It’s Monday night. I’m tired. I wash up, put on my jammies, and climb into bed. I sprawl out in the middle and flip on the TV so John Stewart and Stephen Colbert can make me chuckle before I drift off the sleep. I check my blood sugar and I'm happy to see a 110. Usually I go to bed somewhere in the 90s and stay flat all night, so I let the 110 ride. K.C. is curled up in her bed, which is next to me, already sleeping away.
At midnight the phone rings. It’s Pete, calling from his hotel in California. He’s arrived safely and checked in. He’s had dinner and is getting ready for bed himself. I miss him so much already, even though I saw him just this morning. We say goodnight, I turn off the TV, and I fall asleep.
Although I don’t realize it, I’m having “that dream” again. The one I can’t really explain. My mind is racing overtime. I am counting and sorting and trying to fit something into place. I manage once, but I have a few left and I just can’t do it. I keep trying. My mind keeps racing. I am restless. It’s not working.
I’m sort of awake now, lying flat on my back with K.C. sprawled across my chest sleeping. I don’t know how one little ten pound cat can throw off so much body heat, but I am drenched in sweat. I guess it doesn’t help that the weather has been mild. But oh my gosh, it is hot in here. I drift back and forth between sleep and a feeling that I will spontaneously combust at any moment. I’m so hot and sweaty. I finally wake up and decide to go to the bathroom, just so I can get out from under the covers . . . .and from under the cat. It occurs to me that since I’m up, I might as well check my blood sugar.
38. My blood sugar is 38. Of course it is. That’s why I was having “that dream”. It’s my low dream. Why didn’t I realize that sooner? And that’s why I’m soaked in sweat. It all makes perfect sense and I feel like an idiot for not thinking of it. I almost didn’t even bother to test my blood, how stupid is that?
Aside from feeling like a total moron, I also feel the need to eat . . . . a lot. I down a bunch Swedish Fish, but I really want something salty. I climb into bed with a mostly empty bag of chips and finish them off. I know I’ve eaten way too much. Moron. And now I’m so cold, I can’t stop shivering. I wish K.C. would come snuggle on me again, but she’s back in her own bed happily sleeping. Me? Not so much.
I feel like hell when I get up Tuesday morning. I’m upset that I didn’t realize I was low sooner. I’m afraid to tell Pete what happened because I hate to make him worry. I’m scared to sleep alone for the next two nights until his trip is done. In fact, I barely sleep at all Tuesday and Wednesday night. I intentionally eat larger than usual dinners and under-bolus. I see more 200s in those two days than I’ve seen in months. I’m not sure I care.
Even after 32 years, diabetes can still really scare me.
***This post was inspired by one Kerri wrote. And, I suppose, by that f’ing blood sugar.