OK, is it just me or does hypoglycemia sound like the name of some ancient Roman Goddess??? Of say, stupidity. Or self inflicted injury. Or perhaps something akin to brain death. But I digress...
So, picture this: 7:15AM this morning, me bounding (shuffling) out of bed to go pee. Now picture my last half a nano-second of consciousness as I go "Hey, I'm kind of dizzy." Then picture me flat on my back, half in the bathroom and half in the hall way, covered in blood (as well as the doorway, the wall and the carpet), completely incoherent, slightly convulsing, frothing at the mouth a bit with Sea Squirt kneeling over me going "Oh, shit! You're gonna need stitches." Oh, yeah.... add on buck naked and still peeing. About the only thing this scenario was missing was a WalMart shopping bag, a bit of "chew" and a couple of missing teeth. Needless to say it was NOT a pretty sight. As I have oft times said, if you're gonna hit the pavement like a turd from a tall cow's ass at least have the good sense to do it with a bit of style and grace. Did I hit the pavement? Hell, yes. Did I do it with any sense of style and grace what so ever? Hell, no!!!
Sea Squirt finally managed to get me pseudo upright (I admire his courage) and I saw myself in the mirror. I'm bleeding profusely from several head wounds, I'm missing a patch of skin on my right elbow big enough to reupholster a cantaloupe with, my eyes don't match, I'm sweating like a glass of ice tea in August and I'm the color of a piece of typing paper. And I'm not only mumbling but I'm actually asking him who I am. Again, not pretty. And then he asks me "Are you OK?"
It's 7:17 AM, I'm covered in blood and my own urine, I've taken out a towel rack, I've knocked a picture of a Mexican drag queen off the wall, I look like the wrong end of a bludgeoning in an alley in Hanoi and you're telling me that I'm going to need stitches. WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK KIND OF A SHITHEAD QUESTION IS THAT???? No, honey, all is right with world. BTW, when you're done getting me my cup of coffee would you mind calling 911???
Oh, just fuck me to tears...
About 20 minutes later I finally stopped bleeding. Well, sort of. I'd managed to bleed through two towels, the front of me, the side of me, the back of me, a puddle under my ass was well on it's way to coagulating and I had a blood clot in my hair about the size of an avocado. I was well down the road to dehydration and starting to crave popsicles. And vodka. As well as Vicodin. Not necessarily in that order either.
Somehow, Sea Squirt was able to get a cup of coffee, half a dozen cookies and a cheese Danish into me so I was at least regaining my ability to communicate in complete sentences (kind of) again. After he counted my teeth and checked to see that my pupils were both of matching size he asked me what had happened. As I recall, my response was something to effect of "Grynispsle mo mo este mui mucho mas. Duarte.". At this point that still makes no sense to me but apparently at the time it at least let Sea Squirt know that I was still in there somewhere.
I spent the rest of the day in a bathrobe and bandaids (fuck that stitches shit, I'm a butch little motherfucker!!!) never wandering far from popsicles, vodka and the "occasional" non-prescription prescribed narcotic pain killer (what can I say, Pablo Escobar ain't got nothing on me!!!). Hypoglycemia sucks rocks!!! Especially for a sugar junkie like me. I've been this way my whole life. I was officially diagnosed with it in 1988 when I had an "episode" (I HATE that term) while I was sitting in a doctor's office and actually melted and flowed off of the exam table and puddled onto the floor like yesterdays gravy. A gallon of IV-push glucose later I was fine. I freaked the shit out of that doctor.
What can I say, I have the pancreas a diabetic would sell their soul for. I'm considering subdividing mine and selling it off in lots on eBay to the highest bidders. What ya got dude? Time shares? T-bills?? Blue chips??? How about a watch wiz a beautiful Swiss movement????
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