Page 470 of End Game

Today's version is much less profound.

Today I am simply tired of having a chronic disease that keeps requesting my attention like a toddler repeatedly saying, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.”

Every time I think I've gotten my blood sugar moving in the right direction, it changes its mind.

The correction from the kitchen works.

Not dramatically, but enough.

238 becomes 221.

Then 203.

Then 194.

I answer emails from bed with my laptop propped against my knees, refill my water bottle, and pee approximately every twenty minutes. Some of that is the UTI. Some is the truly irresponsible amount of water I'm drinking on purpose. Some is probably the glucose.

Whatever.

At least the bathroom trips no longer involve bracing myself against the wall and reconsidering whether civilization was a mistake.

My phone buzzes again while I'm replying to a client.

247

Diagonal up.

I close my eyes, but I don't ignore it.

I grab my meter.

Fingerstick.

252

Close enough.

“Cool,” I tell nobody. “Everybody agrees.”

The pump suggests another correction, smaller than the amount my irritated brain thinks I deserve because I still have insulin working.

Fine.

I've been told for more than a decade not to stack corrections just because I don't like the number currently staring at me.

Apparently accumulated wisdom remains inconvenient.

I take what it recommends.

Then I pull the blood ketone meter from my diabetes bag.

Nothing about how I feel is screaming emergency. I'm not nauseated. I'm not vomiting. My stomach doesn't hurt outside of the irritation I've already been dealing with. Mostly I'm tired, thirsty, and deeply offended by my graph.

Still.

Sick plus pump plus blood sugar stubbornly over 250 means I check.

Not because Griffin would tell me to.