I opened my eyes slowly, taking a second at least to convince my lids to lift.
Oh, home. I’m in my own bed.
Moved my hand towards the cellphone on my bedside table, in pursuit of my continuous glucose monitor graph. My hand moved in slow motion, a trace of its movement in the air behind it.
“Not that low, but low enough,” my brain acknowledged, and my head went to nod but its response time was dulled. The connection between “do this action” and “this action” was entirely severed. My body didn’t want to do anything unless it was to have my hands twitch mildly and my eyelids to shut.
A juice box sat, untouched, on the bedside table. It’s right there. Right there. I’m still here, still here, not reaching for it.
My brain is displeased, logical and panicking and screaming.
GET THE GODDAMN JUICE AND DRINK IT WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR YOU ARE FALLING DOWN THIS WELL OF HYPOGLYCEMIA. DO SOMETHING BEFORE YOU DROWN. GET UP GET UP. GET UP.
Sure, brain. I’ll grab that juice box.
… in a minute.
It’s not like falling down a well with the power of gravity providing an assist; it’s going down the shaft of a well like Alice falling into Wonderland, floaty and confusing and hard to make my body respond to the commands of my brain. I would have closed my eyes tight in order to concentrate on actions but they wouldn’t close tight. They only wanted to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before shutting again.
A minute or thirty passed and it seemed that I had drank the juice box. The empty box with the straw poking out as evidence. The stain of grape juice on my sheets, evidence. My hands and eyes and legs doing what I requested, evidence.
Still here. Evidence.
Swing over to the side of the bed. I sent the message to my legs. They responded gratefully and almost instantly, coming out from underneath the thick winter blankets, my feet touching the floor for the first time of this earned day. Stretched my arms over my head, wobbly and still not back in range yet but I’m still here. Still here.