I am sort of feeling bad, because my French class is coming to an end in a week. Then back to the old grind.
We had a fairly good day. Irene, the teacher, brought in some songs, one written and sung by Serge Gainsbourg, who mucked up the Marseillaise. He is a "provacateur", and very much loved in France. As we watched him sing on the DVD, he was smoking, and as he finished one cigarette, he lit the next on the end of the last one. Believe it or not, he died of lung cancer.
Monica, my new friend from Norway, joined Dick and me at the cafeteria for lunch. We had a good time and are going to their apartment for dinner on Wednesday.
We were off to the Louvre when the sun came out. My god, grab the sun and hang on to it. So instead we went to The Deux Magots and sat staring at people, feeling very literary. Hemingway wrote here. Then we went to Les Flores, right next door and sat down. Dick was complaining about being dizzy, because his blood sugar was down in the morning. So he ordered ice cream with lots of chocolate and I had a whiskey and soda.. So take note, I had a drink, but Dick only had chocolate. Then we left and I stood outside and photographed the area, when I looked up and there he was in the middle of the street with cars whizzing in all directions. Now I am furious.
I grabbed him and rushed to the metro, four hundred steps underground and he''s still staggering. So I buy chips and whatever from the machine and we get on the subway. He sits and eats and I think, good now he won't stagger anymore. But no. He is now leaning backwards and to the right. I took his bags and pushed him to the escalator. When we got to ground level, he was babbling, but I couldn't understand a word. Now I am thinking stroke, not blood sugar. If it were blood sugar, the food would have helped. And he won't sit down, or go into a cafe to eat. He's staggering like a homeless drunk, and I am now scared. No friends or family to call can be scary. So the first thing I thought of was the restaurant we go to on the corner. So I pushed him into a chair and run inside to get help. Now I'm crying. We call an ambulance and off to the local hospital.
Now Dick is angry, but I don't care. If it's not a stroke, it's still money well spent, and if it is we get there within the three hour window. We spend three hours there, lost time in Dick's words, but I was glad there was someone there to take care of things.
Luckily it was the blood sugar. So now I only have to see to it he eats enough before we go out---and--- we carry fruit with us. .
So, I ask myself. How do you tell the difference between very low blood sugar and a stroke?