She’s sleeping soundly – at 40. It took a lot to wake her up.
Hypoglycemia unawareness scares the crap out of me, and it should. There’s no waking up shaky, with sheets and clothing that are soaking wet. This has been her lowest blood glucose I’ve taken since diagnosis.
If she’s awake, she feels her level dropping, gets the shakes and feels incredibly weak and hungry. If the drop is hard and fast, she reports feeling as if she is “out of her body”. At night? Nothing. She doesn’t even remember the episode and builds whatever happens overnight into dreams. Even alarms.
I treated the low, and as I walked down the steps felt shear fear. Fear of the future that didn’t include me walking down the steep steps from her room after midnight and 3am checks. The He and He and Me of her life equal safety, ensuring she wakes to live another day. What happens when she is on her own? Will she ever be able to be on her own? Will I be buying a diabetic alert dog for her when she leaves my care? Will she be “that” girl whose dog accompanies her into lecture halls to sit by her side on high alert?
All of this thought happens before I reach the bottom step.
The magnitude of these feelings is so great that I can’t sleep for hours. I watch tv with a fraction of my normal interest, eyes on her Dexcom. I look at it and know that tonight it saved us from certain “could haves”. She could have ________.
It’s been three days since this low and I feel as if I’m still trying to catch my breath. I try to shake off the fear, telling myself that I have four years to prepare her for the world.
Four years doesn’t feel long enough.