Yesterday afternoon I hit 100 mg/dl, my first such number in recent memory. I twittered if anyone wanted to give a dollar. But no one did.
I’ve told this story before. When I was a kid, on rare (and we’re talking rare) occasion, I would test my blood sugar and land at the “perfect” 100 mg/dl. It’s just so pretty looking! I mean, in all honestly it’s not any better for my body than a 92 mg/dl or a 104 mg/dl or even a 120 mg/dl, but for some reason, that 100 is like the frickin’ Holy Grail. So my dad was joking around one day and said he’d give me a dollar. You know, 100 cents, 100 mg/dl. Get it? He’s a clever guy. And we just kept up the habit. All the way through high school, whenever I was 100 mg/dl, I would announce, “Dad, you owe me a dollar!” I tried once or twice to convince him to give me two dollars when I was 200 mg/dl, but for some reason that never worked out.
It eventually stopped when I went off to college because, well, he wasn’t exactly going to transfer over $1 into my bank account.
It was these little thing, you know, that made growing up with diabetes a bit easier. Kind of like celebrating my anniversary. And going to the bakery at the hospital with my mom after a doctor’s appointment because we had three whole months to work off whatever damage the donut did to my blood sugars.
It almost made growing up with diabetes… fun. Almost.
