[stylist] Sharing writing- Nonfiction: Diabetic insulin reaction

Fri Mar 21 03:50:12 UTC 2014

Thanks.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of
Applebutter Hill
Sent: Thursday, March 20, 2014 9:30 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: Re: [stylist] Sharing writing- Nonfiction: Diabetic insulin
reaction

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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