Hypos in the trenches
Come to think of it, it isn’t much of a trench either. Rio and I are trying to lay a phone line between the lab building and the house. The distance is about 500 feet, maybe 800. I’m not sure. To refresh your memory, we live on rock. Literally.
So our trench is more like a scratch. I scrape about half an inch of topsoil off with a pick, then lay the line in, cover it with pieces of rock, and then scrape some more dirt off the top of the bed rock nearby and throw it on top of the line. Pretty pathetic, but it’ll keep pack rats from chewing through the cord like happened to my short-lived internet extension. Or from being baked brittle by the relentless high-altitude southwestern sunlight, which can take the paint off of a soda can in weeks.
Rio? He has come to “help,” equipped with a pre-schooler sized shovel and a GIANT Tonka dump truck. He fills the truck up with his shovel, then tows the truck into place using a twenty foot piece of wire. Then he dumps the dirt on top of the trench. Or on top of my shoes. Whatever.
It’s a nice day. Cool and windy. Pretty soon I’ve worked up a pretty good sweat. It occurs to me that although I’m not much of a blue collar guy, the work isn’t that hard. And I’ve been running on the high side since morning….. but…..
I slide ParaPump out of her holster and press the ESC button to view the latest Sensor Glucose and the three hour graph. 122 with two “down” arrow icons. We’re dropping. And fast. Not too low to worry yet. Let’s see if we can get a few more yards.
Five minutes later:
116 with two downs.
Then 106. Time for a fingerstick, which will almost certainly be lower. We set down the pick, adult shovel, kiddie shovel, hoe and wire spool. We park the dump truck under a juniper tree and make for the lab, home of the nearest Accu-Chek meter. It calls the game at 62. Damn.