Like Death warmed-over

This is always how it feels. The morning after the hypo-glycemic episode-the-night-before is never fun.

I realize at 3:30 that I'm awake and in the middle of every diabetic's least-favorite thing, a nocturnal hypo-glycemic episode. An insulin reaction, as they called it in the old days.

Of course, my wife has already known it since about three when she first began talking me through it and feeding me something sweet. My only recollection of course is the last few pieces of candy and the final assurances that I'm back to normal.

It's still hours before we must get up, but my body is now wide-awake and amped by the 15+ grams of sweet carbohydrates I've just taken in. Sleep doesn't come until around 5 AM. The alarm rings at six.

Moving through the morning is like walking through thick molasses. I always say I feel like I've been hit by a truck.

While it is true that such episodes left untreated can be serious, the vast majority of the time they are not. But they do leave me feeling awful, so I feel no shame in wise-cracking about it to relieve the mental and emotional stress it puts on both of us.

It's kind of like a visit from Death, Jr. Not there to pull the plug, only to harass and annoy.