Close Call

This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction.160-06-june-12th-2016

I knew she was in trouble. The sheets were sweat-soaked; her forehead was clammy and her face felt hot to my touch. She was not moving.

We kept the glucose tester near the bed stand as we did every night for the past few years. I knew how to use it. Her sugar level was 42. Not good. Not good at all. I knew the range by heart. She was almost in a diabetic coma.

The digital clock informed me the time was 4:12 a.m. Even at this hour I was aware to awaken her slowly from her unconsciousness.

With dull eyes she looked at the ceiling. “There are three of them. They are here for me.” She started to scream. Very loudly she screamed while pointing at the ceiling light. “Help me.”

In my near hysteric state I still remember some basic things we had practiced for such an event. The orange juice; get the damn orange juice and make her drink some. And candy bars. Milky ways! Her favorite.

Taking the drink she seemed to recognize me.

I checked her sugar level again and it was up to 56. It was working!




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