I was sitting on my mom's couch last night, staring into space.
"Tiffany, are you alright?" she asks as she walks up to me.
Her voice breaks through my mindless trance and I ask her to bring me my glucometer, my tongue tripping over the words.
5....
4...
3..
2..
1.
Beeeeeep
1.6 mmol
She runs to get me something, anything. For all the years that she's guided me through these episodes, she has always ran. Up stairs, down stairs, outside and in. Though she rarely shares these moments with me anymore, I can always count on her to run.
I treat with 25g CHO and sit listlessly, forehead in my hands, as the clock slowly ticks towards fifteen minutes and another upcoming test.
A headache begins to pound behind my eyes and I moan in frustration. "I've got a bad one coming on."
She never asks what I mean; having seen me through countless lows as a child, she knows the routine. A quick crash inevitably ends in a migraine.
After rummaging in the kitchen she returns to place a tall glass of water at my elbow.
"Drink this", she says.
"It will make you feel all better and your headache will go away."
"What, mom??"
We look at each other, a moment of understanding born of years of connection, as we both start chuckling.
And she stands beside me as I laugh my way up to a 4.9.
I was sitting on my mom's couch last night, staring into space.
"Tiffany, are you alright?" she asks as she walks up to me.
Her voice breaks through my mindless trance and I ask her to bring me my glucometer, my tongue tripping over the words.
5....
4...
3..
2..
1.
Beeeeeep
1.6 mmol
She runs to get me something, anything. For all the years that she's guided me through these episodes, she has always ran. Up stairs, down stairs, outside and in. Though she rarely shares these moments with me anymore, I can always count on her to run.
I treat with 25g CHO and sit listlessly, forehead in my hands, as the clock slowly ticks towards fifteen minutes and another upcoming test.
A headache begins to pound behind my eyes and I moan in frustration. "I've got a bad one coming on."
She never asks what I mean; having seen me through countless lows as a child, she knows the routine. A quick crash inevitably ends in a migraine.
After rummaging in the kitchen she returns to place a tall glass of water at my elbow.
"Drink this", she says.
"It will make you feel all better and your headache will go away."
"What, mom??"
We look at each other, a moment of understanding born of years of connection, as we both start chuckling.
And she stands beside me as I laugh my way up to a 4.9.