Rewinding the Miracle of Life

CHAPTER 17 (From Still Learning Book)

My greatest fear entering the teaching profession as someone living with Type 1 diabetes was having a low blood sugar while teaching.

As a physical education teacher, your attention is always split — scanning students, equipment, and space — mitigating risk before it materializes. A low blood sugar complicates that responsibility. If not caught early, concentration dulls. Disorientation creeps in. Judgment blurs.

My lows arrive in stages.

First, heat floods my face and body — as though someone has quietly turned up the thermostat from within. The perspiration taps switch on. Then come the jitters, a subtle tremor beneath the surface. My coordination begins to feel unreliable. I drop things. My spatial awareness narrows. Doors and walls suddenly offer unsolicited high fives to my cheekbone. If left untreated, my behaviour can resemble intoxication.

When I was first diagnosed, my medical team handed me a small card for my wallet. It read:

I AM NOT DRUNK. IF I AM CONFUSED, ACTING STRANGELY, OR PASS OUT, I AM HAVING A LOW BLOOD GLUCOSE (HYPOGLYCEMIA) REACTION. PLEASE GIVE ME SUGAR (JUICE, CANDY, GLUCOSE TABLETS). IF I AM UNCONSCIOUS, CALL 911 AND INFORM THEM OF A DIABETIC EMERGENCY.

Not treating a low immediately is a classic Kris Ewing mistake.

I have, on more than one occasion, convinced myself I can simply finish what I’m doing and deal with it after.

Finish the lesson on the computer — I don’t want to lose my train of thought. (Though the low is already ensuring I have.)

Finish the tennis or squash game — I don’t want to ruin it for my opponent. (Too late. My coordination already has. My husband, however, appreciates his rare opportunity to win.)

Finish assembling the IKEA furniture — because momentum feels sacred. (Later, my husband quietly redoes whatever I assembled in my disoriented state.)

As the low deepens, my concentration fractures. My speech begins to slur. And yet, inexplicably, I often feel compelled to sing Broadway songs as though I am centre stage, delivering the performance of my life.

Disorientation. Unusual behaviour. Applause, perhaps.

One of my deepest frustrations with T1D is its ability to pull me out of flow — in teaching, planning, sports, exercise, socializing, even sleeping. Flow is sacred to me. And diabetes interrupts it without apology.

In my first year of teaching, during a Grade 11 sexual health class, I learned a lesson about flow that has stayed with me ever since.

Teaching sexual health as a young teacher carries its own vulnerability. I quickly discovered that humour created safety — for them and for me. I had a class full of curiosity; their endless questions confirmed it.

Their enthusiasm reminded me of a NOVA documentary I had watched years earlier, THE MIRACLE OF LIFE. Using microphotographic techniques, it follows the journey from sperm meeting egg through embryo development to birth.

The students were captivated. We paused frequently — making curriculum connections, yes — but also wandering into tangents that only a curious classroom can create.

I was quietly proud of my timing. The film would end with just enough minutes left to wrap up thoughtfully and preview the next class.

But as life — and diabetes — often does, I was handed a different kind of teachable moment.

I always offered a trigger warning before the birth scene. Students could turn around, put their heads down, or step into the hallway if they preferred. This class? All in.

As the birth began, their posture shifted. Some leaned forward over their desks. Some half-stood. Others leaned back, bracing themselves. When the baby was delivered, the screams were likely audible down the hallway, followed by collective laughter — the kind of laughter that bonds a group permanently.

Meanwhile, I was making the Kris Ewing mistake.

The class was so engaged that I didn’t want to break the moment by reaching into my bag for juice. There were only fifteen minutes left. Lunch followed. I told myself I would be fine.

The perspiration had begun. The jitters were present.

When the film ended, confusion was settling in. I turned to stop and rewind the videotape — but instead of pressing stop first, I hit rewind.

Behind me, I heard gasps. 

“OMG, Miss!”
“Turn it off!”

I turned toward the class and saw hysteria in some faces and genuine shock in others. Then I looked at the screen. 

The baby was being pushed back into the mother’s womb.

In my panic, I pressed more buttons, making it worse. Now the baby was going in and out of the womb continuously.

At that point, we all lost it.

A brave student came forward and shut off the VCR and television.

I turned back to the class and said, “I’m so sorry. Ms. Ewing is having low blood sugar and needs some juice.”

As I sipped, I added, “I’m really sorry. Is everyone okay?”

This is the gift of building humour and trust in a classroom.

One student replied, “Miss Ewing, that was the best form of birth control you could have ever taught us.” 

The rest nodded in agreement. “For real.”

That day, I learned something I should have known all along:

I had been trying to protect the lesson.

What I actually needed to protect was myself.

And honesty, delivered in real time, builds more respect than perfection ever could.