With a sigh, I went into the fridge for half a cup of apple juice instead. Another thing I was almost out of.
But I had fresh dog food sitting waiting for her, so I dished that out, adding a few toppers to keep it interesting.
“I gotta get better about this shit, huh, Sugar?”
Yes.
I named my diabetic service dog Sugar.
Sometimes we have to lean into the whimsy when things get scary.
But I really did need to get better.
Or nut up and finally get myself a continuous glucose monitor.
In my defense, the whole testing, numbers, new diet, and having constant supplies of sugary stuff on hand was new to me.
I’d been under the impression that adults only developed diabetes from improper diet, genetics, or weight gain. None of which applied to me.
I guess I’d never had a reason to learn that wasn’t the case. Or that, hey, the type of diabetes I understood—where your body becomes resistant to or stops making insulin—was only one part of the picture.
Apparently, it turned out that Type 1 was an autoimmune condition that can be caused by any number of things, even in adulthood.
Like me.
Who just got a nasty virus once.
I thought nothing of it.
Got better.
And then… bam.
Everything went sideways.
I was so thirsty that I was drinking a gallon of water a day with no relief. I was peeing nonstop. I was exhausted no matter how much I slept. I was losing weight for no reason. And then my vision started to go funny, making my doctor-phobic ass finally make an appointment to see what the hell was going on.
I guess I’d been hoping for something simple. Like, hey, maybe you need an iron pill or eat a steak once a week or something.
Not a lifelong chronic illness I would have to manage all day, every day.
“When you’re done, I guess we can take a walk to the pharmacy, huh? Get me my tablets. And juice. Candy for my purse. Some diet soda. And maybe a new baby for you. Keep you occupied for a while. Because Mama has to go out tonight.”
I didn’t leave Sugar often.
It kind of defeated the purpose of having a diabetic alert dog to leave her home when you were going out. But there were just some things that you couldn’t bring your dog to do.
She wasn’t going to be happy about it.
But I hoped she was quiet enough not to bother the neighbors.
I didn’t plan to be gone that long.
And I was going to test before I left.
Bring everything I’d need to correct with me.
“Ugh,” I grumbled as I stalked to my bathroom.
