7:01

My eyes struggled to open against the gage of gravity and a glucose level diving into the depths of darkness. Lying prone on the floor next to my bed (how did I get here?) I managed to lift my head, my arms, to the mattress, my body entirely soaked with my own sweat. Confusion overtook any semblance of rational thought as I stared blankly at my clock-radio announcing the time at 7:01.

It was a restless, fitful sleep last night, filled with nightmares and tossed blankets. I recall the emergence of perspiration on my chest and forehead, a sure sign of low blood sugar, but I could not awaken from my semi-conscious situation. Normally, the first sign of a cold sweat triggers an automatic response in me to down a glass of juice and perhaps a small bite to eat to balance my glucose reading at a normal level. No such luck this time. I was in la-la land. I could not have been more goofed up if I were taking goofballs.

What seemed like an hour had passed as I looked up again at the clock-radio only to visualize a translucent green 7:03 beaming at my worn eyes. Every second seemed an eternity. The earth was slowing to a standstill while I labored to stand on my own two feet. Easier said than done--it was not going to happen. All the strength in my legs disappeared along with the movement of time. My legs could not have been less useful if they were gangrenous, a back-of-the-mind horror show imbedded in every diabetic’s fertile mind. I hesitate to say I was snakelike or wormlike, though neither would be far from the truth--I was more like a snail, slow and unawares.

It kicked in--finally. I needed juice, something sweet--a piece of hard candy, a coke, one of my special glucose pills that are easily digested and come in grape or orange. . . . Something.

I tried to pronounce the word juice. “Ju . . . .” “Ju . . .” “Juuuuizzze.” My mouth was barely responding to what was left of my brain. But at 7:07, the minutes feeling like years in exile, the answer to my problem was on the nightstand next to my bed: a handy bottle of Welch’s Grape Juice--a safety valve put in place by myself after an earlier episode of wandering the floor in a cosmic haze.

Legless and lumbering, I lurched for the juice on the nightstand and grabbed a little life force with my hands. Would I have the strength to open the bottle? I remembered how I once strained to open a can of juice in a similar situation. The will to survive was barely stronger than the can. And so, too, my wrists were strong enough to twist the cap off the stubborn bottle and I gulped the sweet squeezed concord grapes till the bottle was empty. And I lay on the floor until my arms could crawl me back onto my bed, teeth a-chattering, shivering in my own drenched clothing.