After the Juicebox.
I was sitting on the couch last night after dinner, watching an old episode of Seinfeld that was on TV (it was the one where Kramer apologises to a monkey, in case you were wondering…).
I could feel a low coming on, but I wasn’t 100% sure. I got up, washed my hands and made my way into my room. I closed the door shut, which felt somewhat like a huge effort.
I sank into the office chair behind my desk. I reached out, trapping my meter, strips and lancing device in my outstretched hand and dragged them towards me.
My blood sugar was 2.4.
Reaching for a juicebox inside my desk drawer, I jabbed a straw in and guzzled out the contents of it within seconds.
I sat there, paralysed, in my desk chair, wanting to do more to address just how awful I felt. I felt hot and stuffy, largely thanks to the layers I was wearing. But I’d never been more grateful to feel hot and stuffy, rather than feeling shivery-scary.
I buried my face in my hands, as time stood still. I exerted somewhat of a moan into my sleeves, which very helpfully muffled the noise I was making.
I checked the time on my phone, wishing I’d taken note of when I sucked the life out of that juice box. I tried to rack my brain for the answer, but it’s concept of time was all jumbled.
The next check in I-can’t-remember-how-many-minutes’ time registered at 3.4. Not too long after that, I could feel my brain function returning. I very relievedly sank onto the couch in front of Superstore, which was all I could really muster for the remainder of the evening.
From one sudden hypo, I felt absolutely wrecked.
As I was sitting there, I couldn’t help but draw the irony in a conversation I’d had earlier that day – a follow up call from my pump start a few weeks ago.
‘And your levels are going okay?’
