Another look at Sunday night.

He sounded much younger than his thirty-three years for a few moments.  He spoke the words so awkwardly, so tentatively, so not HIM.

“Rachel, I need you to come downstairs with me.  My blood sugar is dropping like a rock.”

I felt different for a few moments – not older necessarily, just wiser and stronger.  Not at all like the woman who had declared she didn’t know if she could handle a middle-of-the-night low as a response to a friend’s post only days before.

The previous major events of this condition’s impact on our relationship saw him vulnerable and me scared.  The stomach bug that left him weak, the hypoglycemic seizure, the first time I had to bring him juice because he was unable to stand up.  All the while, both of us shaking for different reasons.

What made Sunday night so different?  Has writing about his condition changed the way I respond to the critical moments?  Or is it just the passage of time, the longer we have been together, the easier it is to spring into action without fear and panic?