Was just 106 mg/dL. Tumbled fast to 40.
Took minutes. Felt like seconds.
Wait – get phone.
Put the baby in his crib.
He’s safe in there.
Already drank juice – plenty of it – now wait wait waaaaaaaait.
Wall edges seem wiggly, like if I poked them they’d shudder like Jell-O.
Baby is safely in the crib, giggling and playing with his feet. I sit on his floor with my phone in my hand, ready to make a phone call to a neighbor if the waves of confusion start to erode my mental shore.
Briefly wonder what I’d say if I called. “Hey, this is Kerri. Can you come over? I feel like I’m going to pass out.” I’m sure I’d try to sound casual when casual is not how I feel. I keep 911 dialed so if I need to just hit the call button, I’m ready.
Emergency plans. I have them.
My tongue becomes less thick, less clumsy in my mouth. I flex my fingers, which are attached to my still-shaking hands. They feel responsive but like their wings are still clipped.
Juice starts to change the course of my blood sugar. CGM alarms still blaring from my phone, less urgently now. Walls seem less gelatinous.
Baby burps and then laughs at his own burp. I laugh, too, the fog of hypoglycemia unwrapping itself from my brain. I remember that it’s morning. That it’s a week day. That I’m due on a
conference call in 20 minutes.
CGM shows me a comforting arrow.
Emergency over. Status quo returned.
Before I retrieve the baby from his crib, I grab a cloth and clean up the juice that leapt from the glass while my hands were birds.