The Last Straw.
“Mommy … I had a nightmare.”
She shows up in the middle of the night sometimes, evicted from her warm bed down the hall due to a nightmare. “I had a dream about a blue monster with no arms and popcorn on his feet.” She’s clutching her blanket, her water, a flashlight, and a stuffed animal; clearly she’s in for the long haul.
I moved over in the bed and she started to climb in.
“Oh and mom? You’re low,” she said, handing me the vibrating pump.
The fog of feeling sleep lifted immediately and I recognized the symptoms of this hypo. Sweaty hairline, fumbling fingers, my sight reduced to a tunnel, and my hearing razor-sharp, hearing the shuffle of my daughter’s feet, the steady breathing of my sleeping husband, and – finally – the buzzing buzzery of my CGM alarm.
“Do you need something?” Chris asked from beside me.
“Yeah – can you grab one of those juice boxes from the shelf?”
Birdy was already snuggled in beside me, nestled close against my hypo-damp shoulder. A few seconds later, Chris returned with a juice box in hand.
Habit, habit, habit – I am a creature of it. When my blood sugar is low, I go through the motions to treat it, and if anything gaffs up the routine, I’m thrown. Lows in hotel rooms rock me because the bedside table is five inches farther from me than at home. When I am home, having the glucose tabs on the table itself instead of in the drawer can be enough to confuse me thoroughly. (Lows make me the least-sharp knife in the drawer.) In this case, I grabbed the juice box firmly and reflexively used my other hand to reach for the little plastic sleeve with the straw tucked inside. Only I grabbed it a little too firmly and juice shot out all over the bed, because my forward-thinking husband had already stuck the straw inside the foil hole.
“Shit …” My pillow was wet with juice. And so was my daughter, because I managed to (ocean?)-spray her in the face during this transaction. “I didn’t know the straw was already in there.”
“Do you need another juice box?”
“No, this should be okay. Only a little bit flew out.” I drank the rest of the juice box, per routine.
“MOM. This is not OKAY. I am all WET.” (Even at 3 am, my kid can be indignant.)
“Sorry, baby. You can go back to your own bed, if you want? That bed doesn’t have juice in it.”
She thought for a minute, then buried her head under the blankets to issue a muffled response. “No WAY. The monster had popcorn feet. NO WAY am I going back to my bed.”