[stylist] Sharing writing- Nonfiction: Diabetic insulin reaction

[Applebutter Hill]

Bridgit,
Very gripping. Your imagery is wonderful and powerful. I have never read
anything about this experience that was so thorough, so beautifully written
and so scary.
Donna

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Bridgit
Pollpeter
Sent: Monday, March 17, 2014 8:23 PM
To: newmanrl at cox.net; 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: [stylist] Sharing writing- Nonfiction: Diabetic insulin reaction

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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