I had a call the other night from Hank, a friend of my husband’s. “Elizabeth,” he said, “I’m at Kevin’s, and he’s in trouble, and I don’t know what to do.”
Kevin is a friend of Hank's, a guy I've never met. Middle aged recovering alcoholic with both T1D and Parkinson's disease. I'm familiar with all three at this stage in my life -- I have plentiful relatives who are either active or recovering drunks, my dad died of complications of Parkinson's, and of course, T1D is a constant companion in my household. So while I've never met Kevin, I sure enough feel for him. Any one of those burdens is tough to bear -- all three at once is just crazy difficult. AND he lives alone, with just his dog for company. And that's how he and Hank got to know one another -- they walk their dogs together, two middle-aged guys with chronic health issues (Hank's got a seriously awful back problem). They look out for one another, to the point where Hank carries glucose tabs in his pocket during their dog walks because once too often, Kevin has forgotten to bring them and has had a low after a particularly strenuous walk.
So on this particular day, Hank swung by Kevin's place because he had "a feeling" that something wasn't right. He hadn't talked to Kevin that day, and there had been nothing he could pinpoint that was wrong when they walked their dogs that morning. But he had this feeling, and so he went.
He found Kevin on the couch, dozing, looking pale and strange. Tried to roust him but couldn't get a coherent word out of him. That's when he called Mark (who wasn't home) and got me.
I asked him if he knew Kevin's blood sugar level, and he said no -- he'd looked for Kevin's meter but the meter was a new one that he didn't know how to use. It was a One-Touch meter, though, same as the one Eric uses, so I talked him through the process of putting the strip into the slot the right way and waiting for it to light up. Then he had to get some blood -- couldn't manage to get the finger stick on Kevin's finger because Kevin was thrashing around so much, and eventually he simply poked him with a knife. But the meter didn't give a reading, and we couldn't figure out why... and time was ticking. "Hank," I said, "If you don't know his blood sugar, you can't determine whether he needs sugar or insulin. Do you know anything about his highs and lows?"
"I know he tends to drop like a stone in the evenings," Hank replied.
"Then it's probably best to assume this is a low and get some sugar in him. But call 9-1-1 first, because you don't know how much insulin is in his system and a glucose tab might not be enough. And if we're wrong, and he's sky-high, he's going to have to go to the hospital anyway to get insulin, because you can't calculate his dose for him at this point."
Armed with that information, Hank rang off to go care for Kevin. About 15 minutes later, Mark came home, and I told him what was happening. He called Hank's cell, got him on the line... the ambulance was there, and the medics had gotten a blood glucose reading of... gulp... 17. And this was AFTER Hank had managed to get a glucose tab into Kevin's mouth. The thrashing around had been seizure.
Turns out, Kevin had taken his bolus of insulin prior to eating, and because he's been having trouble sleeping (common, with Parkinson's), he'd taken a sleep aid at the same time. He had fallen asleep without having his meal. All that insulin and no food -- it would've killed him. Hank's premonition and presence had saved Kevin's life.
I don't know Kevin at all. It doesn't sound to me like he has very good control of his diabetes because I'm always hearing about his lows and highs. Understandable that that's the case, though, because lord knows, it's enough of a drag dealing with the diabetes, and this man has two other nasty chronic illnesses on his back, either one of which could kill him just as easily. I've even found myself wondering whether a part of him wanted to just go to sleep and never wake up -- diabetes is exhausting, Parkinson's is torture, and being in recovery from alcohol addiction is no picnic, either.
But I'm glad he's still alive.
