Many moons ago, I spent some time with my brother who was living in Kelowna, in BC, Canada. Both of us were on our big 'overseas life trips' involving backpacking, sleeping in weird and cheap places, and exploring life. On this occasion he had planned a trip for us to head north and go white water rafting.
As what tends to happen when a significant life event occurs, I don't remember much of the details about the other aspects of the trip. However, my memories are crystal clear surrounding the moments that I fell off the raft and into the rapids. I remember the lean-of-no-return, the feeling of my foot being horribly stuck which prevented me from flowing with the water under the raft (turns out it was my brother desperately trying to save me by grabbing my foot), the darkness and disorientation of finally being set free, and the feeling of forever on trying to resurface for air. Up and up and up I pushed my head, desperate to get a chunk of oxygen unattached to two atoms of hydrogen. As the water was so 'frothy' from the rapids, this feeling is apparently pretty common. Eventually, with my lips pointing to the sky, I hit air and was able to breathe. I looked around, found my raft, paddled across, grabbed the oar on offer, and was dramatically pulled back onto the boat like a fisher's haul. Slumped into a lump in the middle of the raft, my fellow ship mates then proceeded to cheer in delighted unison. The 'skipper' jumped over to me, patted me on the back and announced to everyone that I was his first swimmer for the season. Clearly, the event was a highlight for everyone.
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A few weeks ago, I awoke to the sound of our newest addition to the household, Camille. At just 3.5 weeks old we were lucky to get four hours of uninterrupted sleep. I didn't mind this one bit. Okay, maybe sometimes a little bit... but I felt, and still feel, unbelievably lucky to have scored another baby who does all the right things: eating, sleeping and pooing. Even better, this time post-birth I have been healthy - super healthy in comparison to our first. It feels like I am experiencing life with a newborn for the first time, and it is all awesome.
My husband Ewin got her up and changed her, and then I went to work as the milk factory. We got the feed over pretty quickly, so in the dark I re-wrapped her and put her back to bed. No mucking about in the night time. I then went and changed my insulin pump site before sitting back down to express more breast milk for freezing (and for pressure relief!). At some point I tested my blood: 94mg/dL, or 5.2mmol/L. I saw the reading and gave myself a quiet high five. Yessssss. Smoking it.
Back into bed in under an hour. I remember thinking to myself, 'smashed that session out!'
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My dream was loud and weird and engaging. I can't tell you what it was about, other than me being absolutely absorbed by it. Maybe it was about a social function, by the beach? I have no idea what the drama was that had me so locked in. Who knows. Who cares. It was intense, anyway. But the dream DVD player was misfiring. I was seeing scenes repeating. It didn't matter, I was still so absorbed by everything. The mood, the lighting, the....sweetness. The sweetness? The mood, lights, people talking, and again...that sweetness. The dream was breaking up, like a CD skipping but at a slower pace. The sweetness again. In and out of head corridors, blue lights. Close ups and quick retreats of faces of people I don't recognise. Something in my mouth, followed by sweetness.
My brain was slowly switching back on, pulling apart the scenes of the make believe, and trying to find order in the scenes that were real. Not an easy task when under-fueled. I have no idea how long it took; the concept of time is far gone.
Suddenly, the brain clicks and gets it. There is something being stuck into my mouth that adds something sweet. My brain needs this. It orders me to start up the sucking motion. Get the sweet stuff! I tilt my head up, pushing my lips up to break through the frothy bubbles of white water rapids. I need that sweet stuff. I desperately need that sweet stuff. It is my air.
The soundtrack is added. I can hear my breathing: it is short, hard and rapid. Again, the 'thing' gets stuck into my mouth. I work it out, finally. It is my husband's finger, dipped in a sweet drink. It is the only way to safely get carbs into me. The brain orders me to suck every morsel of carb-filled fluid off that finger. Blue gatorade, the most unnatural looking of beverages, is saving my life.
The rest of the picture starts to complete as the missing blanks are formed. It is my body that is closing in and out rapidly. I am uncomfortably perched on part bed, part bedding cover. I am in full grand mal seizure, convulsing back and forth in quick succession. I have no control over my body. But I can now control my mouth. I can reach up with my lips and consume the sweet stuff, and my brain forces me to focus on this. The backdrop fills in some more. I can see my husband's face. He is perched above me, with intense concentration. In one hand he holds the blue liquid. The other is going as quickly and carefully as he can between my mouth and the bottle. Drip by drip is added to provide just enough juice to get my system going again. He keeps an eye on the clock, but as he sees my convulsions slow down, he loses track of time. No need for phase 2 (horse-sized needle of glucagon injected into a moving muscle, usually inaccurately) or 3 (ambulance). This time.
Between convulsions I breathlessly swear. Another convulsion, another pause, and I repeat the expression. Still not fully with the program, my brain goes into auto mode and repeats this expletive between every major body shake, the timing impeccable despite having no formal control over the function. I don't know how long I continue this for, but Ewin eventually says, 'okay, that's enough'. It shakes me off auto pilot, and my brain shuts the voice down.
As the seizure finishes, two things kick in: a return to control of my body, and a surge of emotion that accompanies the realisation of what just occurred. The full body function should not be trusted at first: this is a learning from previous editions many years ago. I can hold the bottle of gatorade, but under no circumstances should I have control over me drinking it. A late convulsion will send the sweet stuff everywhere. It is amazing how a jolted body can disperse hard-to-clean fluid to the most unusual and far-flung places. Ewin guides it to my mouth and keeps a hand on the bottle, just in case.
I become weepy as I think about what this means and ask Ewin to fill in the blanks. Yes, this was not cool. I was on my belly when it began and he had to physically roll me over; I can't imagine how much fun that would have been with someone in seizure. I check the time. Two hours had passed since I had returned from the previous baby-feed. Two hours.
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Having just come off the most intense phase of tight type 1 diabetes control a person can ever endure: pregnancy, the adjustment back to 'normality' post birth is usually a laid back one. Medical staff are fully aware of the strain involved in keeping such incredibly tight numbers in order to minimise harm to me or the baby, and generally advise taking it a bit easier as you adjust to life with a newborn.
The reality is much easier said than done. In the 24 hours post birth I struggled to get a blood glucose reading above 110 (6.1) and had to request a glucose drip to be re-inserted twice (mostly so I could get some sleep as the staff were waking me every 50 mins for another blood glucose check). In the days prior to birth I was taking around 65 units of insulin per day (total daily dose). Suddenly, post birth my daily tally was 25. A massive drop in anyone's language.
When - after a few days - breast feeding kicked in, my numbers dropped again. There is a bit of energy required to sustain a baby, and adjusting to this also impacts on blood glucose numbers. In the past few weeks I have frequently seen big drops between starting and finishing a breast feed, and have eaten dinner without the need to bolus for the meal.
So looking at the cause of this seizure, you can easily point the finger at these major forces. But they are not enough on their own. I can normally handle these forces. What else was a factor? During that day we went for a walk, slightly longer than normal. I am not doing much activity at the moment (as required post-birth), but still, even an added stroll when combined with breast feeding could have had a greater impact than I imagined.
I also had a hypo during lunch time. No big deal - hey, hypos happen and you simply deal with them. This one knocked me round a bit. And when you have a bigger-than-normal hypo, your anti-hypo defense systems are also knocked around and impaired, leaving you cruelly open to even more significant hypos. Although I had brushed off my lunch low, hindsight tells me I should have paid some more attention to this.
Those wonderful glasses of hindsight can tell you many things, and when you stop and point out all your mistakes you wonder how the hell you make it through each day as it is. This is simply the life of a type 1, and for many of us, we get so used to the many minor errors we make throughout the day we sometimes overlook that we have made them in the first place.
It takes a lot of balance to sit on the edge of the raft, putting your paddle in the water and keeping everything afloat and away from the bad rocks and evil drops. You are so focussed on getting through the path you don't even realise you have tipped too far. And, if you happen to be asleep, you don't even feel the slide off into the water below.
Every night I ask myself the same question before I go to bed: have I done everything I can to minimise my risk of dying in my sleep?
I am careful and diligent. This seizure was a horrible event from a horrible condition, and one that I must prevent from ever happening again.
I will still be asking that same question from now on, just perhaps after each middle of the night baby-feed as well.
