Apparently, I’ve traded my adrenal glands for a zebra.

Or something like that.

Me, in the hospital again. Image: Author

For the third time in six weeks, I went to the ER on Tuesday.

I really, really didn’t want to. It was Tuesday night and I had a diagnostic test scheduled for Friday. I’d been waiting for it for three weeks and I knew that being given hydrocodone would make it so I couldn’t take that test.

But, there wasn’t nothing else for it. I was sick.

Here’s what Tuesdays usually look like for me.

I start working at 9 am and go straight through 4 pm. Then I go to my local auction with my husband, which has been our Tuesday date for years. And then I go back to work from 8 to 10 pm.

I was actually okay Tuesday morning. I worked until four and I was pretty good. But when I finished that four pm call, there wasn’t a chance I could go to the auction. I thought, maybe, if I laid down, I could teach my 8pm class.

I feel asleep immediately and woke up an hour later to my phone screaming at me via the continuous glucose monitor I’ve been wearing the last month.

My blood sugar was 58. A finger stick test confirmed it. And I was sick. Like, sick enough to scare my family.