The Bread Roll Saga: How One Carb Conspired Against Me
You know that sinking feeling when you’re not sure if you’ve done something crucial, and the more you think about it, the fuzzier it gets? Welcome to my latest adventure in the life of a chronically diaganosed ADHD diabetic.
It all started innocently enough with a small bread roll that had just been roasted. Not just any small bread roll though—this was a golden, crusty, freshly baked piece of heaven, with perfectly fried bacon inside. The kind, if you like that kind of thing, that could make even the most disciplined carb-counter throw caution to the wind. But being the responsible adult I pretend to be, I reached for my quick-acting insulin pen before indulging.
Or did I?
Mid-bite, a thought hit me harder than a sugar rush: “Did I actually inject my insulin?”
Cue the internal interrogation:
- Me: “Of course you did. You always do.”
- Also me: “But do you remember doing it?”
- Me again: “Memory is a construct. Time is an illusion. Bread is eternal.”
Not helpful.
I glanced at the insulin pen, hoping it would magically display a neon sign saying, “Yes, you injected, you dingus.” No such luck. Injecting again so soon isn’t an option unless I fancy a surprise visit to the floor courtesy of hypoglycemia. Not injecting could lead to blood sugar levels higher than my expectations for the final season of my favorite TV show (which, by the way, were dashed).
So here I am, in a standoff with a bread roll, contemplating the life choices that led me to this carb-laden crossroads. The bread roll stares back, unapologetic and delicious.
Possible strategies:
- Wait and see: Monitor my blood sugar like a hawk and prepare for potential turbulence.
- Assume I didn’t inject: Risk hyperglycemia but avoid doubling up on insulin.
- Cry: Doesn’t solve anything but might make me feel better.
I decide on a combination of options one and three, leaning heavily into the absurdity of the situation. After all, what’s life without a little suspense? It’s like a reality show where the stakes are my own pancreas.
As I monitor my blood sugar levels, I ponder the irony of how one small bread roll—an innocent bystander in the grand scheme of gastronomy—could wield such power. It’s amazing (and slightly terrifying) how much havoc a few grams of carbohydrates can wreak when paired with a momentary lapse in memory.
Lessons learned:
- Maybe invest in one of those fancy insulin pens with memory functions.
- Start a bread diary. If people can journal about their dreams, I can log my loaf encounters.
- Accept that sometimes, despite our best efforts, life will throw us a curveball—or a roll.
In the end, my blood sugar held steady, suggesting that perhaps I did take that insulin after all. Or maybe the bread roll took pity on me. Either way, I’ve survived to snack another day.
So here’s to all my fellow diabetics who’ve ever found themselves locked in a battle of wits with a baked good. May your insulin be timely, your carbs be counted, and your bread rolls be ever in your favor.
