Down the Stairs.
It was a weak alarm, but I still heard it. I forgot to take the Dexcom receiver out of its case before I went to bed, so the vibrations weren't directly against the wooden nightstand, but the repeated BEEEEEEP!ing was enough to rouse me, after about fifteen minutes.
"LOW BLOOD SUGAR UNDER 55 MG/DL GET THE HELL OUT OF BED" the screen screamed at me.
I clicked my pump (aka 'my watch') to see what time it was - 2:32 am - and I tried to run my hand through my hair to get it out of my face, but my fingers ended up stuck in the mess of sweat-matted, tangled hair.
The lamp switched on after some fumbling, and I stood up gingerly, removing the brace from my foot (thank you, plantar faciitis) so I could walk. The walls of my bedroom seemed like they were throbbing and pulsing, like I was standing inside of someone's beating heart.
My meter showed me a "34 mg/dL," like it was a prize I won for being so sweaty.
Despite the bottle of glucose tabs on my bedside table (open, and ready, but ignored), despite the sleeping and capable husband in our bed, and despite the fact that I was walking on a compromised and even-more-clumsy-than-usual foot, I decided to go down the stairs to get juice.
And despite the fact that I actually looked at the juice bottle to calculate (ha?) how many carbs would be in a glass, I still drank too much of it. And then, fueled by adrenaline and bad decisions and the desire to not feel like the kitchen floor was made of shifting sand, I also grabbed a handful of gum drops from the bag in the fridge.* Not smart. Not even a little bit smart, especially because as I was chewing, I was calculating a correction bolus for the overtreat, but then forgot to dial it into my pump. It was a perfect storm of bad decisions, with a brain slogging through hypoglycemia at the helm.
Such a strange hypoglycemic aftermath: put the juice glass in the dishwasher and then, for whatever reason, decide to finish loading the rest of the dirty dishes in and set the dishwasher to cycle, then go upstairs to blow dry my hair in an attempt to ward off the chills that were already setting in from too long in damp, low-sweaty clothes, then brush my teeth, then check on Birdy to make sure she's okay ... what prompts this routine? Is this the way my body calms down after being jolted from sleep by panic?
After about 45 minutes, I felt normal. I saw 99 mg/dL and an arrow pointing up, so I figured I was safe.
But the rest of the night was spent listening to the Dexcom BEEEEEEEEP! because my blood sugars were cruising up, up, and away, ready to greet me with a "HIGH!" in the morning. (That, and Siah was nose-to-nose with me this morning, which made me happy and grossed me out, all at once.)
I should have just stayed downstairs and started my day at 2:30 am, because there wasn't going to be any sleep after that moment, anyway. Besides, there's someone always awake in the DOC, isn't there? All hours of the day?
* You don't keep a bag of gumdrops in the fridge? Just me? They were on sale at CVS. Happy Valentine's Day? Go spare a rose instead. Gumdrops are the devil's work.