Low blood sugar attack in middle of the nacht! - Diabetes poem

I'm asleep and wake up at 2:15 a.m.

Whazzup?

Nada, I say to myself and lie still.

I hear the rain on my roof and then it begins to thunder. Soon the lightning begins.

An enormous clap of thunder has me nearly jumping out of the bed.

I roll over and pick up my Jack Reacher novel.

Nope, something's not right with me.

I get out of bed, shimmy past my exercise bike in front of the TV, and head downstairs.

I'm having a lo blood sugar attack.

Last nite, after Scott and I had our homemade pizza, I panicked when I saw my numbers were 231 and injected too much insulin - 14 units.

Now I was paying the price.

My cognition was affected. This has only happened a couple of times. I could not think right but depended on my body to help me.

Went into the kitchen and switched on the light.

A panorama of bright colors greeted me. This was not my kitchen, but the result of the lo sugar. I quickly switched off the light, leaned on my kitchen table, and thought DO SOMETHING. You've gotta do something to keep yourself alive.

Again, I switched on the light and went to the open shelf where I keep my whole-green pretzels.

I began pouring them out and gobbling them down.

 I was sweating profusely. It dripped onto the kitchen table. Another sign of low blood sugar. My hands were also shaking.

I sat at my laptop and read the online Times while waiting for the pretzels to go into effect.

When I stopped trembling, I took my blood sugar.

FORTY.

Normal is between 80 and 120.

Low is under 70.

I had just seen my endocrinologist the day before and she gave me a great report. "Good A1C," she said. "I think you're doing fantastic, so you only need to see me once every six months."

At times like this, I simply hope to learn to be a better PWD, person w diabetes.

UPON BEING DIAGNOSED, LATER IN LIFE, WITH DIABETES

The parts I like are the Novolog pen

that delivers insulin

and asking the pharmacist with the spiked hair

will you marry me?

I also like that

everything is made of plastic:

the Novolog pen, the meter that

shows my sugar levels.

I like twisting the orange measuring meter

to eight units or ten

- my nephrologist Dr Kung has prescribed these amounts

I like telling people

Dr Shiang-Cheng Kung is my nephrologist -

Best of all is

the clear crystalline drop that oozes

from the needle after shooting:

a silent tear for the poet

who cannot cry for herself

but must lie: it’s not so bad.

When the disease catches up with me

says Kung, I’ll be ready to mount

the stairs to eternity,

with half closed sagging eyes and cloudy whites

- closeups in a Saturday horror film -

by then, twenty years of research will yield

something more convenient, less hurtful:

a new white

plastic pancreas!

Will I miss that crystalline teardrop on the needle?

and a certain smell that never will become parfum?

of

plastic

death

and a wild red rose

twisting on the vine.