I’ll Take the High Road

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Surgery and IV antibiotics continue to send my blood glucose into the toilet a lot but, thanks to various and sundry government edicts, I don’t always have to mainline sugar to get it up to decent levels.

Take the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, for example. It thinks I may be a terrorist because the name listed on my Social Security card is not the same as the name I go by. So I neglected to change my name after I got married… 34 years ago. It never seemed to stop the IRS from taking money from me, but I guess the ability to drive is a different animal.

Actually, I need a handicapped hangtag and can’t get one because the name on my driver’s license doesn’t match the one on my Social Security card. So I had to go to the Social Security office to take care of things.

Now, you have to know that this is my second marriage and, for some reason I don’t even remember, I did change my name after hubby number one. It sure was a surprise to me when I learned the name I had been using for most of my life is not, in fact, my “legal” name: At least not according to Social Security.

“Nope,” said the gum-chewing clerk as she leafed through my divorce papers. “You didn’t have your name changed back to your maiden name. You have to use this one.”

“Come on! I only had that name for three years! It was my trainer marriage! He looked like Paul McCartney!”

(As an aside to you young’uns, this was pretty much way before women kept their own names after marriage and did not take back their maiden names at divorce, especially if they had a child — which I did.)

Yep. The name I was born with, had for one-third of my life, and use as my middle name, isn’t good enough. To make it so, I will need to have my name legally changed.

The government always seems to think of another way to get its hands into my pockets.

At least my glucose wasn’t low after that little exchange. (Isn’t diabetes wonderful? Just a simple little emotion — for example, anger and frustration — can lift you from hypoglycemia to hyperglycemia in 10 minutes flat.)

And, yes, my blood glucose had been a bit low. In fact, I got a call from the lab that had done my blood work that day to ask if I was OK.

Not only had I downed a big glass of milk, I’d eaten breakfast and lunch since then, and lowered my basal rates. Again. I keep doing that. It works for a day or two, then I’m back to where I started.

To be truthful, it’s getting to be downright annoying. Probably to my husband as well. He was awakened this morning by the sounds of me using some very unladylike language and knocking things on the floor — including a can or two of opened soda somebody had put in the fridge — as I attempted to get some milk. Yes, milk. I’ve had it with glucose tablets and gel, and with various and sundry kinds of candy. Milk has sugar in it and works as well — as long as it’s very low-fat.

I have gone from my Type 2 insulin-resistant “it doesn’t much matter how precise I am on insulin dosage” to what is (to me, at least) hypersensitivity to the hormone. Yes, dosage does make a difference now.

The bottom line is that I need to get very serious about figuring out my basal rates, insulin-to-carbohydrate ratios, and correction rates.

Or maybe I could just make a daily visit to a government agency.

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