The Day: Sunday, July 2.
The Time: 11 am.
The scene: Nic is in the kitchen. Her blood sugar is 61. She is shaking, and hot, and more symtomatic than she has been in a long time. Her heart is racing. She has had some juice, but feels it is imperative that she have a ham and cheese sandwich, now.
But first she needs the cheese slicer. She looks under the sink, where some dishes are stored, and starts rooting through them. She looks in the pile of dirty dishes on the counter. She clangs some silverware and bangs around some plates as she looks, frantically but ineffectually. Tears are streaming down her cheeks.
"I'll do the dishes later," her husband says. He sits placidly on the couch.
She is sobbing as she takes out a plate (as she is unable to find the cutting board either) and grabs a knife and starts to saw at the cheese.
"I don't care about the dishes. I need the cheese slicer and I cant' find it. This is why" (deep, snotty, self-pitying breath) "I don't like us [read: you] to pile the dishes like this. I can't find anything." She glares at self-satisfied husband as he refuses to comfort her in her temper tantrum.
The cheese won't cut, a combination of a very dull knife and an uncordinated Nic. It is all hubby's fault.
She throws the cheese into its drawer and kicks the door shut. Sobs as she grabs a knife and bread and slaps on peanut butter. Glares at her husband the whole time. Wishes he knew what it felt like. Inhales the sandwich, very unhappy that it is not ham and cheese, the only real remedy to this egregious low, and sits back down.
It's funny now, but this was the scariest low I have ever had. I am rarely emotional with lows, and I was a mess with this one. And I was 61, not 30 -- which, incidentally, I don't usualy feel and have thus far (but not holding my breath) been fully capable of dealing with in a rational manner.