It is dark. Black, really. There is no light anywhere. And there is no sound. There is nothing. Nothing but nothing.

This stunning blackness, this lack of light and sound, scares me concious. And I am in my bed. With an empty glass of juice in my hand. My right index finger slides, slimey, against the plastic cup, wet with blood.

Nothing makes sense. Bob's voice is the first thing I'm able to hear. "You need to test."

"I already tested," I answer, "Can't you see the blood?"

"You poked yourself, but you didn't test," He replies, "Come on, it's been about twenty minutes since you finished that juice."

"Was it bad?" I ask.

"Not as bad as it's been. You took the juice fine, no spitting, no screaming, no fighting. It was scary though, because you didn't say a word. It was like you were asleep with your eyes wide open."

"Yeah" I say, wiping my bloodied finger on my sweatshirt and poking myself again. 5-4-3-2-1. 22 mg/dl. After 10 ounces of juice and twenty minutes.

I don't remember any of it. Don't remember "flopping around like a fish out of water" and waking Bob up. Don't remember taking the glass of juice, sitting up in bed. Don't remember poking my finger.

All that I do remember is the pitch darkness and the intense quiet that brought me back with a start. How could my eyes have been open through all of this? How could I have been awake and not remember? How could I have been asleep and accomplished any of it?

And how did I survive? At 22 mg/dl after juice, my bloodsugar had to have been impossibly low. Beyond that, my body seemed to be functioning without my conciously telling it to do so.

These are the best and the worst of times with this disease. The times that scare me most, deep down to my core. But that remind me how resilient, how strong, my body can be. I am at once resentful and grateful - angry and relieved - stunned and reassured.

How exactly do our bodies do this?