I'm Late!

I'm late!

That single thought shreds through my brain like static, like an alarm going off on every frequency at once. My foot catches the edge of the rug as I stumble forward, my hands gripping the counter too hard, palms slick with sweat.

Late for what?

My mind fractures into timelines. Past, present, futures that never were. Every time I was late. Every possible version of me who was late for something—appointments, school, deadlines, love, goodbyes. My brain surges outward, expanding into infinity, drawing invisible maps of missed chances, forgotten moments, things that never happened because I wasn’t there, because I didn’t make it in time.

I almost forget what I’m late for now.

Then my stomach twists. My mouth dries. My head—

Shit.

Insulin. I’m late for my insulin injection.

The blood sugar levels. I haven’t checked. How high am I? How long has it been? Hours? Too long. My blood is thick with it, syrupy, sluggish, like trying to push honey through a straw. The tension in my skull is tightening, and a cruel, familiar thought rises: Diabetic Ketoacidosis (DKA).

Diabetic ketoacidosis. A deadly buildup of acids in the blood when there isn’t enough insulin to process glucose. When the body starts eating itself alive.

I know what happens next.

I can’t be late for this. Not for this.

My brain flips into crisis mode. ADHD saves me now. The part of me that can’t focus on anything suddenly hyper-fixates, zooms in, locks onto the single point of absolute urgency.

I move. I don’t think. There’s no room for thought anymore.

My body is on fire. Acid in my muscles. Thirst like the desert is inside my veins. My head pulses. My stomach twists. My continuous glucose monitor (CGM) flashes a number on the screen: 347 mg/dL.

Insulin injection. Now.

I grab the insulin pen, hands shaking, twist the dial. The numbers blur, then sharpen. I squint, force my eyes to focus, trying to make sense of the tiny black digits on the pen. 22 units of fast-acting insulin. My fingers feel thick, slow, like they don’t belong to me. I press the needle to my skin. A breath. I push.

The sting, the burn, the flood of insulin into my bloodstream. It’s done. Too late? I don’t know. I won’t know for hours.

The numbers fight each other in my head. They want to pull me under. But I can’t drown. Not now.

I curse under my breath. It’s still climbing. My brain starts whispering calculations, timelines, probabilities—how long until the insulin kicks in? How bad will this get?

I try to move. My legs buckle. I have to pee. Of course. My body is trying to flush the sugar out, trying to fix the damage I’ve done by being late, too late, always too late.

I push myself forward, every step unsteady. The room tilts. My vision tunnels. My fingers clamp onto the doorframe, knuckles bone-white. The rough wood digs into my skin, but I can barely feel it. My body shakes, a tremor that starts deep in my bones and ripples outward. I stumble through the doorway, the cool tile a shock against my burning feet, and collapse onto the toilet just as the first wave of nausea hits.

The bathroom light is too bright, too harsh, stabbing into my skull. The mirror is streaked with water spots. The counter is cluttered with glucose tabs, test strips, the CGM receiver blinking silently, tracking my slow-motion disaster.

And as I sit there, as my body purges the excess sugar in burning waves, my mind unspools again.

All the times I’ve been late.

Late to diagnose myself when the thirst wouldn’t stop, when my body started eating itself alive. Late to react when the lows stole my speech, my strength, my ability to call for help. Late to correct a high, thinking I could just ride it out, that it wasn’t that bad.

Late to realize how many T1Ds never got another chance. The ones who went to sleep and never woke up. The ones who thought they had time. The ones who were late for the last time.

It should scare me. Maybe it does. But right now, all I feel is exhaustion. The aftermath of a near-miss, the weight of too many close calls pressing down on my ribs. I don’t have time for fear. I have things to do.

I force myself to stand. One step. Then another. I check my CGM again. 340 mg/dL. Still high. It’ll come down. It has to.

I lived.

This time.

I swallow hard, push my hair back from my damp forehead, and breathe. This time, ADHD saved me.

And then, before the next wave hits, before my body remembers the fire still burning in my blood, before the cycle starts again, I do the only thing I can.

I move forward.

But it’s not over. It’s never over.

I can feel it—the sickness curling at the edges of my stomach, the dryness in my throat, the exhaustion that isn’t normal exhaustion but something deeper, something more dangerous. Cellular exhaustion. Organ exhaustion. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep.

My body is fighting me. And I am fighting it.

I am so tired of fighting.

How many times have I been here? How many times has this exact moment played out? Sitting on the edge of my bed, body wrecked, sweat drying on my skin, waiting to see if I did enough. Waiting to see if this time, I was too late.

My head is swimming. I feel detached from myself, like I’m watching this from the outside. A coping mechanism? Maybe. If I separate from it, it doesn’t feel as terrifying. If I think about it like it’s happening to someone else, maybe I don’t have to acknowledge how close I keep coming.

My hands are shaking, still damp, my muscles aching in that sick way that tells me my blood is still poisoned with acid. Ketones. The word makes my stomach lurch. I should check. I should check right now.

But I don’t.

Because I already know.

I know I let it go too long. I know my body is breaking itself down. I know I need more insulin, more water, more time. More luck.

Because that’s what this is, sometimes. Luck.

Luck that I caught it in time. Luck that I forced myself to move when I did. Luck that my brain flipped into survival mode instead of letting me spiral.

I should be afraid. But I can’t afford fear.

I have to keep moving. I have to trust that this will pass. I have to keep breathing, keep walking, keep watching my numbers, keep drinking water, keep riding it out until my body forgives me for this mistake.

Even though I know it won’t.

I close my eyes. Take a breath.

I can’t think like that.

I open my eyes. Take another sip of water. Check my CGM again.

Still high. But lower than before.

I’m coming down.

I’ll make it. I always do.

But I wish I didn’t always have to.