A Poem That Only I Can Relate To

[ninanevermore]

I've always hated that poets sic poems on the public that nobody can relate to unless they walked in the poet's own shoes. It seems - I don't know - self indulgent.

That's exactly the type of poem I'm posting here. Maybe I'm hoping that I describe the situation well enough that you can imagine wearing the shoes the narrative describes. More likely, I'm just being a self-indulgent poet. What other kind is there?

A few post back I wrote about how I sometimes wake up with a low glucose level and the effect this has on Jeff if it happens too often (that is, it scares the piss out of him). I don't write about my diabetes too much; living with it is a routine thing for me and there's not much to write about. I wrote this poem after a particularly annoying episode that made me late for work one day. Jeff wasn't home, so I dealt with it myself. In the first draft of this poem, I didn't say what it was about, so I added a reference to the insulin to give the reader a hint. I'm hoping that reference makes the whole thing less self indulgent. Probably not.

I wrote this poem in a fit of frustration. I had to get a doctor's note explaining to my personnel department how this sort of thing could make me late if and when it happened, and doing so made me feel freakish and vulnerable. When you have a difference, a legal disability, passing for normal is a big deal. Alas, it's not always possible.

FYI, a severe hypoglycemic episode feels like being very intoxicated and incoherent, but with a rush of adrenaline on top. I imagine it's like drinking a large bottle of Jim Beam through a funnel and then snorting a few lines of cocain to compliment it. I've never done either of these things, but it's as close as I can get to an analogy.




Waking Up Low

I come out of my sleep fighting-
throwing aside the blanket,
leaping from the mattress,
falling to my hands and knees
as gravity attacks me.

I cry out of frustration and rage,
my mind searching it's pockets
for my identity and whereabouts
but coming up empty.

I shiver while I wipe the sweat
from my bleary eyes,
my skin, clammy and cold,
feels unreal, as slick as an eel,
maybe it's not even mine,
maybe I'm not even me,
maybe I'm not even here,
whoever I am, wherever this is.

I stumble again the wall and cling to it,
my new best friend, my only friend,
the first thing in this dream state
that I find solid and tangible,
and my friend guides me out of the room,
down the hall, down the stairwell,
toward the kitchen

where I stand in front of the open refrigerator
with the cold air seeping into my wet skin,
my hand on the door just inches from
the insulin bottles nestled in the egg holders,
until I reach for the carton of juice
that I pour it into my open mouth
as if I were an empty glass.

In minutes the sugars become fuel
for my empty tank,
for my body running on fumes,
until the engine of my brain fires up
to drive me back to borders of the familiar world.
where in a fog I can pull on my clothes,
brush my teeth, fix my hair, and locate my keys.

By the time I get behind the wheel
I know who I am again,
I know where I am and where I need to go,
to the job where I will act
as if this day began just like any other,
because how do you explain
such a morning to anyone else
without them looking at you
with horror and pity
that you can live without?




-Nina Erickson
April 2001
© 2006