It Just Gets Long

My eyes shot open suddenly from a peaceful sleep.  I knew instantly I was low.  I sat up and looked at the clock: 1:16am.  I hadn't even been asleep that long.

I got out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen.  My meter was on the counter.  A nice shiny 39 mg/dl looked back at me.

I opened the fridge and reached for the juice.  With a number like that, peanut butter and crackers were in order too.

As I sat down at the table and started eating, the full force of the low hit me.  I remembered there was leftover pizza in the fridge.  Maybe not the smartest idea, but I went for it anyway.

As I ate, I remembered one time that I treated a low only with pizza.  I was probably about 13 or 14, and was at a slumber party.  I woke up low in the middle of the night, and discovered that someone had left pizza in the box on the kitchen counter.  I remember that I ate two slices and a bread stick.  I remember hoping that someone would hear me and wake up.  I hoped for that a lot at that age; I hated sitting up at night low by myself.

I probably could have woken someone up.  None of my friends would have cared.

But I felt like I had to take care of this myself.  This was my disease, and I didn't want anyone else burdened by it.

I felt so alone.

Times have changed, and I'm not quite as afraid to ask for help as I used to be.  There have even been times in my marriage when I've gotten low and my husband has graciously sat up with me, getting me juice.  The feeling remains the same though.  I wouldn't wish diabetes on anybody, but sometimes the lonesome feeling is hard to beat.

I'd never really experienced why depression and diabetes are so closely linked until this last year.  I've had my moments, but I've really felt the weight of the word chronic over the last while.  A type 1 in her 50s once told me, "It just gets long.  Really long."

She was so, very right.