A Day at the Spa…with Diabetes

If there’s one thing I know after 16 years of living with diabetes, it’s that this disease is a 24/7 commitment.  All day, every day.  Test, bolus, eat. Test. Test. Test, bolus eat. Test. Test. Test. Have mild breakdown. Test, bolus. Test. REPEAT.

Of course there are “breaks” — days when all things D-related fall into place and I allow it to retreat to the background of my thoughts.  On these days though, despite the fact that my sugars may cooperate, I still prick my fingers 10-15 times a day, I still count all my carbohydrates, I still bolus each time I eat (and each time my sugar is creeping higher than it should) and I may even tweak my basal rates to compensate for cycling or cleaning the house.

And then, there are those days when diabetes stands front and centre, throwing a temper tantrum, screaming for attention, yelling, “ME, ME, ME! Pay attention to ME!!”  On these days, it takes all my willpower to keep diabetes from affecting my mood and affecting my day.  Lows make me late for scheduled meetings, interrupt hair appointments and drench my bed sheets in unnerving quantities of sweat; highs make me a through-and-through grumpy-pants, leave a sweetly-acidic taste on my tongue and send me to the bathroom every hour to pee.  These are the pain-in-the-arse moments of living with this chronic illness.  And, no matter how hard I tried to keep diabetes in the background this past Saturday, these pain-in-the-arse moments just kept on comin’…

On Saturday, I treated myself to a day at the spa. This isn’t something I normally do but I’ve been working hard (both job-wise and diabetes-wise) and I wanted to treat myself to something a little frivolous, a little decadent and a little (okay, a lot) luxurious.  So, I booked myself a hot-stone massage and a pedicure.

Before leaving for the spa, I did a quick inventory of the contents of my purse (a.k.a. my oversized, Mary Poppins-esque carpet bag):

• Mindless paperback (I’ll admit it. I’m reading Confessions of a Shopaholic.  Guilty as charged),
• Swimsuit (the spa has a heated pool and hot tub which I didn’t get to experience (see “Pain-in-the-Arse Moment #1, below)),
• Moisturizer (to avoid an unwanted and easily avoidable post-swim face shrivel),
• Flip flops (so as not to ruin the pedicure), and
• A bunch of diabetes stuff: snacks, blood glucose meter, fresh lancets and a full canister of test strips (Side note: One thing I love about pumping is I never have to worry about leaving my insulin at home. Huzzah for tetherage!).

Confident I was properly prepared for my morning of pure, uninterrupted luxury, I left for the spa.  Oh wait, did I just say uninterrupted?  Hah.

When I arrived, I was half an hour early for my appointment. (For those of you who know me, you’ll know that this is a one-off miracle of freak proportions. I’m never early. For anything. I’m the girl who arrives at her doctors’ appointments sweaty and out-of-breath because I thought running up the four flights of stairs might increase my chances of being on time. It didn’t.)  The girl behind the desk showed me to the change room, gave me the key to a fancy, wooden locker and told me to change into the cozy, thick, white cotton robe within.  “Ooh,” I thought. “I like this already.”

After changing, I was escorted to the lounge where I settled into a plush, red armchair by the fireplace and began reading my mindless paperback.  I had half an hour to get into the true spa mood, to begin relaxing, to rid myself of any and all petty, day-to-day stresses while I serenely awaited the luxury that was to come.

And, it was right about this time that a feeling of panic hit my chest.  In one seamless motion, I furrowed my brow, tossed my book aside, grabbed my bag from the floor and started recklessly riffling through its contents.  I dropped item after item onto the plush, red chair next to me, pulling out what was seemingly all my worldly possessions.  All my worldly possessions except my blood glucose monitor. It was not there. It had been there but I’d taken it out to do a test before leaving.  And I’d left it at home, on the kitchen table. (Pain-in-the-Arse Moment #1)

“Okay,” I breathed, trying to regain some of my spa-inspired relaxation. “This is not the end of the world.”

So, I changed back into my street clothes, moved my appointments back by half-an-hour and made the 35 minute round trip drive to get my blood glucose monitor.

Fast forward to the start of my massage appointment…

Massage Therapist: “Hello. How are you today?”

Me: “Oh, I’m pretty good. Um, where should I put my bag?  I need it nearby since it’s holding my meter and snacks in case I go low.” [insert quizzical look from massage therapist] “Oh, I have type 1 diabetes. Probably should have told you that first.”

Massage Therapist: “Oh, of course. You can hang the bag here. Now, I’ll give you a moment to change.  This massage treatment focuses on your glutes as well so you’ll need to remove your underwear.”

Me: “Ummm, sure. Okay. I have an insulin pump and it’s currently clipped to my underwear but that won’t be a problem. I can just put it beside me. I can’t be unattached for more than an hour so I need to leave it on.  It’s attached to me so please don’t yank on it. I haven’t been to the spa since I got my pump and I have no idea what the usual protocol is…” (Pain-in-the-Arse Moment #2/Huzzah for Tetherage?/Babbling Laura)

We ended up wrapping the pump in a small towel and lying it on the massage table.  The massage therapist was great and the massage itself was heavenly — 80 minutes of tension melting, hot rock decadence — even though, 10 minutes in, the alarm on my pump started going off and I had to awkwardly reach around to shut the silly thing up. (Pain-in-the-Arse Moment #3)

The rest of my spa day, was (mostly) pain-in-the-arse free…unless, of course, you count the low blood glucose I had to treat in the time between my massage and pedicure. (Pain-in-the-Arse Moment #4)

All in all, I must admit, the day was well worth all the pain-in-the-arse moments.  I got to lounge in a robe, (just like spa-going women always do in the movies!), I had a lovely massage, my feet were paraffined and my toes are currently “Overexposed in South Beach.”  My goal was to treat myself and indulge in a little bit of luxury and — even though I can’t ever shake the demands of diabetes — I definitely reached my goal.