I Survived CVS and All I Got Was This Box of Needles

This week I find myself increasingly in wonder over the fact that with all of this stress my blood sugar levels have managed to not fly through the roof. This post is designed to be a well-needed breather from amidst the depths of my hectic last week in Florida.

My pre-moving to-do list is about 5 pages long and about every bit as complicated as it sounds. Truck maintenance, ordering party supplies for work, completing my college shopping list, errands up the yin-yang...

Seriously, when I first got on Summer Break I thought it was about the greatest thing ever to be able to spend the whole day to myself just running around, doing errands instead of doing tests and essays for school. I thought exactly that: "Wow, this is great! No school, no essays, no nothing. It's so nice to just be able to spend a day with myself, running around. OMG I'm a graduate. Life can't get much better than this. I wish that I could do this more often."
Let me just take this paragraph to say that I no longer feel this way and that if I have to spend another day of doing errands that I will most likely take a nosedive off of the closest multistory building I can find, since Florida couldn't be bothered to have some actual mountains.

On top of that, I've come to the marvelous conclusion that when people actually manage to get things done on time, it makes things run oh-so much more smoothly. Conversely, when people do not get things done on time, it  makes things get very messed up and needlessly SEVERAL TIMES MORE COMPLICATED.

Proven:
Last week I went into CVS to get my prescription from my Endo filled. 200 test strips, 100 needles, a package of Ketostix, 100 lancets, 2 Lantus Insulin pens, and 2 Novolog Pens. Simple enough, right? Wrong. Turns out the people at my CVS are "special people".

Enter Lacy into CVS: "Hi, I've never done this before. I'm dropping off a prescription."
Lady glances at me. Smiles harmlessly, giving no indication of the nightmare soon to follow. "Your name?"
I figured I'd spell it out to make it easy, even though my name is not a difficult name to spell.
"L-A-C-Y-B-A-L-L."
Confused look from Pharmacist woman.
"Ball is part of your first name? What's your last?"
Hmm. Lacyball. Nope. Not really feeling it.
I shake my head.
"No, Ball is my last name. Lacy is my first."
"Ok. And your insurance?"
"I don't have insurance. Do you take Medicaid?"
"Of course. Is it an HMO or just straight Medicaid?"
"Just straight Medicaid. Here's the card. Do you know what the Co-Pay is?"
"Umm... I don't know. When do you want to pick this prescription up?" She asks, handing me back my card.
I shrug. CVS is 5 minutes down the street. "That depends. When can I pick this prescription up?"
"Is 2 p.m. ok? I'll call you."
"Sure." I said. I didn't realize it was so fast, and I felt rather pleased. Was it really this easy?"

No. I should have taken a hint when I never received a phone call.

"They won't call you," Mom says. "Just go in and pick it up."
So the next day I head into CVS to pick up my prescription.
"Here's everything, but we're waiting on a confirmation for the Novolog and the Ketostix are on hold."
Okay, no problem. Lovely.
"Thanks," I say. "The Co-Pay is what?" "There is no Co-Pay," The pharmacist says. I felt guilty, letting taxpayers foot the bill for my pricey medications. But I knew I'd contribute to society and not always be a worthless College Student. Someday. So I am pleasantly surprised as I leave CVS.

The next day I go in to check and see if I can get my Novolog. It is, after all, Insulin, and thus essential to life.
The pharmacist greets me. "Hi, are you picking up a prescription?"
"Hopefully. I came in Yesterday. Well, and the day before. Is the Novolog in?"
The pharmacist checks. "Nooo... still in hold."
"Err, okay. So what do I do to get it off hold?"
"Umm, I don't know. We're just waiting for the Doctor to approve it with Medicaid."
"Do you know how long that will take?"
The pharmacist shrugs. "I'm not sure, m'am."

This scenario continues all throughout the week. And all throughout this week. Now I have been to CVS so many times that the pharmacists all greet and address me by name. They ask me when I am going to start working there. I blush as I tell them, "I've been in here so much, you probably think I'm a Druggie!"

But even though I deserve a gold star for perfect attendance, still no luck with the Novolog. I went back to the Endo for my appointment yesterday and we figured out, apparently my HMO (once approved) will cover Novolog, but straight Medicaid won't cover it. It covers Humalog, which is basically the same insulin, just a different brand. Tomato, Tomoto. My Endo comes back into the Doctor's room with a bag full of samples for me to tide me over. I felt like a little kid at Christmas. My mom thinks it's weird that I get excited about new Diabetes supplies, but the other Diabetic Doctor Ladies at the office swear they get the same way. Then she switched my prescription to Humalog pens, and gave me another prescription for 300 pen needles, since, using about 4-5 a day, I go through 100 fast. My new nifty Humalog pen actually looks like a nice, really fancy and expensive pen (accurate enough, seeing as insulin does cost a not-so-small fortune), and it takes refillable pen cartridges instead of being disposable.

So I take my new prescription back to CVS, blushing a little again that I am back for the eleventy-first time this week. The pharmacist reassures me that my prescription will be ready in one hour, and naively I believe that my insulin problem is solved. They also just then take the time to tell me that Medicaid doesn't cover my Novolog. As much as I am flattered that they clearly preferred my company instead, Y'think they could have told me that sooner, before I became BFF's with all the pharmacists?
Time passes. The problem is not solved. An hour later I get a call that CVS needs a prior-authorization for the pen needles because I can only get 100 a month, apparently (hardly enough), and that the Humalog has to be ordered and won't be in until tomorrow. So today I come in, expecting my prescription, and run into yet another problem. Prior-authorization has not been done yet, so no pen needles, and apparently, according to the pharmacist, "Humalog doesn't make penfills anymore. They only have the vials. But that's not a problem because you use the pump, right?" I glance it her. Politely I say (because I've really grown quite fond of this particular pharmacist lady, and I feel we have now worked our way up to casual conversations) "No, I do not use the pump. I have to shoot myself up over 5 times a day. Syringes are very inconvenient. Now I don't think that Humalog discontinued the pen... my Endo just gave me one with several refills yesterday." We both lean over the counter to chat. "Anyways, I think they just discontinued it," The Pharmacist Lady says. "But I'll call the Doctor and then call you back." I look at her speculatively. "I promise," she says, as if reading my mind.

Well, after 5 calls from CVS (some one minute apart), and several calls from my Endo, the prognosis is this: The people at this CVS are special people, The Endo argued that Humalog did not discontinue the pen and refused to believe CVS, CVS argued that Humalog did discontinue the pen and refused to believe the Endo, Humalog did not discontinue the pen prescribed to me, the Humalog Rep had to call up CVS to tell them this, the prior-authorization form did finally go through and is awaiting Tallahassee approval and, well, I'm not quite sure if I'm getting my insulin sometime soon or not. Most likely not before I go to Georgia, so luckily I have enough samples to last me. Seeing as once I get to Georgia I'll have a whole new batch of worries to bother about when I have to apply for Georgia Medicaid, find a new Endo, and transfer all of my prescriptions to a pharmacy there...

And all of this trouble over a bunch of needles!

So that has been my past few days/two weeks at a glance. Stay tuned for more drama, excitement, and insulin as I prepare to bid "Adieu" to Florida and maintain my sanity until then.

Disclaimer: No, Not Low - Just Annoyed!

Herm... lately I have been hearing a lot of debate over whether or not Type 1 Diabetes should be considered a disability.

Well, I don't know what the general consensus is, but here's my opinion:

yes.

I think that diabetes should be considered a disability, absolutely.

This might sound weird, I know. Why would I actually WANT to have an illness that is considered a disability?
Honestly, it has nothing to do with being angry about having diabetes or feeling sorry for myself. Nor is it a matter of pride.
I'm not saying it because I hope to get special treatment, or perks for having a serious - or at least potentially serious - medical condition.

It's just, what irks me is that many people would write off diabetes type 1 as a non-disability out of ignorance.
Out of this ignorance they have no idea what Type 1 diabetics have to go through on a daily basis, the complications that can inevitably arise simply for having diabetes, and the consequences of what would happen if diabetes was not treated properly. Diabetes is a lifelong condition, and it does have restrictions. I cannot enter the services, I cannot drive a public bus, and there are some careers that I would be restricted from entering or would not be suitable for me to pursue. I need to take breaks from my schedule to check my blood sugar, eat, give insulin injections, etc.

Doctors honestly don't know why a person gets Type 1 - but it is generally agreed that it is not because of lifestyle, as is usually the case with Type II. Yet Diabetics type 1 are pooled with the high-risk groups in insurance companies as if it were a punishment; as if it WERE their fault that they got Type 1. This is ridiculous! Type 1 diabetics can help becoming diabetic no more than cancer patients can help getting cancer. (Note: I'm drawing a line between getting cancer and sitting in a tanning bed every day.) I understand, yes, insurance companies are a business, and it isn't very good business sense to insure a diabetic. But charging me three times as much as a normal person? That's not even reasonable. That's more than it would cost to buy the insulin myself from Canada. Really?

Back to disabilities.

A disability is defined in the dictionary as:

a. The condition of being disabled; incapacity. Something that disables; handicap.
b. Something that hinders or incapacitates.
c. A disadvantage or deficiency, especially a physical or mental impairment that interferes with or prevents normal achievement in a particular area.
4. The condition of being unable to perform a task or function because of a physical or mental impairment

Diabetes is typically not considered a disability. This is understandable; with insulin, diabetics can pretty much function like normal.

But let's face it - Diabetic Type 1's are COMPLETELY insulin-dependent. Insulin is NOT a cure, it is only a treatment. But without it a diabetic type 1 will die. As of now there is no cure for diabetes - there may never be.

A pancreas that does not function is quite the disadvantage, isn't it? Isn't it a deficiency? A vital organ in me is not working properly, if it is even working at all any more.

When I was lying on my bed sick, throwing up every few minutes, unable to keep any food or drinks down, I felt pretty disabled. When I passed out on the floor and had no strength to get up and get back to bed, I was pretty incapacitated. When my legs were turning blue and I had lost so much weight that you could see my ribs, my elbows, my hip bones, when I looked emaciated - that wasn't normal. When I was going into a coma and dying because my blood sugar levels were through the roof, I was restricted from doing much of anything. And you know what? That could happen again, any day, if I were not to take my insulin.

Without insulin, I have a condition that renders me unable to eat without killing myself - unable to perform a task or function because of a physical impairment. A faulty pancreas is, indeed, something that disables, since it will kill you if it goes untreated.

Granted, there is no infallible test to determine disability. There is no golden standard. However, an individual is considered to have a disability if it significantly limits one or more of an individual's major life activity. People tell me diabetes doesn't limit me - well, I'm not trying to gain sympathy or pity for saying this, but it does. Diabetes does limit me - or has the potential to limit me - in several major life activities. Without insulin, I could do nothing.

Life is usually like normal for me, as long as I remember to bring my little cooler of insulin with me wherever I go, and make sure I never forget it. That little cooler with JDRF (Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation) printed on the side is like a constant reminder of what I now have to live with, telling me, "Hey, remember me? Yeah, I'm your diabetes. Don't eat too many carbs or I might have to kill you. P.S. don't forget to take your insulin injection. Have a nice day!"

Insulin is like the diabetic's version of the wheelchair, and without it we are paralyzed. I think if you are so dependent upon something that you need it to function in normal life and you need it to live, that that's quite a disability.

Perhaps what I'm asking for is simply a little more respect from people and places like insurance companies for what I have. I wish people would stop treating diabetes like it was something that deserved a punishment because it was my fault for getting it. I wish people wouldn't stereotype diabetics, I'd love it if people became more educated before opening their mouths and saying un-educated things.
For some reason lately, this subject has just seemed to rile me up. That's all.


What are your opinions? Do you think that diabetes should be considered a disability, or no? I won't be offended if you disagree or completely bash my opinions - it's expected, I am perfectly capable of agreeing to disagree. So please, feel free to leave your thoughts - simply be respectful when you do. I'd love to hear them all. Thanks!

Fear.

Fear and I are well-acquainted with each other.

There are many things I fear.

I fear spiders. Watching scary movies alone at night. I fear tornadoes. Failure. Car accidents. I fear being alone.

We could spend our whole lives consumed, developed by fear.

We could try and lead safe, secure, scheduled lives, all in hopes of avoiding our worst and deepest fears.

We could avoid jumping all together, never risking the fall that is the potential cost of even the seemingly most simple of things.

But fear won't do.

Fear won't save your life; it will take it from you.

Fear, if you let it envelop you, could take hold of you completely.

What we have to fear is, indeed, fear itself.

I will admit that I am scared, sometimes, ever since I found out that I had this disease.

I read so many stories, hear so many things.

People who go to bed fine and never wake up; their bodies simply give up on them, despite all of the care, despite the precautions and cautious careful monitoring of blood sugar levels.

People whose hearts give out on them, people who pass out because of low blood sugar or go into a coma.

Like I know I very well should have a week and a half ago when my blood sugar levels were over 900 and I was mere inches away from death.

I know there are horror stories like this associated with nearly everything, but it's hard to just ignore them when you are faced with the fact that they ARE still a possibility when you have a health condition like mine.

I am scared I will never live a long life, that I will never be able to manage diabetes, that no matter what I do, it will never be enough.

I am scared that it will beat me, that I will not win.

I am scared that I will never be able to afford insulin or the price it takes to keep me alive.

I am less than 6 months from 18.

I will no longer be a child, but an adult.

This isn't a good thing in the health care industry.

I have bad eyes, my back has been fractured, and I have Type 1 Diabetes.

I have no health insurance, and let's face it, even if I applied for health insurance: what health care company would take me? I would be pooled into the high-risk group and most likely face sky-high premiums simply because I have a disease I never intended to get.

It's not unfair, it's business. If I were a health coverage provider, I wouldn't take me either. Because let's face this: I am a bad investment.

No matter how healthy I may be able to make myself be, I will never be as healthy as the majority of you reading this.

And it terrifies me.

I can't even afford college, let alone the hundreds of dollars a month insulin or doctor's visits will cost.

I've applied for Medicaid, though I have always hated entitlements and preached against them. That tears me up inside and makes me feel more awful than you can imagine, to have to be dependent on the Government like that.

It gives me a sinking feeling in my chest, makes me feel hopeless and lost.

Dear God, I feel like such a hypocrite, talking about how much I hate big government and all that we should provide for ourselves;

Yet if it weren't for Medicaid, I could be dead next month.

Medicaid, which faces cuts now that we are facing sky-high budget deficits.

I don't even know how to feel about cutting it now.

Sometimes I don't even know how I should feel anymore.

My life is now full of fear, full of uncertainty.

I couldn't tell you what I might expect in the weeks, the months, the years to come; I don't even know what to expect tomorrow.

I can only take one thing at a time. I must not let fear grab ahold of me.

I can only commit my fears to God and take comfort in the fact that he will provide for me. I am so scared. I am learning what it truly means to be deprived and helpless and be forced to depend on God.

Somehow, despite my fears, I know that will be enough for me.

The Beginning.

Warning: This post is a very detail-heavy description of my going into diabetic ketoacidosis (then unbeknown to me.) I'm just letting you know so that you can read at your own discretion.


---


This is the beginning of my new life.

My life with Type 1 Diabetes.
And I hate it.

Last Friday was prom. It was a wonderful night. I'd never felt so beautiful. I had a gorgeous red mermaid dress, my hair was curled, I did my makeup all nice, and I just felt all around lovely. We got there and it was so nice to see everyone. The Seniors went to Macaroni Grill, we took tons of pictures, laughed and smiled and the girls exclaimed how beautiful everyone was. We got to prom at the beautiful Longwood Community Center. But something felt different this year. I'd get up to dance, but... I just... wasn't feeling it. I'd go through the motions, have fun, move around, but my mind and my body seemed like two disconnected entities. And I just felt like I lacked the energy to do much of anything. It was so strange. I hate to go to dances and just sit. But I must have ended up sitting for the better half of the dance. The food looked so great; cookies, cheesecake, ice cream, fruit, punch. I would love to eat it now. But I found I had no appetite. No desire to eat, no desire to dance. And I was so thirsty... I must have downed about 10 bottles of water, and that's not an exaggeration.

I got back to my friend, Kaitlin's house afterwards, and didn't even have the energy to unpin my hair or take off my makeup. I felt ill but figured I'd be fine in the morning, if I just got some sleep. A few glasses of water later I collapsed into bed and was out like a lamp.

The next morning I woke up feeling the same; ill. But even worse so. I got up and nursed some water, then sat on the couch and just... well, sat. Staring out the window, breathing slowly, deeply. Sure I'd feel better later. I had some toast and some orange juice and convinced myself that I felt okay, so I left Kaitlin's for my own house. I had to get ready for work. I got dressed, got in the car. I was late. I felt ill again. Weak. And thirsty. Why was I so thirsty? I tried to drink water but my mouthy felt furry and fruity. Water was gross. I drank some Ginger Ale, but though it wasn't as bad as the water it did little to quench my thirst. My nerves were frazzled. I got to work and spent 2 hours face painting kids, sweating and shaking. At least I had a chair to sit in. Someone brought me water and I tried to drink it again, but that fruity taste wouldn't go away, and it felt rough on my tongue, like the equivalent of liquid sandpaper.

Then I went home, got changed, and went to go see my best friends whom I hadn't seen in years. It was supposed to be a happy day; a wonderful reunion between us. I was still feeling strange, ill, but I had an appetite at least. I was thinking some protein or something nice and solid would be good. Like a chicken sandwich. We had barbecue chicken pizza for dinner instead - not exactly my ideal choice considering the state I felt in. The sweetness made me feel a little more sickly, but I ate it. I felt better for a while, the illness alleviated. Water still felt a bit funny, but I just ignored my body and had a good time with friends. 


Then later we had these giant eclairs; yum! But suddenly, the feeling came back again. The illness. The more I ate, the worse I felt. I drank more water. It wouldn't do. Felt even funnier. I was so thirsty. Cheese. Cheese was good. And juice. That might help. I drank about half a carton of orange juice. I fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up and I just knew I wasn't feeling well. You know what I'm talking about. The feeling you get when you wake up on a morning you're sick, and you're body is telling your mind, "Oh boy, you're really in for it today."


Yeah.


I knew that if I got up, one of two things was going to happen. a.) I was going to feel like I had to puke and most likely end up puking some time that morning. b.) I was going to puke my guts out immediately. I groaned inwardly. This was such an inopportune time to be sick.


My friends got up and made waffles which sounded fantastic. They tried to get me up but I pretended to still be sleepy, while in reality I just felt sick to my stomach. I stalled getting up for as long as possible, but at my friends' urging I did, slowly and painfully, emerge from my sleeping bag. 


I stumbled to the kitchen, poured some more orange juice, and a hot, delicious looking waffle was set in front of me.


I did not want that waffle.

Something wasn't right.

I got up slowly, then quickened my steps.

Right to the bathroom, where I threw up, over and over again.

I sat on Taylor, my friend's, floor. It was all I could do. She brought me club soda (disgusting) and I fell asleep with a pink snuggie over me.


Kelle had to leave to go back to North Carolina. I felt so bad I couldn't give her a better send off except for hugging her weakly and telling her I was so glad to see her, and apologizing for being sick. If apologizing for being sick sounds strange, you should know that I have always apologized a lot, for everything, even if an apology isn't necessarily due.

I woke up after napping on the floor, hoping to find some respite from the sick. Taylor was leaving, which meant I had to go to. I dragged myself to the bathroom for a shower, then got out and laid on the bathroom floor. So weak, so sick. I felt pathetic. Worthless. Helpless. 


When I drove home, I stopped at 7-11 to get drinks because I felt terrible. I stumbled into the store, grabbing a coke and a lemonade, not sure which would help, if either. I took my drinks to the front counter. "How are you?" The cashier asked. "Terrible," I said, handing her the money, grabbing my change, and running outside. I literally ran - and threw up, at least ten times, into the bushes next to my truck in the 7-11 parking lot.


A group of people passed me squatting on the sidewalk and I'm pretty sure they thought I was drunk. 

That experience was one of the most undignified moments of my life.

Through some miracle, I managed to make it home without killing myself.
I don't think I'll ever truly know how I managed to do it, either. God was really watching out for me that day.
I spent the rest of the day sick at home alone.
I lied on my bed, downing the coke, the lemonade was gross so I tossed it.
4 pm. Mom texted me angrily about not doing the dishes.
Euuuggghh. I heaved into the trashcan.
I had no strength to reply and defend my case, as to why the dishes had not been done.

I spent the whole day in bed and just hoped I would be better the next day. I had had the stomach flu two weeks ago and I honestly just thought that this must have been a relapse of it. I never for a second thought that anything else was wrong.
I never even had stopped to consider the two weeks' worth of random bouts of nausea throughout the day, the insane thirst, the having to pee literally 5 times an hour, it seemed. I didn't think about how strange it was that I got random stomach cramps, fell asleep in the middle of the day for no reason at all, that my legs kept collapsing in on me when I tried to go running on the track in the mornings, that I felt completely exhausted at even the slightest bodily exertion. That even carrying my party supplies, my face paint and games, into work was a difficult effort.
That I had lost so much weight that my bones were sticking out in all the wrong places.

It sounds stupid now, but I didn't stop to think of any of that.
Diabetes is not what you expect to grow up and find out that you have

My mother has always done a good job of supporting me and her through a brilliant work ethic and managing of finances. But we've never had a lot of spare money, not anymore, at least. We didn't go to the Doctor's, we didn't see the Dentist, we don't have healthcare. All of those things were luxuries we couldn't really afford and even if we made room for them in the budget, neither of us really felt that we needed to. We were fine, we were healthy. If we got sick we waited it out. We always got better. Hell, the last time I had been to the Doctor was when I was 8 years old. It might have even been longer.
So I figured this was the same. Just wait it out.
Like I had always done.

But the next day, I was still sick.
And not even slightly better, like you often are the second day.
Worse. Much worse.


I crawled to the kitchen in the early morning hours, convinced that the one panacea that I needed, immediately, that very second, was:
1.) Crushed ice
2.) A crushed ice Gatorade Slurpee.


I crawled on my hands and knees to get everything I needed to make it, then lost all strength by the time I got to the freezer. I threw up in the kitchen trash can and started crying. I must have woken mom up because I made it back to my room somehow. 

The whole day I couldn't eat, no fluids seemed to help. I thew it all up. Even the Gatorade. I kept vomiting, even when I was sure that there was no possible way that there was anything else left to puke - I through up over 20 times. So many times that the acid burned my mouth and throat so I could hardly speak without terrible pain. 


I texted my mom for a coke slurpie and then fell into a vomit-induced stupor, trying to sleep, drink, throw up, stumble to the bathroom, throw up, get drinks. I got my coke slurpie, my little piece of heaven, and managed to drink the whole thing. Then I began to get terrible stomach pain. I stumbled to my mother's room with my trash can. I was home alone. I couldn't find any medicine anywhere, I had no strength. I grabbed some Nyquil and took some of that; if I couldn't relieve the pain, at least perhaps I could sleep. I went back to my bed to await peaceful slumber.


But it didn't work. Because by then my stomach hurt so bad I couldn't stand it. I laid on my bed, literally begging God to make the terrible pain stop. I don't know what going through labor feels like, but if it's anything like I felt, I am in no hurry to have children. I actually remember convincing myself that people stopped by my bedside. I told them to go get me medicine that would make me feel better. Part of me knew I was imagining it, but scarily, another part of me had literally convinced myself that my neighbors had stopped by and they would shortly be returning with Maalox. 


I remember stumbling to my mom's room for some reason, but then I couldn't return to my bed. I sat there on the carpet. I remember being picked up and carried to my bed again. My legs started turning blue. I was bruising. Why was I bruising? Was this the flu? i had never had a flu like this. The stomach pain had worsened. The pain of it crushed me. Tears poured down my face. My mom had returned and I cried and cried and begged her and asked her when it would stop.

And then I remember very little.

I remember being picked up and put in the car. The world was spinning. A glimpse of sunlight, of green tree leaves, of a blue and cloud-speckled sky. We pulled out of the driveway and that's all I remember. Everything was black after that, and I must have lost consciousness. I have never lost consciousness before that day. I think I might remember making it to the CentraCare, but I simply don't know. I had strange hallucinations, dreams, memories, whatever you want to call them. I was on stretchers and there were doctors and everything was a mess, oh, everything was so tangled and messed up and nothing would ever be fixed. No one could fix this. It was impossible. What was this? That's what I actually remember thinking during that time. That something with me was so wrong that it could never be fixed.

And then there was black, then lights, and then an ambulance. I remember the dark night and a paramedic talking to me telling me I am at the hospital. I think I talked but I don't know. She asked me questions that I don't remember answering. She put an oxygen mask on my face.

And then I woke up.
Emergency Room, the sound of carts rolling through the hallways, multiple IV's hooked to my arms.
My weight, now only 99lbs, and the words "Diabetic ketoacidosis", then a foreign term to me, written on the whiteboard beside the bed.

Inches from death only hours before, with blood sugars over 900.
I had woken up, and I was alive.

Except that I had woken up into the wrong life.