I wasn't sweaty and my skin didn't have that flushed, clammy feel, but my whole body was extra-sensitive and jittery. Like being covered in sand, only every granule was touching a nerve.
For once, I didn't bother testing. I knew I was low. The Dexcom was howling from underneath the bedside table (where I must have lobbed it like a softball when it went off the first time.) The display kept glowing "LOW." I reached into the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved a tube of cake frosting. Red.
It's been a while since I've had a low in the wee hours of the morning. I've woken up on the lower side a few times in the past several weeks (morning numbers in the 60's and 70's - too low for me), but there haven't been any low messes at 3 am.
Until last night, of course.
Still unnerved from the Kevin James zombie dream, I consumed some cake frosting and let the sugar settle into my system. It was absolutely silent - not a sound coming from the roads outside or the cats milling around in the living room - and my brain kept screaming for more sugar.
This is where I get stupid every time. The frosting I ate was enough to cover my reaction. After I tested, I saw that I was 45 mg/dl. I'd already eaten about 20 grams of carbs, which would have brought me up nicely to about 100 and left me there.
But I had a brain full of zombie nightmare panic and low blood sugar, so I stumbled out into the kitchen. And proceed to drink about three cups of juice to quell my anxiety, checking in the hallway for zombies after each gulp. It's so psychological, the way that juice calms the "low feeling" faster than anything else, purely in my mind. Even if my blood sugar doesn't budge a bit, just drinking something sends my brain the "it's going to be okay" message. (But I hate over-treating, because then I just end up high. See also: This morning's waking 290 mg/dl blood sugar.)
I wander back to bed, Abby circling my feet like a shark while I walk. I'm starting to feel better, even though it doesn't dawn on me yet to maybe bolus for all the extra juice I drank. Running my toothbrush under the water (because I can't stand waking up with that juice taste in my mouth and yes, this post-low dental hygiene thing happens all the time), I look into the mirror. My hair is a disaster. My eyes are wild, like a child who has been locked in a closet for days on end, pupils darting from side-to-side, panicked. The bags under my eyes are distressing and apparently packed for a long trip.
God, I look awful. Is this what a low looks like from the outside?
I remember the zombie dream and realize how ridiculous it was. What kind of person dreams that Kevin James is gnawing off her arm?
And am startled to see my red teeth grinning back at me, stained from the frosting.