Last night: In a bit of a fit, I decided to use my abdomen for my infusion set. Pressing the Quick-Serter against my stomach for the first time in over two years, I had that fleeting thought of “Oh what if this stings???” but it deployed smoothly. Sitting at my desk and returning some emails, the site on my stomach didn’t bother me much. Resting about three inches to the right of my naval, I didn’t notice any issue due to my low-rise pajama bottoms.
Went to bed just past midnight, after texting Chris good-night and knowing he would call once he was back in his hotel room in San Francisco, I fell asleep with Abby to the right of me and Siah prowling around after the cap of the hairspray bottle on the floor.
The phone rings at 2:30 in the morning, 11:30 California time.
I reach over and answer, my head damp and the waves of nausea coming over me violently.
“Hey baby, it’s me. How’s my girl?”
How’s his girl? She’s fumbling with the test strip, convinced she needs to test and confirm this low blood sugar instead of crawling to the kitchen for juice. She’s pricking her finger by the lamplight. She’s afraid to say anything yet because she knows this one is bad and she doesn’t want to make him nervous.
“I’m low. I’m 30. I’m low.” The words are a steady stream of consciousness, falling off my lips and traveling 3,000 miles across the country to my fiance’s ears.
“Juice. Now, okay? You need to drink it now.” I can hear him trying to be calm, but it’s hard when he’s not next to me and able to run for the juice himself.
“Okay.” I walk out to the kitchen, Abby following me and wailing. I open a sports bottle of juice and drain it. I open a second one and drain that one, too, my phone against my ear and my back against the cold edge of the fridge.
“I drank it. I’m going to come up soon.”
Most of the time when I’m low, I know it’s going to be okay. I know that I’ll regain my control and then I’ll smile sheepishly. But this time, I’m scared. I’m alone, I’m scared, and these tides of weakness and release are washing over me, making me frightened that if I close my eyes, I won’t open them again.
“It’s okay, Kerri. It’s okay. We’re going to wait and you’ll be okay. I’m here.”
The tears escape without my permission.
“But I’m scared. I feel close. I’m scared..”
I sit quietly and wait for the juice to push back the tide. And it does.
“I miss you.”
“There’s my girl. You sound better already. You’re coming up, right? Why don’t you test?”
62 mg/dl. Just seeing the number brings me relief.
“Sixty-two. I’m on the climb. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know. I put the site on my stomach for the first time in a few years and maybe it absorbed more quickly than my thigh. I don’t know.”
And we stay on the phone for another thirty minutes, his voice coaxing my blood sugar back into range.
I have a DexCom (thank you, endlessly, Diabetes Fairy) sitting on my dining room table. I think it’s time to give it a go.