3 am Paralysis.
No sound woke me up. I'm not sure how long I was lying there awake and staring off into nothingness, but eventually my shirt felt too sticky and my hands weren't responding to my commands. Flat on my back and listening to the sounds of Chris's even breathing next to me, I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. Did I want to go back to sleep? Did I want to try and get out of bed myself? Did I want to flip on the lamp and finish reading my book?
I knew I was low. I needed juice so badly and my torso was damp from panic, but I still couldn't stop thinking these completely ridiculous thoughts. Was I ready to call the church tomorrow morning and confirm the readings we'd selected for our wedding service? Was that the sound of one of the cats picking at the couch? I really wanted to just read my book. Or go back to sleep. Could not focus on the task at hand. My brain just wasn't operating.
My eyes slipped shut and I fell into a nervous few moments of sleep, waking to feel those waves of nausea and lethargy wrapping around my body like a snake.
"Wake up, Kerri. Wake him up. Get some help. Now is not the best time to finish your book." Internal Motivational Speaker piped up in my ear, yawning. It was 3 am and she was irritated I had woken her up. "You're low, kiddo. Wake him up and ask for help."
He woke up instantly, as though he had been waiting for me to say his name.
"Chris. I need juice. It's right there on the table but I can't get it. Please?" I sound so rational, like I'm in control but inside my body is rattling.
Seconds later, I've drained the bottle and am lying back down, the covers tossed aside and Abby prowling nervously at the foot of the bed.
"I'm dizzy." My voice felt like it was stuck at the back of my throat, too timid to venture out in full. "I feel very dizzy, baby. I'm nervous I might pass out. Okay? I need you to know that."
He turned on the light and sat beside me. "Stay awake, okay? You drank the juice. It's going to be better in just a minute."
All I could think about was that damn book, sitting on the bedside table. I was about 20 pages away from finishing it and it seemed a lot easier to immerse myself in someone else's fictional life than to attend to this low blood sugar.
A few minutes pass. Chris reaches for my meter and clumsily unzips it. I can tell just from the sounds that he's not loading up the strip the same way I do, or clicking back the lancet device with the same cadence. Setting up the meter and testing has become autonomic for me and I do it without thinking. I could hear him struggling, so familiar with the sights but not as fluid when he does it himself.
43 mg/dl. After juice.
"Whoa. I must have been low. That's after juice." My brain works rationally, my sentences sound slow, deliberate, but not tangled. "I can't lift my arms. My fingers aren't working." These are not complaints. These are matter-of-fact statements, spoken to my fiance and hanging there in the air. "I still feel dizzy. Can you get the honey?"
Instantly, he's back with that little jar shaped like a bear. I open the top and wait clumsily for the honey to trickle to the top of the spout. I take a long pull, my mouth recoiling at the sticky sweetness.
"Can I sleep? I've eaten so much. I'll end up at 300 no problem. How about we sleep now?"
"How about you lay down and I'll stay awake with you."
I think about that book again.
"Okay. Just a few minutes. Then we'll go back to sleep."
Twenty minutes pass. I regain control of my hands and they reach over to rub his shoulder.
"Thank you, baby. I feel much better now. It's okay to sleep now. I'm better."
This morning, 108 mg/dl. After all that juice and the honey, I should have been upwards of 270 mg/dl.
I have no idea what causes these late night lows. Ive only had the Dexcom off for a few days but it seems that this high-stress time is the best time to be wearing it. I'm dealing with the insurance companies tomorrow.
(But, for the record, I finished reading the book while I was blow-drying my hair this morning, the little honey bear sitting on the bathroom counter, watching me.)