On Monday night, Ross and I had been up talking before drifting off to sleep. I remember telling him that my blood sugar felt low and that I needed to go downstairs. I vaguely remember telling him that I needed help getting down the stairs. I do remember being soaked with sweat and freezing cold. I also vaguely remember being on the floor in my bedroom. I do remember sitting sleepily at the kitchen table with a piece of toast and dragging my exhausted legs up the stairs, and being quite surprised that Ross was still up, because I had a sense that it was sort of late.
What I don't remember is telling my husband that I couldn't make it down the stairs and sort of collapsing onto the bedroom floor. Or that he brought me a can of coke that I wouldn't drink - that he had to force me to drink. Or the shaking body and incoherent mumblings. Or that he was so nervous about me there were two points where, he said, he was about to call an ambulance.
Don't remember that.
I do know what it felt like when I got out of bed on Tuesday morning. It felt like I had been hit by a car, or even though I've never had one, what a hangover after a night of binge drinking would feel like. Aches and pains in places you wouldn't figure, migraine headache, the works. I just wanted to spend the day curled up in a ball under a warm blanket.
Blood sugar is a funny thing. Keeping that magic little number in the right place is so hard sometimes. Ross and I figure that I must have done the wrong insulin before going to bed and didn't realize it. And that it sent my number into the teens and that, even though I don't remember I was spiraling pretty fast to a very dangerous place.
Good thing he was there to help me.