HYPOGLYCEMIA

My thoughts scattered like glass from a fallen vase. Actually, that a little too artistic to describe my mind at this critical point. It was more like trying to follow a thread of consciousness to an idea, while also being bombarded with other crazy thoughts which were so removed from what I normally would think I felt as though I must be on some sort of narcotics. Not that this was a feeling I would have broken the law to get. It was sometimes god awful.

At first I didn’t realize that this state seeped the most anxiety driven, fear prone ideas. But I had heard, early on in my affliction, that normal people with medical backgrounds took insulin because low blood sugar made them more depressed, and they could get attention and sympathy from their peers. I spent a lot of time thinking about this, and it occurred to me that anxiety is an evolutionary reaction to hypoglycemia. You’re near death. In fact, you are dead if you don’t get help, since sugar, the raw material for life sustaining ATP, is gradually being taken in too quickly by your cells, leaving none left. Your muscles shake. I compare it to being slowly filled with jell-o and having all your nerves ripped out. You don’t feel pain in any rational time scheme. A deep finger prick might take twenty seconds to register in your brain as actually hurting, and after staring at your own blood rushing out of your finger, the pain finds a way to seep away.

You also can’t control your movements. You walk, stumble really, from side to side. Arms outstretched like a blind person, I have had to conjure up all of my strength to merely walk down stairs. You shake. You sweat. You lose the ability to see words. I have sat with books, inches from my face, only to see all the words disappear leaving blank pages. Words escape you, since your brain doesn’t have enough energy to use syntax in any practical manner. I have spoken English my entire life, people tell me that I occasionally sound quite eloquent, but when my blood sugar is low enough, I adopt a foreign accent, and I falter with broken sentences.

But even more than the physical horrors, are the subtle persuasions of a hypoglycemic mind. I have woken up in the middle of the night, fearing the worst about life; kidnappers, death, the unlikelihood of the atomic bomb falling on the city of Chicago, about eleven miles from my home. Some of these ideas are crazy, and with a normal mind, I could rationally displace these fears. But the lack of sugar in my body leaves my mind ragged and quick to turn to paranoia. The same adrenaline that rushes through my veins when the sugar is almost gone, that makes me shake and sweat and drives me for food, this very hormone, also makes me go crazy. I become furious and scared. It’s why I can’t think in straight lines, and it’s also why in the middle of the night my sleeping dreams turn to waking nightmares.

Right now, it wasn’t that bad. Maybe in the 60’s or 50’s. Anything below 70 made me a little shaky. Below 40 was getting serious; serious enough for me to get escorted to the nurse’s office for free orange juice and saltine crackers, or to call the paramedics. It wasn’t that bad, but I was nervous and freaking out. I stopped inside at the Barnes & Noble’s café to get a drink, knowing that getting my car out of a supernaturally busy parking lot with a plummeting level of consciousness would be a dangerous idea. The line wasn’t long, but it moved at a pace I could barely stand. Losing any sense of kinesthesia, or the social constraints of personal space, with the loss of sugar, I got too close to a short stranger as I cut slightly in front of her to pick up and examine glass bottles. I quickly scanned the label. 27 grams of sugar, 2 serving sizes. Quick math. Was it 54? Something like that. I put it down; I don’t prefer orange juice at night. I looked patiently for a normal root beer, dodging black cherry and diet. There were few left, but even so, there was no indication of how many carbs the soda had, and I couldn’t remember how sugary root beer was. And it had caffeine. I need to go to sleep early tonight, don’t I? I picked up the orange juice again. The label had pastel colors, and it looked like it was from the fifties. I didn’t want to drink it, but I didn’t have any other choice, unless I wanted some fruity jones soda combination which would really be a crap shoot.

It’s odd being picky when your life is kind of on the line. But the one thing that doesn’t fade with the other senses, is my sense of taste. Everything may disappear. Sight, hearing, touch, balance, movement... they all vanish leaving me in a cell of near nothingness. But taste and smell remained. How else would I know that what I was eating was sugary enough? Believe it or not, I have rejected food that has been kindly offered to me when I’m low. Example:

Elora: Hey, do you have any food? Any sugar? My blood sugar’s low.

Person: I have a pop-tart.

Elora: What kind?

Person: It’s strawberry. It’s right here.

Elora: Umm… thanks, but no thank you.

I held the glass bottle in my long hands and slowly rocked back and forth. On my toes, on my heels. Off my heels, off my toes. There were only four people in front of me, but everyone was moving so slowly. In my epinephrine high, my mind raced as everyone else stood virtually still. I tried to comfort myself by the knowledge that if my body gave up and I fell to the floor, all I’d need to utter is one of the following statements, “I’m diabetic”, “My blood sugar’s low”, “Hypoglycemia”, and I’d get free food. Maybe even an ambulance ride. Though those were painfully expensive.

I eyed the mural on the barnes & nobles walls, of famous authors. A few of them I had read last year in AP Junior English. I scanned slowly, trying to waste time. Virginia Woolf was crazy, but brilliant. I felt bad for her, though at the same time I knew that she was probably a very pretentious person because she knew, and everyone else did too, that she was a genius. Nabokov was an obscure name, I didn’t know he was big enough to get his name on a Barnes & Noble’s mural.

Then there were mugs. All cafés sell mugs. I think it’s a little odd, but I liked these ones, and I considered buying one. But at $7.50, I was a little skeptical. I reminded myself that I don’t drink coffee, or tea. And when I rarely do have hot chocolate, it is winter. And the seasons had just passed back into spring a few days ago. But the pattern at least was interesting, pink and orange deco O’s. Then there were the little books, sold for less than $5, but about things that most people probably weren’t interested in reading. What my children have taught me showed poor parenting. Parents teach children, not the other way around, duh.

There was a man sitting with his computer plugged into a power outlet. I wondered why he decided to do work in a bookstores café. Maybe he likes the eclecticism of the constant stream of people, in and out. Or maybe the free wireless services. The café sold Cheesecake Factory cupcakes and cheesecakes. I really wanted one, but I had no intention of sitting down. The place was crowded. It was a Saturday night. That didn’t make sense. Saturday nights were alright for fighting, not for drinking coffee and reading magazines.

All these thoughts raced through my mind rather quickly. One thought would lead unexplainably to a larger idea, but I wouldn’t be able to finish it, and I’d find something superficial to captivate my interest.

I think I finally got to the front of the line. I put down my orange juice, and asked for a sugar cookie I had unconsciously been eyeing prior. My voice was very soft, very quiet. If it was any louder, it would quake and waiver and it would sound as if I was either a) crazy or b) about to cry. I tried to indicate things with head movements, nods and shakes. Talking made me upset. The only thing that should be in my mouth right now is that sugar cookie, not silly words. Yes I would like a cookie; can’t you see that I’m nearly dead? Or maybe not, since I keep my composure well. I only have $6, if it costs anymore, I may just run away with the orange juice. But it’s four-something, thank goodness. She hands me a tremendous and crumpled white bag with my cookie inside. I have too many things in my hands I realize, and I walk very slowly so I don’t drop anything. My wallet somehow finds its way into my tight pockets. I carefully pop open the cap of my juice. It’s a loud snap, I think it scares a small boy, but I can’t really tell since my peripheral vision is, well, it’s not very good at all. It might not have even been a small boy. It very well could’ve been a little girl in boyish clothes.

I go through two sets of doors before I hit the outside. I stop walking to take a large gulp. The orange juice is bitter, sour. It’s not like the sugar loaded Tropicana I’m used to accompanying my many cereals. I sneak around the outside of the parking lot so that nobody follows me to my car and waits for me to pull out. I fully intend to sit inside of it and drink and eat until I’m merry enough to drive away, and that could take anywhere from two minutes to fifteen.

I reach my leather interior and turn on the radio. I feel so sneaky, that I am mildly proud of myself. Just the mere imagination of espionage makes me giddy. Yet when I look around, there is a man in the car next to me doing the exact same thing. Just sitting there, in his car. I lock my door. People are scary. Especially if you’re blood sugar is low. I fiddle with the radio and then fiddle with my cookie. It is very sugary, it makes up for the low quality of the orange juice. When I finish both of them, I look over and the man is no longer sitting in his car. He must be very, very sneaky, I think, because I can’t remember hearing him leave, and my radio wasn’t even that loud. I toss the white paper bag on the ground, turn on my car engine, turn on my lights, and put the car in reverse.

Hypoglycemia always loses, even if it does get close.