So anyway, as often is the case, my demented brain worked out a way to bring this around to diabetes. And I give you . . . . . .
46 D-Reasons I Might be Freaking Out like a Three Year Old
No AAA batteries.
Huge plates of French fries.
My husband drank the last of the juice.
My insurance company . . . . anything about them at all.
I’m really really thirsty.
My toes are cold.
“Can you eat that?”
Endo appointment tomorrow.
“My Grandmother had diabetes and went blind!”
“My father’s uncle had diabetes and they had to cut off his foot!”
Beep Boop BEEP.
I took my Lantus this morning . . . . . didn’t I????
“My sister’s friend’s cousin had diabetes, but he lost weigh and it went away. Why don’t you do that?”
Dropped my bottle of insulin on a marble floor.
Dropped SOMEONE ELSE’S bottle of insulin on a marble floor.
Low alarm at the gym.
High alarm at the Italian restaurant . . . . before we even got seated.
Shopping at Target.
Husband thinks the reason I’m mad at him must be because I’m low.
Two up arrows.
Two down arrows.
Pricked, but can’t squeeze out any damn blood.
Pricked one spot, but bled from three.
Seven rage boluses finally kick in . . . . . all at once.
Blood spot on my new white shirt.
“Type 1 . . . . . is that the BAD kind?”
The diet Coke the waitress brought doesn’t taste like diet.
“220? What did you eat??”
Snake oil cures.
It’s Wednesday evening and TWITTER IS DOWN!!! #dsma