Last night was another one of those nights where I went to bed hopelessly high. It was completely worth it, because I was with friends at a sushi restaurant and I felt like a normally functioning person for a little while.

I knew when I got home that I would suffer the consequences of that short-lived, worry-less freedom. And my bedtime BG check showed me what I already knew: 300.

“This is Sparta!” I joked to my husband as I leaned across the bed to show him my meter. I wasn’t angry or even bummed, just accepting. I had blind-bolused on way too much sushi with little hope that I would actually get it correct. Indifferent, I gave the correction bolus and rolled over to sleep.

My husband woke me at one point in the night because my pump was emitting the shrill screeching sound it makes when you’ve ignored it for too long. A sound that I’ve magically learned to sleep through every. single. time. It was showing I was still high, so I cleared the notification and fell back asleep.

Then I awoke again, on my own this time, to my pump alarming. “Allen, I think I’m low,” I told my husband (our protocol) as I fumbled in the dark to check. The number confirmed my suspicion: 40. And I still had a lot of insulin active in my system from the correction. Why did my blood sugar suddenly decide to go from 300 to 40 after several hours of creeping higher and higher? Who knows.

We rolled out of bed, Allen poured me a tall glass of Hawaiian Punch, and after I felt a little less like death warmed over, we went back to bed.

It’s become so ordinary that it doesn’t even phase us anymore. It’s just another part of everyday life. Maybe I’m burnt out. Or maybe I’ve just reached a point of just accepting that this is how it is, that diabetes doesn’t make sense and never ever will and I just have to roll with the punches and keep going. I’m not really sure.

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