When he started getting disoriented, slurring his speech, falling over, it was too late.

“Check your blood,” I urged him. He only somewhat acknowledged me, but he did grab his diabetes supplies. Stabbed finger, swipe blood into tester, and we waited. Hi

“We need to go,” I begged. He shoots himself up with insulin. “Let’s wait two hours,” he mumbles. Three times we do this dance. Five hours of increasing confusion and sickness. Him slowly slipping into a comatose state and me slowly going mad with fury of worry and anger and death lingering in my bedroom. Finally, when the numbers never show in the monitor, we were in the car racing to some ER that might see him soon, quick, now – faster than our decision to leave. I didn’t want to acknowledge, admit, face reality of what was clearly going on. But I’m driving like a mad redhead trying to catch that time we lost.

Diabetic ketoacidosis was consuming my husband for the second time in our marriage.

I hate diabetes.

A woman parked next to me in the parking lot. I knew she wanted to get in there first. I wasn’t going to let her. I ran into the building, leaving husband, purse, key, sanity in the car.

“My husband is in DKA, he needs to be seen.” Fingers clicked keyboard, questions asked, mind whirling, men came with a wheelchair. How in this ball filled with blue sky and brown Earth have I not lost my ever-loving mind? I answer date of birth, how to spell our last name. Twice. Yes, that is where we live. Couldn’t she ask faster? My husband stumbled out of the car and into the wheelchair. The men were strong and patient. The woman went slow.

They brought my man in and I ran out for everything I left in the car. Triage gathered facts and truth displayed. Their blood tester confirmed his blood sugar was over 600 mg/dL (milligrams of glucose per deciliter of blood). I crack a joke about the tester not telling us, “Hi.”

I want to cry.

They took us to an emergency room. What a room! All kinds of tubes and monitors and plastic and medical products littered the room. Have no idea what some were for. Yet some I knew. IV bag. Heart monitor. Blood pressure cuff. A chair for me to ponder and worry.

A nice woman came in for blood work. Another came in to set up his IV. He was lucky to have both arms hooked up to an IV. Not only was DKA bad enough, no, his body was severely dehydrated. He was taking in saline solutions the equivalent of a two-fisted drinker. Then the doctor came in. “He is very sick. He will need to go to the hospital.” All my mind saw was this: $$$ and death. Probably in that order. I did lose my ever-loving mind at some point between getting in the car and now.

His blood sugars were off. He was severely dehydrated. His CO2 levels and anion gap were off. His electrolytes were off. He was severely off. Most of the time he couldn’t answer the doctors or nurses. Most of the time, I couldn’t understand him. Every time I thought he was sleeping; he was slipping away.

Many hours later, we were on our way to the hospital. I found a wheelchair. Carefully got him from the car to the wheelchair. I’ve been to this hospital many times. My mom had surgery in the back. We ate Subway waiting to hear how she did. My sister had babies here. One of my little nephews had RSV. Grandma and Grandpa certainly were here for various things. I hate hospitals and usually stay away as long as I can when a loved one is there. Please, grandparents, don’t take that personally.

Still I’m lost. I have to ask where I am going, pushing this grown man around like he is all I have in the world. He was all that mattered to me right then. I looked for the elevator (there were at least four to choose from). Ah, elevator A behind the entry way. Fourth floor, room 4109 was to the left, right, left and right in front of the nurses’ station. We found his room. The nurses help in bed and set him up with more tubes, my double fisted saline drinker. They eventually set up a third IV. Triple fisted drinker? They gave him all kinds of fluids for all his wonky blood issues.

And his blood sugars started to drop. Eventually his body began responding to the other treatments. CO2 levels normalized and the anion gap closed and electrolytes started going into normal range. And, slowly, his body was working towards healing. Slowly.

He was rarely with me, yet I stayed with him.

He was released at 3 o’clock, a scant 27 hours after first and finally getting to the ER. At home, he went directly to bed. His body was stressed and exhausted. I took a shower, because what else do you do after your world literally got shaken and rocked?

Clean up.

Perhaps I’m not ready, perhaps this is how I do it, but processing this will take time. We have to answer how did this happen, why did this happen, how do we prevent it from happening again, how do I not lose my ever-loving mind if this is ever in our future again?

This event has many layers, just like life. We were planning our Thursday and Friday with events and work. I missed a massage appointment, a lunch appointment, a movie time for Zombie Land, a tea date, and time with my husband just being with me. Drinking a glass of wine watching Blacklist. Enjoying time as a family. He going to work, making his appointments and talking with clients furthering his cases. Living life doing our normal routine.

But, no. Our lives were interrupted with a choice of life or death. We weren’t living to do day to day. We were living for LIFE. Our choices centered around him. His body. His blood.

Where else has time stopped for the body and blood of another?

I left my children home alone, ignored friends, left work and school, emails forgotten. This man I love was suffering beyond what I can do, almost beyond the medical community. And all I could do was listen to nurses and doctors, argue with nurses and doctors. I couldn’t process, couldn’t acknowledge, couldn’t face reality.

Not in the rush of the immediate.

Then there were my friends and family. First, my sister popped in on her way from kids’ school to home. She hugged and smiled. Then, they came, these men, who spoke softly and prayed deeply over him. Then his brother talked with me when my dear man passed out. In the morning, the best ever, my dearest friend brought me breakfast (The Grove!) and ate with me. We laughed and smiled. My husband’s long-time friend stopped by to encourage my man. Another dear man from church came to cheer him up. My heart swollen with love because these sweet people took time to love on us at a hospital during the most unflattering of times. (Ok, sorry grandparents. I still hate hospitals, but I see why people go and visit.)

I want to cry.

Now, a good night’s rest and day later, I can think, somewhat, and start to work through what happened. This week in October will go to our past. Already has. His hospital bracelet has 10/24/2019 on it. That day is gone and won’t come again. We now have our routine to get into, our work waiting, our children needing attention, our lives to live. Changed. We are changed. We know the power of food and now the power of insulin as well as the power of ignorance.

This is our second run with diabetic ketoacidosis. This is one journey; I’d rather not experience again. I have watched my husband experience extreme thirst, extreme fatigue, weight loss, confusion, being disoriented, irritability, vision changes, excessive peeing, vomiting, rapid and shallow breathing, and abdominal pain. Twice. But when it happens slowly, we justify the symptoms. Oh, this has to be the norovirus. Perhaps you ate something that disagreed with you. But when the confusion came, it was undeniable. DKA. There is only one treatment. IV and hospitalization.

Our lives changed nearly 12 years ago with the onset of diabetes type 1. Our lives changed again with this experience because DKA can happen quickly. Sneaking in death when we aren’t looking. And now we know. Watch those blood sugar levels and always be on guard for constantly high numbers. Mind the food that goes in, because whether you want to admit it or not, food is your medicine.

Food is medicine.

The anion gap deals directly with negatively charged particles. Everything breaks down into elements and molecules in the body. When too many negatively charged particles are running around, the body responds… negatively. Potassium is one that gets depleted in the process. My man was severely low in potassium. Potassium doesn’t reside in fast food joints. It resides in veggies. Lots of veggies. Phosphorus, also, gets depleted. Lean protein and nuts are where phosphorus hangs out.

Every bite you take, every bite I take either builds up the cells of the body or breaks it down. I have watched what food does, what excessive glucose does, what insulin resistance does. And now we have a choice.

Eat for life. Every bite you take is a choice.

Live for life. Every moment you breathe is a choice.