The alarm went off. I couldn’t shake the sleep from my body.

This morning, I swept the empty carcasses of two juice boxes off the bedside table, a reminder of what must have happened last night.  I looked at my CGM graph and saw a line with the shape of a teaspoon etched into it around 2.30 am, where I spent 45 minutes alarming in response to the LOW.

“Huh,” I said, running my hands along the fitted sheet as I made the bed, seeing the small blot of grape juice on the edge of the fabric.  My body felt chilled, a reminder that the overnight hypo caused me to sweat through my pajamas, leaving me still slightly damp around my shoulders, hair frizzy-curled at the ends.  “Need to run these sheets through the wash today.”

Everything felt a little heavier, a little slower, on a half second delay that wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice but more than enough for me to go downstairs with a hand firmly on the railing. Low hangovers require more recovery time, these days.  They linger.

I have no recollection of last night’s low blood sugar.  An hour of activity, but I don’t remember it.  No memory of popping the straw through the foil hole of the juice box, twice over.  No memory of the Dexcom alarm going off, although I have evidence on my phone that it alarmed several times. No memory of waking up damp with sweat and nerves.

The only proof of hypoglycemia is in the trash can, on the sheets, pressed into my graph, and under my eyes.

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