Hi
@banana2000 I thought I would share this, mainly because it might help you feel more assured. It is definitely the most alarming hypo I experienced in 54 years of Type 1, but I managed to live from then on, even having further hypos slightly lower down the Richter Scale:
1979 At a party in Haringey, hosted by one of Helen’s predecessors: The hostess, called Julie, left for work at Harrods, with Yours Truly unconscious on a sofa. She telephoned at 12.45. “You still there?” After my baffled response, I put the phone down and tried to think about my state of affairs. I had a raging headache, my vision kept disappearing, and worryingly, I was experiencing a total memory loss. I started to pace around the stark room like a leopard in its too confined quarters. What the hell is wrong? This is not a hangover. I need to talk to someone. My father. What’s his name? Where does he work? (He retired in 1985 and I still remember his number – 01 405 9222 ext 6036) Brain’s battery was completely uncharged then. As I sped around the room in increasing panic, I chanced upon a directory. With my focus looming in and out, I flipped through the pages in the vain hope I might recognise anything. Something suggested the word “assurance” and I had enough cognitive function to write it down. Minutes later I was through to some saint (female) at the switchboard. Why she didn’t think “We’ve got a right one here” I’ll never understand. She deserves recognition.
“Er, er, Oh God, what’s his name?”
“Don’t worry love, which department is he in?”
“Er, ....... Oh blimey I can’t think.”
At this point she began reading down the list until she said:
“Job Evaluation?”
“That’s it!”
I’m a great believer in fate. Normally one of three lovely secretaries would have answered the phone, but for some reason my father himself answered. I must have been able to tell him my whereabouts, because I remember him giving me some chocolate in the flat. The rest is blank until 6.30 the following morning. I had been put in Johanna’s bedroom (I think she was away at college in Oxford at the time) and my father put his head round the door to check progress. He found me with the top of my head on the floor, followed by most of my torso. He managed to get me back on the bed and then tried to give me warm sweet tea. I hit him. Apparently it took both my parents to hold me against the wall and get some in. Had they the luxury of a Glucagon injection, I’m sure they would have used it.
I hope you overcome your anxiety!
