If I Could Just Say One Word, I Would Live

If I Could Just Say One Word, I Would Live

I need sugar. I need sugar. I need sugar.

I should have caught this sooner but I didn’t or maybe I did but it wasn’t loud enough yet just a whisper of something wrong an itch in my brain saying you need sugar you need sugar you need sugar and I ignored it because that’s what I do I always think I have time until suddenly I don’t and now my hands are wrong my feet are wrong my whole body is just wrong.

I don’t even remember sitting down or maybe I didn’t maybe my legs just stopped holding me up and now I’m here on the floor and there are voices but they’re too far away too slow too stupid because they’re still talking still wondering still asking like this is a question like this is something we have time for and I can’t answer them because my mouth isn’t working and my hands aren’t working and my body isn’t listening and why why why aren’t they moving.

Someone says is he okay and someone else says should we call someone and my whole brain is just screaming MOVE MOVE MOVE because they don’t get it they don’t know what this is they don’t understand that I don’t need a hospital I don’t need 911 I need sugar and I need it NOW but I can’t say it I can’t move I can’t make them understand.

They don’t know and I don’t have time for them to figure it out.

My heart is too slow and too fast at the same time my fingers are curling into my palms and I can feel sweat sliding down the back of my neck and the air feels thick and thin and impossible to pull in and my thoughts are going out of order but one thing is still clear if they don’t move I don’t come back.

Seconds.

That’s what it comes down to. And if I waste them waiting for someone to remember, waiting for them to stop panicking, waiting for them to take action instead of asking questions—I die.

And I have waited.

I have been on the floor, hearing my name but unable to answer. I have been trapped inside my own skull, screaming for someone to move, MOVE, MOVE, while they ask the wrong questions. I have been seconds away from slipping under, feeling my brain stretch thin like taffy, feeling my body stop responding, while the people who love me stand there, unsure.

It’s not their fault, right?

Except—why is it always like this?

People remember the exact way their coffee has to be made at their favorite place, but they can’t remember how to save my life.

They memorize every player’s name on a team, the history of every book in a series, but when I start shaking, they freeze.

They know what happened in Season 3, Episode 7 of a show from fifteen years ago, but when my body crumples to the floor, they hesitate.

• Would you ask a drowning person, Do you need help? or would you pull them out of the water?
• Would you ask a burning house, Do you want me to call 911? or would you grab the extinguisher?
• Would you ask someone bleeding out, Where’s the bandage? or would you press down and stop the bleeding?

Then why is this different?

Every second stretches out like an eternity. My body is slipping, the world is bending, and I am trapped inside it, watching myself die in slow motion.

Do you know what that feels like?

Do you know what it’s like to feel the ground tilt underneath you while your brain stops keeping up?

Do you know what it’s like to hear people talking and not understand the words?

Do you know what it’s like to feel your fingers go numb, your heartbeat slam like a hammer inside your chest, your skin go cold and wet while the rest of the world keeps moving?

Do you know what it’s like to die a little bit every time your blood sugar drops too low?

I do.

And then—

A hand.

Hard. Grounding. Real.

I should be afraid. I should flinch. But I don’t because this is different. This is now.

I don’t have the luxury of trust. Not anymore. Not after all the times I needed it, and it wasn’t there. Because when the moment comes, it doesn’t matter how much someone loves me, how much they care, how many times they’ve told me, I’m here for you.

Love doesn’t bring my blood sugar back up. Love doesn’t stop the static from closing in around my brain. Love doesn’t move fast enough.

I am not allowed to hesitate.

Because I know better.

Because I have seen the hesitation.

I have felt the slow drag of confusion in the space between needing help and getting it.

I have listened to people ask the wrong questions while I am sinking into the floor.

I have watched them try to solve it like a problem, instead of a fire, instead of a gunshot wound, instead of a disaster unfolding in real time.

And in the end, I am the only one I can trust to catch me.

But late at night, when I am staring at the ceiling, when my body is exhausted from fighting, fighting, always fighting—

I wonder what it would feel like to just let go for once.

To not have to be in control.

To trust that someone else will move fast enough.

To feel, even for a moment, safe.

But I know better.

Because this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a lesson people learn in time for the climax, when the hero swoops in and gets it right. This isn’t a scripted moment where realization dawns just before it’s too late.

This is my life.

And in real life, people hesitate.

A new voice cuts through the static.

Firm. Sharp. Certain.

A hand grips my shoulder. Not hesitant. Not soft. Steady.

My head tilts enough to see her but not enough to do anything else.

Michal.

She’s already moving. Already tearing into her bag. Already shoving something into my hands.

The others are still frozen, still standing there like statues, like they don’t understand what’s happening, but Michal knows.

Michal always knows.

She exhales through her nose. Sharp. Frustrated. She gets to her feet. Holds out a hand.

I take it.

Neither of us speak.

But it’s understood.

Next time, she’ll move first.

And next time, I won’t wait.

Because this is what it means to have T1D.

This is what it means to have ADHD.

This is what it means to live in this body in this world where people don’t move fast enough, where trust is a risk, where seconds are everything, where there is always another low waiting, waiting, waiting—

And Michal is the only one I know will run.

Because my body doesn’t get second chances.