Last Friday night, Halloween, marked the opening of a new era in my life–going out with continuous glucose monitoring. Some may say So what? Big deal. I’d respond with Have you ever tested your blood sugar at the bar? Try remembering to test your blood sugar at the bar.
Wielding my newest ally, the CGM, I took to Halloween night as Wilford Brimley. If unfamiliar with his work, please reference this collection. Yes, he has become the patriarch of all those who use the term “diabeetus”, or simply anyone above 60 years old. Here’s a look at me as Mr. Liberty Medical himself, along with a hockey player, Tiger Woods, a glow-in-the-dark stick figure, a robber, and a dragon.
The night began with a group of us “prepartying”, otherwise known as having enough to drink to enjoy the actual party. We kept it calm, drank beers out by the fire built inside a small troph sitting square in the middle of my backyard against neighborhood regulations. I bolused for each beer, tracked the CGM, and left my house at 190. I could live with that. After enough communication and coordination to send something into space, we all had cabs/rides over to the actual party.
Not ten minutes into the party, I’d been offered a jello shot, Fireball, and beer. I didn’t turn down any of them. The blood sugar was trending up. Not a shocker.
To my surprise, people recognized the Wilford Brimley getup. Guessing they watched as much Price Is Right as I did. As the night progressed, I fully embraced the role, shouting things like, Wilford Brimley loves three things: cold weather, cold beer, and diabeetus. Shortly after shouting something like this, a friend whispered in my ear, Dude, you can stop talking like Wilford Brimley anytime. To this I responded by giving him a lancet on behalf of Liberty Medical.
The night wore on. I drank a few more beers, continued to look at the CGM every 15 minutes. The numbers kept rising steadily. I fought the urge to over-correct. It stayed consistent around the 200 level until the end of the night, when the alcohol caught up. I heard the “Fall Rate” alarm during a game of beer pong. What we know always happens, happened. The eventual blood sugar dive. Here’s what it looked like live: 210, 200, 183, 170, 148, 120… Right on time, I remembered the Clif Bar in my pocket. Night saved. No need to go home. No need to get low and get weird. I didn’t have to break into a fridge and drink someone’s orange juice. I ate it, really enjoyed the new Sierra Trail Mix flavor, and got back to the party.