Day 85

My Frio pouches feel very cold to the touch. I pull them out of the fridge and hear a slushy crouching noise. It’s the gel crystals, they’ve begun to freeze! Oh crap, I’d placed the fridge on its minimum setting and the guide states that “FRIO, with medicine, can be placed in a refrigerator. DO NOT place the FRIO in a freezer.” Unfortunately, it seems that the top shelf of this primitive refrigerator is too close to the freezer unit above!

From the Frio pouches, I pull out my insulin zippy bags and hold the vial up against the light filtering in through the Slovenia-themed net curtains. Past little net cottages, they look normal to me. Next, I insert one of each type, Fiasp and Levemir, into my pens to make sure the insulin squirts out normally – it does. Like water, insulin freezes at around 0 degrees centigrade and when it does, it denatures. I pray I’ve dodged a bullet and my remaining vials of insulin are not destroyed. 

So, with the possibility of our evening spent in a Slovenian A&E department, it’s time to pack up this apartment and relocate all our belongings back onto the bikes. 

I do a final admiration tour of our 1960s-constructed apartment. Pale pastel tiles coating the walls, the floor covered in patterned linoleum, and how it creaks and crunches underfoot and makes me wonder what animosity hides beneath. Pale pink matching toilet, be-day, sink, and bath, with seashell-inspired ridged contours. Florid yellow walls in the kitchen, gauze effect corteroid stickers on the cabinets, and delicate china plates decorated with little pink flowers. I really like this place!

Despite the Frio pouches, my mood is buoyant and my blood sugar is in its ideal range; 5.3. Coffee, porridge and a banana for breakfast means a shot of energy and a shot of insulin now. But in a few hours, the slow-release porridge carbs will kick in, so we’ll need to pull over so I can test my bloods and inject again.

Past beautiful russet mountains with crisp and jagged snow-capped peaks, after two hours we approach our first stop, Lake Bled. Despite all of nature’s spender, it’s becoming clear that my levels are peaking. I’ve grown increasingly short-tempered, grouchy and retort when Wiggy speaks to me. 

Wiggy describes living with a diabetic, very diplomatically, as “sometimes challenging.” Unless I’ve had regular and measured meals, and fill my day with unvarying and stress-free activities, my blood sugars are unpredictable. And when my blood sugars fluctuate, my mood and stamina levels dramatically fluctuate too. 

As we approach the lake, I find myself speaking in a high-pitched voice and retorting to everything Wiggy says, even if it’s neutral and inoffensive. After doing this several times, I go silent. It’s like the part of my brain that organises linguistics has switched off and it takes a great deal of effort to make sound, so I choose not to.

Again, Wiggy asks if I’m okay over comms, I ignore him and look for a parking bay, but Lake Bled has no bays. I assume the town did not want the idyllic lake congested by ugly motor vehicles. Regardless, I roll onto the pavement and test my blood; 14.7. It seems that my insulin has not entirely denatured, but it appears to be working less effectively. I take more insulin and walk across the road to the lake.

The lake reflects the blue sky in its rippling waters, gaze out and spy its idyllic church sat upon a tiny island way out in the waters. In high season, I imagine the fleets of little rowing boats setting sail for that church. Without those boats, people would not be able to visit the church and over time it would fall into disrepair. Without my insulin, glucose cannot be transported to my muscles and over time they too would fall to ruin. Only three days actually, and then my body begins to shut down. With a liver producing toxic ketones and a blood pH level tuning acidic.

I return to our bikes. The insulin is beginning to work, I feel the pressure in my skull receding and my body relaxing.