I Had Nothing To Write About.
Last night I was sending off a quick email before bed, and I lingered on the Movable Type platform for SUM.
"Hey Chris, I think I'm out of stuff to write about. My brain - she is empty."
"It's okay. You'll think of something tomorrow. Now let's eat Jell-O." (The Jell-O part is not completely relevant, but it was delicious and worth mentioning. Red Jell-O with fat-free cool whip.)
The night progressed, and eventually we went to bed.
At 2 am, the Dexcom starting singing. And because I am a very tuned in, dedicated diabetic (oh the lies!), I pulled it from the headboard and threw it across the room.
"BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!" it wailed relentlessly from the corner.
About 15 minutes later, I woke up with that heavy, sandbag feeling, like all my organs were ten times their normal size and fuzzy on the edges. I felt as though I was covered in something grainy, almost tangible, but I couldn't shake it off.
A low. A nasty one, proving its strength by keeping me flat on the bed. I tried to sit up but my brain was too dizzy and the sandbags were heavy.
"Hey. I need juice. It's a bad low."
Chris woke up immediately and grabbed a bottle of juice. I drained it, not counting out eight sips, not caring about the carb content, just wanting the sugar back in my body and the function back to my brain. A bit of juice started to drip from the side of the bottle and I went after it, not willing to let any bit of sugar escape my mouth. It was a desperate and pathetic low, where I could have consumed a whole cake without thinking twice.
I lay back down against the pillow and tried to pretend the waves of unconsciousness weren't happening.
"Next time, let's not talk," I said, mumbling.
"Not talk about what? What don't we want to talk about? You are okay, you drank the juice, you'll come up. I'll wait here with you." Chris was propped up on his elbow, a hand on my shoulder while he talked.
"Let's not talk about how I have nothing to write about, okay?" I laughed and it sounded jagged against the dark, like it wasn't actually coming from my mouth.
"No kidding, right?"
"Yeah. This isn't what I wanted. I would have been happy writing about the cats or something, you know?"
The low passed.
This morning, I have dark circles under my eyes and a headache that even the strongest coffee can't cure. My body keeps edging back towards low and I'm not sure how much to dial my basal rates back to. I'm tired. Of a lot of things.
I'd rather be wracking my brain, trying to think of what to write about today.