"Dog's trying to eat my head!"
I feared for my life. Out of nowhere it seemed, I was being accosted by my typically-loving and lovable black lab Riley. She's four, and is always so very excited and friendly around people.
But this was different. I was convinced she was out to get me, and my attempts to flee the devouring dog's reaches weren't successful. I was stuck in some weird sci-fi flick, at least temporarily, and it seemed as though I was that token figure who was running but moving at a snail's pace.
Recalling this scene during a morning phone call from my wife later on, it might have seemed somewhat odd to hear these words of explanation: "The dog was trying to eat my head."
Diabetics who've experienced noctural low sugars can probably guess where this story is going.
Yes, this was indeed the result of a morning low before work. The wife had left early for her job, and the all-important duty of pulling myself out of bed for a shower before work fell solely upon me. It's a monumental task on most any morning, but this was far from one full of normality.
At some point in the early morning hours, my sugar levels had plummetted. I probably was twisting and turning while still asleep, likely mumbling and tossing about in bed. Being out of her bed, Riley likely thought this meant Daddy was ready to devote attention her way. She came to investigate.
Seeing movement, she took that as an invitation to jump onto the bed to say, "Good Morning!"
My reaction: not the welcome she expected.
Seeing a big black figure with a curious wet nose nearing my face, I likely recoiled and tried to push her away. The hypoglycemia added that ever-so-eventful twist that turns reality into some sci-fi episode of the Diabetic Twilight Zone.
Not comprehending what was happening, Riley responded with more love and affection and took my movement as a playful move. That vicious cycle continued and the obvious conclusion was that the dog was trying to eat my head. It made perfect sense in my low-blood-sugar-world.
So there we were. Eventually, a natural blood sugar elevation pulled me out of it enough to realize what was happening and I managed to find sugar (in the form of a Poptart). Recovery, and the wife's phone call. And so on, and so on.
At least this time there weren't any paramedics needed at the scene.
But this was different. I was convinced she was out to get me, and my attempts to flee the devouring dog's reaches weren't successful. I was stuck in some weird sci-fi flick, at least temporarily, and it seemed as though I was that token figure who was running but moving at a snail's pace.Recalling this scene during a morning phone call from my wife later on, it might have seemed somewhat odd to hear these words of explanation: "The dog was trying to eat my head."
Yes, this was indeed the result of a morning low before work. The wife had left early for her job, and the all-important duty of pulling myself out of bed for a shower before work fell solely upon me. It's a monumental task on most any morning, but this was far from one full of normality.
At some point in the early morning hours, my sugar levels had plummetted. I probably was twisting and turning while still asleep, likely mumbling and tossing about in bed. Being out of her bed, Riley likely thought this meant Daddy was ready to devote attention her way. She came to investigate.
Seeing movement, she took that as an invitation to jump onto the bed to say, "Good Morning!"
My reaction: not the welcome she expected.
Seeing a big black figure with a curious wet nose nearing my face, I likely recoiled and tried to push her away. The hypoglycemia added that ever-so-eventful twist that turns reality into some sci-fi episode of the Diabetic Twilight Zone.
Not comprehending what was happening, Riley responded with more love and affection and took my movement as a playful move. That vicious cycle continued and the obvious conclusion was that the dog was trying to eat my head. It made perfect sense in my low-blood-sugar-world.
So there we were. Eventually, a natural blood sugar elevation pulled me out of it enough to realize what was happening and I managed to find sugar (in the form of a Poptart). Recovery, and the wife's phone call. And so on, and so on.
At least this time there weren't any paramedics needed at the scene.
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