“Mama? Ma. Ma. Ma. Ma. Dumbledore. Ma.” Her voice comes over the monitor, stumbling me from sleep.
“BEEEEEEEEEP!!!” The Dexcom wails at me from the bedside table.
“[insert the sound of my awful alarm clock noise, which is actually this song and makes my whole head spin with cat rage]”
“You people all want me awake right now, don’t you?” I grumbled, reaching for my meter, despite the fact that my eyes weren’t even close to open. Damn it, the meter is in the bathroom.
I moved casually from the bed, down the hallway, and into my bathroom. The fog is apparent at this point; I know I’m low, and now it’s almost a guessing game as to just how low I really am. My eyes are sharp and focused on the black meter case on the bathroom counter, but all of my other senses are tangled. The floor feels harder than normal against my feet. The sounds of the birds outside the window sound louder, filling the room and blasting their trilling pattern into my brain.
I pricked my index finger and squeezed the blood onto the test strip. A result of 39 mg/dl yawned back at me.
“Okay. There you are,” I replied, licking the blood off my finger.
Seeing the number usually brings the symptoms of the low on full-force, but this time, everything was in full-on casual mode. My knees were weak and my hands were shaking, but for some reason, I felt the need to casually brush my teeth. And then I casually brushed my hair. And then, only then, did I venture downstairs to casually grab some juice from the fridge and treat my low blood sugar.
In the kitchen, I downed a few sips of juice. But once I was back upstairs, I realized how bad this felt. Every symptom hit at once, and I felt like a boat being tossed around in a storm. The shakiness. The dizziness. It wasn’t casual, it was desperate. I needed just a few minutes to let this sugar hit and bring me back into range.
The baby was still happily chattering away in her crib, from what I could spy on the monitor. I tried to tap my husband gently on the shoulder, but instead smacked him on the back kind of aggressively, my hands a little slack and unresponsive. He woke up instantly, to see his zombie-low wife standing at the edge of the bed, swaying slightly.
“Can you get up with the baby? I’m 39.” So casual-sounding.
He was standing up before I finished my sentence. “Did you have juice? Do you need juice?”
“No, I already had some. I just feel too low to get her out of her crib, and I need a few minutes to let this mess finish.” I tried to smile, knowing it was more of a Novocaine-esque grimace due to the low.
“Okay. I’m on the Bird,” and he started to head downstairs.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, letting my body catch up. After a few minutes, the symptoms of the low started to fade, and the low hangover set in (that subtle, mowed-over-by-something-substantial feeling that follows a low and leaves you out of sorts for an hour or two). My meter and my Dexcom both confirmed I was moving in the right direction, and seeing those numbers brought me back to a feeling of security and safety.
By the time I went downstairs to join my family, it was like nothing happened. Totally fine. Totally casual once again.