apparently arrived ahead of me for the game, so I ended up having to park a mile or two away and walk to get there. After hiking through the snow, uphill, and against the wind (or really just through the Florida summer heat), I met J outside of the stadium, and before we went through the entrance gate and the fun that security show and tell can be when you have diabetes supplies that go everywhere with you, I stopped to do a quick blood sugar check. I was feeling a little weird after the walk, but no symptoms that were extraordinarily odd.
38. (See also: Holy f@#ing $h!t!)
I noticed my hands where shaking when I was trying to put my diabetes trash (alcohol swab and strip) in its special place inside of my BG kit. I noticed how hard it was to zip my kit back closed so the contents didn’t go falling all over the sidewalk. I wasn’t confused, or unable to function, or emotional, or not able to communicate. I was just clumsy…er, clumsier than usual.
As we headed toward security and the entrance to the stadium, I reached in my pocket and fished out my emergency glucose tab keychain with the four glucose tabs that live within. I started popping them in my mouth as we were getting in line, and I deliberately chose the line closest to the FSU police officer just in case I didn’t catch that 38 in time and all of a sudden needed help as I was hand modeling my diabetes junk with the security personnel.
I never told J that I was as low as I was. I haven’t necessarily hidden my diabetes from him the few times we’ve hung out, but I also haven’t taken the time to explain or throw up a sign with neon lights about it either. With this 38, at a time when I was so excited to have a good time, I needed my diabetes to take a back seat and behave and leave me alone.
Fortunately, I caught the low in time. Once we were through the gate, after I had already eaten my four glucose tabs, I headed to the concession stand and bought me a big fat pretzel and a cold drink. I didn’t have any other problems for the rest of the game, and I had an awesome time. It didn’t hurt that FSU clobbered Louisiana-Monroe 34-0.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what might have happened had I not stopped and tested, had I not choked down the nastiness that is glucose tabs, and had I been walking up the stadium steps toward our seats when that 38 became one of those ugly lows that puts me on the ground.
Moral of the story: Always, ALWAYS having something with you to treat a low. And GO NOLES!