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2:40 a.m. - 2002-01-11
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(taken from an earlier livejournal entry)

the sunlight was illuminating the dust and cat hair floating around my room at around 11:30 this morning. this is the perfect time to see all the lone particles swirling, actually. the sun hasn't risen so high as to bleach the room completely; the individual rays (and all that are caught in their paths) are still clearly defined, with a vauge, comforting buttercup hue.

this isn't unusual, of course; i am sure it happens every morning around that time. the only part that was unusual was that i was awake to note the phenomenon.

bone (the most vocal and paranoid of all our dogs) was steadily pressing a barrage of yelps towards the front door. i was slow waking (i had gone to bed around 5:30 earlier that morning), and the barking was ringing through my eardrums as if he had been protesting for hours straight. rosie and tom (the other two canines) chimed in on occasion; tom's excited yipping (he is a big dog, and big dogs don't usually 'yip') got me understanding that this was genuine. then the doorbell rang, inciting a fresh round of ear-splitting howls. as i slipped out from under the covers, i heard brett (a long-time family friend) yell, 'sara!'. then, a little fainter (i suppose he was moving towards the front porch bay window), 'michele!'.

i clambered down the stairs, moving towards the kitchen to grab the keys to the deadbolt. when i turned the corner into the foyer, i could see my mom slumping in my chair at the breakfast table. at first, i thought she was napping, but as got closer, i could see her feet, neatly tucked (one under the other), peeking around the corner of the chair. when i stood next to her, she was shaking sporadically, staring out at the piles of white ice melting into the brown landscape. she had the phone pressed slightly against her ear, but i was pretty sure there was no one on the other end. it was as if someone told her to hold the phone there for as long as she could.

she didn't notice me standing next to her, or the constant clamor jarring the front door. i could see her hair matted back with sweat; her upper lip had formed small clusters of clear beads.

i imagine this description must be a bit frightening to some folks, especially if you are close to your mother (or father). maybe it isn't a threat to the closeness so much as it is (a threat) to the universal recognition of your parents as being the 'authority'. the ones who set the limits and dole out the praise; the ones who care for you, not the other way around. i have encountered this type of situation several times before, though it doesn't mean it gets any easier... for a split second, every time, i think maybe something is really wrong. like maybe she is dying.

to explain: my mother is a type one juvenile diabetic. she is lucky, in a warped sense. diabetics are lacking the pancreatic function of processing sugar, and their bodies do not produce insulin. when one has an 'insulin reaction' (think shelby at the hair salon in 'steel magnolias'), it means their blood sugar is way too low. the last time the paramedics visited, my mother had a blood sugar count of 2. if the EMT team had not been called, she would have been in a coma that was possibly irreverisble by the morning. lucky for us i am a night owl, because she fell out of her bed at around 4:30AM.

anyhow, back to the lucky part. insulin reactions are not what kills diabetics, except in extreme circumstances. the opposite of low blood sugar is high blood sugar... when you do not have enough (or sometimes any) insulin in your body. this can lead to blindness, organ (kidney, liver and heart) failure, amputation of limbs... that kind of thing. my mother is prone to insulin reactions, not high blood sugar incidences.

but i'll tell you what: there is still the double mind-fuck factor to contend with. for her, it is like a bad trip nightmare that she cannot resuscitate herself from; for me, it is horrifying looking into her huge brown eyes and seeing no recognition save a small, frustrated glimmer. when i was younger, (elementary, middle, and high school) i would panic because, on occasion, my mother has no idea who i was. her behavior can be erratic, violent, keening. sometimes (like this morning) she can be innocent, unaware. and sometimes strangely comical (like the time she showed the entire rescue squad her delight that she was, in fact, wearing purple underwear :).

so this morning i was asking her (loudly and slowly) if she heard the doorbell. blank look, check. sweating and clammy, check. face contorting in slow motion, check. i headed for the door to let a slightly freaked brett in, and grabbed a two liter of pepsi out of the fridge. brett was on the phone with her this morning, when all of the sudden she started responding with a dazed 'okay' to everything he said. he drove over, guessing what was occuring.

luckily, we had caught it early on, and though the rescue squad arrived dutifully with their stretcher (brett insisted we call; he has never been there for a full fledged reaction, and the waiting period before the gradual descent to normality was too much for him to take, i guess), but they didn't have to IV her. i knew the paramedics didn't need to be there, but at the same time, i was glad. my mother insists there is nothing she can do about the reactions, but i think double checking at the doctor's office (to perhaps change the dosage of her insulin injections) would be wise.

after all, it wasn't two months ago that the familiar firetruck/ambulance combination was pulled up beside our driveway. maybe the reality of sirens and strange blue clad men and women in our living room will prompt her to make that appointment.

she could be right, though. and that's what scares me the most. there could be jack shit to be done. one of these evenings, i will tell her i love her as she walks up the stairs with the pre-requisite rosie the dog and oscar myer cheese hot dog in tow. i will follow shortly thereafter, think of paper topics, perhaps, or absentmindedly replaying an innocent finger brushing with a boy i have an interest in. i know this, though: i will be proud of myself for hitting the sack before the clock can strike three. and on that night, my mother will fall out of her bed, only i won't hear it. she will roll, and shake, and claw towards the glass of pepsi that is always by the bed, only it will have shattered when she slammed into the table on her way down. she will cut her hands, she will be frantic in strange underwater movements. then it will subside, and so will she. and when i get up the next morning, my sister cate will be furrowed contently under her blankets, and rosie will be scratching at the door of my mother's bedroom. i will open that door, and i will start screaming.

of course, this will hopefully never happen. but if my mother is right, it is a tiny possibility. and this scares me more than anything i have ever read, or seen, or felt. or even imagined.

having written it all down, it seems to be firmly implanted in the world of ficticious imaginings. that is one of the things i love most about writing. give it life on the page, and you can control it, somehow. make it more, make it less. make it easier to sleep tonight.

 

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