Saturday morning I was dreaming. Or I thought I was, because everything had a shifting, surreal quality about where ordinary objects become looming and shinning.
I dreamed about cans of diet coke, insulin pens, waffles, Kurt's brown eyes, phones, thorns, the covers on my bed, drums, birds, and more diet coke. Finally, I was more or less awake. Kurt told me it was 1:15pm
I had the alarm set for 10am. He told me I turned if off. And then we had sex. And he made me breakfast in bed, which I ate, but I had trouble opening a can of diet coke.
All I could do was stare. I was not aware of any of it. How could I be unaware of what I was doing for over three hours?
Three hours of low sugar. And he didn't notice anything was wrong with me.
He said I was a little 'out of it' but I could talk and answer questions. Kurt thought I was just sleepy.
Then I had ANOTHER surge of panic when he said he gave me my insulin pen, but I wouldn't take a shot. Are you sure? Are you really, really sure I didn't take insulin? Because if I already took it and I take it again I will die.
We searched my body for needle marks and found no recent ones. We checked my sugar which was about right for the two waffles I didn't remember eating. I studied the pen carefully and discovered the level hadn't moved since the day before.
All weekend, I've wondered how much of my life runs on auto pilot. How much do I really dream? Kurt swears I never got out of bed, but what if I do sometimes? Where would I go? Could I drive? Does every one assume I'm on drugs or, like Kurt, does no one notice when I am on the verge of death?