[stylist] Sharing writing- Nonfiction: Diabetic insulin reaction

[William L Houts]

HI Bridgit,

This is very good, but then I hardly expect otherwise from you even 
after such a short acquaintance.  I do have just a couple of criticisms, 
though, and they're not very severe.  First of all, comparing your 
flailing hands to goldfish out of water seems mildly comical to me, and 
I'm not sure why.  It's kind of a standup comic thing, I guess, talking 
about the poor goldfish. The other thing which struck me as slightly off 
the right tone was your references to your father's "muscular 
physique".  Now, I'm sure that kids notice when dear Dad is powerfully 
built and so on, but those particular words carry for me a slightly 
porny feel not quite appropriate to a small child.

And that's really it.  The rest of it,, Bridgit,  is chilling, and it is 
so because this terrible experience of yours is deftly described. It's 
well worth theread, and I can imagine it as a set piece within some 
autobiographical novel or something.  Really fine work.


--Bill







On 3/17/2014 5:23 PM, Bridgit Pollpeter wrote:
> This is a piece I wrote for the Live Well blog a few years ago, but I've
> continued to revise and edit it. Still working on something fresh, but
> will share this while I continue toiling on new material.
>
>
> The view from the window leaves a captured image in my memory. Bronzed
> foliage contrast with periwinkle sky. Clouds dot the horizon like
> unpainted spots of canvas. The trees and sky are all I remember though I
> know the window also contains a side view of our neighbor's house, the
> green swing set, holding years of memories, and the emerald, gold and
> russet patchwork quilting Nebraska autumn lawns.
>
> This picture of autumn serenity is marred as the sky crashes down on top
> of me.
>
> Panic twist about my awareness like a spiderweb. My breathing is short
> and ragged, catching in my chest, held back by some invisible force. I
> feel the twitching seizure begin, clawing at my body.
>
> A pulsing erupts in my belly like a punch delivered from inside. Panic
> now takes me under, leaving me terrified, knowing I have no control over
> what is happening-what is still yet to happen.
>
> I scream for my mom-I will scream her name each time for the next twenty
> years until I meet my husband. "No, no, no, no," I chant to myself, a
> supplication never answered, as I slip into a diabetic insulin reaction.
>
> I can feel a chill coursing through my veins, a chill anchoring my being
> where I stand. Sweat glides along the vertical topography of my
> nine-year-old body, and I know it's too late.
>
> My hands twitch like two goldfish too long out of water. My brain seems
> to jerk independent of my head, like a pinball ricocheting in random
> patterns. Tears join the rivers of cold sweat as my slim limbs jerkily
> collide with the floor. My trained dancer's body does not understand the
> combinations of twitching controlling my arms and legs and torso.
>
> "Mommy!"  This is all I say before screaming erases the defined edges
> between articulation and wild animal sounds.
>
> The world around me is a quiet whisper as my consciousness is ripped in
> two. Like an angel guarding its charge, I look down, watching the scene
> unfold.
>
> My mom cradles me in her lap as I struggle to reconcile the images in
> front of me. I still see the autumn sky in its blue brilliance, but a
> proscenium stage is now stamped in the forefront.
>
> An audience of one endures the nightmare performance repeating
> incessantly before me. Screams punctuate each scene, and my fists and
> feet curl into balls. Aware of reality and fiction, I have no control.
>
> Years later, I'll learn people have similar experiences while on
> hallucigenic drugs-I'll wonder why anyone willingly puts themselves
> through this.
>
> "Brooky, get the sugar jar then get Daddy- he's outside in the garage."
> Mom assign's duties like checking off from a chart. Her calmness
> permeates my panicked thoughts, but I'm not able to control my body, my
> mind-now my memory.
>
> "Bridgey, its okay. Brooky, hurry!"  Even in this state, I hear her
> voice catch. "Bruce, in here!"  Mom directs Dad as he rushes into the
> house.
>
> Running from the front door, he wipes sweat from his swarthy face.
>
> Awell-oiled routine, Dad holds my head and body, prying my tiny mouth
> open-my twitching body a challenge for his muscled physique. I can't
> stop screaming as Mom spoons sugar into my opened mouth.
>
> "Brooky, I need you to get the Glucogon."  Mom's voice is steady, but
> still a frenzied, frantic  tone hides behind her words. "It's okay
> Bridgey," she repeats to my twitching body accompanied by grisly
> screams. "Bruce--"  her voice a wimper contrasting with her expertly
> maneuvered actions.
>
> A momentary thought flits in and out of the terror seizing my mind; is
> my seven-year-old sister scared?  Does Brook understand what's
> happening?  I'm worried for her and our brother just beginning to toddle
> around. We never speak about this-we never will.
>
> A wave washes these imprints away, drowning me in panic.
>
> A ghost haunting ancestral remains, I can feel them-I can hear them-I
> can see them, but they can't see what I can-we can't communicate. The
> world imprisoning me is misted with phantoms weaving in and out of
> reality. My mind continues to churn out a never-ending performance of
> fear. Captive in my own body-my own mind, I'm unaware of the large
> needle puncturing my arm.
>
> As quickly as the sky crashed down, it lifts off my chest.
>
> A sluggish warmth replaces the chill marbling my skin purple. The
> terrifying performers recede into the black depths of my mind. I float
> gently down, feeling a blanket embrace my now still limbs, whole once
> again. My vision fuzzes like a Monet painting until a brief slumber
> leaves me in peaceful repose.
>
> The Glucogon has done its job as the clock ticks minutes by, but it
> feels like hours. Waking from deep, black  solitude, my mom calls my
> name, her voice muted. Distant and foreign, she calls me back to a
> bright, sharp reality.
>
> My long light brown hair sticks to my neck and the sides of my face. A
> grainy, sticky substance has stiffened leaving my neck in a solid
> encasement. It's the sugar dumped down my throat, an attempt to stave
> off this nightmare.
>
> Shivering again from sweat-soaked clothes, I come to, aware only of what
> is tangible, real. Mom and Dad hover above me, two faces surrounded by
> the mid-morning sun light beaming in from the window.
>
> "Bridgey, are you okay?"  Mom smoothes my hair back. "Let's get you
> something solid to eat, then a bath."  She smiles as Dad props me into a
> sitting position.
>
> "You okay, sweetie?"  Dad rubs my back, his large, strong hand circling
> my boney frame.
>
> Contained worry lingers in the back of their eyes. They're checking me,
> searching for injuries caused by the seizures, ensuring themselves I'm
> fully awake. This is one of the few times I'll ever be aware of the
> hidden concern they share for their diabetic daughter.
>
> Acquiescing with a nod of my head, responding to their question, trying
> to comfort myself as much as them, I wonder when my next insulin
> reaction will happen.
>
> Bridgit P
>
>
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"Let's drink a toast now to who we really are."

           --Jane Siberry