Another one of those weekends.
Saturday: Woke at 3 am feeling low. Staggered downstairs, found meter, 43, swallowed 20 cl orange juice, ate a graham cracker, staggered back to bed.
Woke at 7 am. BG 71. Calculated breakfast, allowing for lower glucose reading.
Walked dogs on beach for an hour. BG 117. Hurrah.
Cleaned house. BG 54. Ate another graham cracker, washed down with coffee.
Played with my new "toy": a virtual kitchen planner by IKEA that allows me to see in 3D and color what my kitchen will look like when I have saved the money/won the lottery. Stop playing when I feel really, really hungry.
Lunch. BG 57. In view of low BG, eat Wholefoods prepared Macaroni Cheese. Regret it 30 minutes later when stomach ache starts.
Clean the pool, Swim in pool. Float in pool. Lounge by pool reading. Stomach still aching.
5 pm. BG 297. What?? Correct with bolus.
7 pm dinner date with sweetie. Cocktail in restaurant bar. Vodka tastes weird so I eat the olives and drink about a third of the martini.
8 pm our table is ready. Bartender offers to bring remainder of now very warm martini to the table, I decline. It's hot so I opt for 6 oysters and steamed lobster. Take insulin. Eat cute, tiny bread roll. Listen to conversation at next table about numerology. Restrain sweetie from correcting the assertions made about the number seven. Oysters are served with pickled ginger and Japanese seaweed. Hope insulin sufficient to cope with sugar in dressing. Pass on the wine as I'm still feeling a little odd and it's hot. Drink an entire litre of sparkling water though.
Lobster arrives with corn on the cob placed vertical between lobster claws like some phallic totem pole. Pass this to sweetie as I don't like corn. Wrestle lobster. Cover hair, face and wall behind with lobster juice, manage not to get any on attractive plastic bib! Woman at next table starts to tell her table about her special spoon. Kick husband under table as he is frankly staring open-mouthed. Husband returns attention to date and asks "would you like my potatoes?"
I've known him long enough that I can crack the secret code. "Am I white?" "A bit" he says. Before I can reach for the potatoes or the meter in my bag, I am hit by the worst, most devastating hypo of my diabetic life. Sweat is pouring off me, I am sure I am going to pass out or throw up. Sweetie has his hand in the air and orders an OJ asap, please, and the bus boy leaps in to remove out plates. Sweetie waves him off, because I hadn't finished and he thought I might come back to it or because if I was going to be sick the bowl for the lobster shell might come in handy? I don't know but the OJ arrives and he gives the waiter his credit card and asks for the bill so I'm guessing it was the latter.
I slurp the OJ, and chase it down with more water. Hubby gets up and kneels by me. Maitre d' brings check, credit card already swiped and asks if he can do "anything, whatever you need".
Eventually I feel like I can walk to the block to the car. Table next door still discussing numbers 666 and 7. Outside where it is cooler, I start to feel better. "OK", I say to my angel, "can't go there again for a while. Was everyone staring?" "They never noticed, if they did they probably thought I was proposing to you". Such a sweetie.
Make it home and into bed feeling like I have been sandbagged.
Woke up Sunday morning. BG 340. Felt like crap and I never found out what the woman at the next table used her magic spoon for.