Sometimes I don’t want to stop.
Sometimes I’m in the thick of a really great book, and I don’t want to stop.
Sometimes I’m in the middle of writing a killer sentence, and I don’t want to stop.
Sometimes I’m climbing down the Eiffel Tower in the twilight hours, and I don’t want to stop
Sometimes I’m in the depths of a needed sleep, and I don’t want to stop.
Sometimes I’m at 8.5 km of a strong 10 km run, and I don’t want to stop.
Sometimes I’m hurting with joy, giggling so hard with my boy, and I don’t want to stop.
I can see the words on the screen go blurry.
I can feel the letters in my book as they punch me in the face with every bounce across the page they make.
I can sense the happy flutters in my belly being strangled into sickening worry.
I try to control the shakes.
I try to ignore my heated cheeks.
I squint at the screen.
I cover one eye, hoping it will empower the other.
All for just a few more minutes.
A few minutes without Dear Diabetes.
But then, the full-body sweats come. Reality sets in. I cannot ignore Dear Diabetes. I cannot shove him off to the corner, not even for a few seconds. He is there. He will always be there. He won’t ever let me forget it.
The other day my blood sugars dropped to 3.0; I felt as though they were 2.0.
I didn’t want to stop.