Last night my low alarm went off like a siren in my bedroom, partly because I had hooked my phone up to a bluetooth speaker to (successfully) help amplify the Dexcom alarms, but mostly because my blood sugar was 50 mg/dL.
How the alarm didn’t wake up my daughter (clad in Captain American pajamas and asleep in my bed because Chris was out of town last night) is beyond me. How it didn’t wake me up the first few times it went off is beyond me as well, since I was low for about 35 minutes before actually acknowledging it. A text message from my husband, asking “Are you awake and drinking juice?” grabbed me from the fog. (Thank you, Dexcom Share, for making the “Big Brother” moments worth the moments when I need a hand.)
Some lows are textbook ones in that they employ symptoms like a sweaty forehead and clumsy hands, but a juice box or some glucose tabs or a banana can take the edge off those symptoms at first bite, the adrenaline surge of the low quieted by a chewing jaw. These lows don’t leave a hangover or a residue of panic. They just happen, and then they’re over.
Other lows are so odd, so disconcerting, so thick with confusion and hypo fog that I find myself unable to put the straw into the juice box, or to even reason with my brain that a juice box is necessary. Last night, my hypo-addled hands weren’t able to push me up onto my elbows so that I could eat or drink anything without spilling it all over the bed.
My kid slept beside me, unaware and occasionally stretching so her hands tangled in her hair.
I frigging hate these kinds of lows. Somehow, I ended up treating with juice and felt the need to wander downstairs into the kitchen and have a box of raisins. And then a second box of raisins. And then another glass of juice. I remember standing at the kitchen island and taking two units of insulin after grossly over-treating this low, still wobbly from still being in the low. I know I didn’t need to eat anything else after that first juice box but for some reason, my body needed comfort.
In that moment, I’d trade a 250 mg/dL for the waves of nausea and unconsciousness that lapped at me.
I went back to sleep damp with sweat, covered in juice.
This morning, the plastic sleeves of two juice boxes were on the bedside table. I corrected the high blood sugar I had eaten myself into. The bedsheets are in the wash in efforts to remove the carb count from their thread count.