I'm lying in bed looking up at the ceiling-- only I can't see the ceiling because the room is pitch black.
All right.
He was crashing down at 11 o'clock, but two glucose tabs pulled him up 15 minutes later-- to 132. Then he ate some cheese crackers...
That ought to hold him.
I roll over on my side.
He's got no insulin on board, and his basal rate is pulled back 30% for the next couple hours.
He should be all right.
But then I'm on my back again.
Looking up.
This is how it goes.
Until 1 am-- the next check.
Leaning over him, I pray silently for a mid-range number. 120s would be good, but if he's a bit high-- well, that would be okay too.
98
My heart sinks.
He's coming down again-- not as fast, but still.
No insulin on board, a lower basal rate... why is he dropping again?
Man.
I take out his pump, extend his temp basal another four hours, and -- as usual -- struggle to get the pump back in its case.
Though Ryan will check him at 3 am, I've got a bad feeling. So when I return to bed, I snatch up my alarm clock (an old silver cell phone)-- and set the thing for 30 minutes later.
Sliding down beneath warm covers, I am so ready to drift gently to sleep-- even if it's just for half an hour.
But I never do.
Just before my alarm is set to go off--I'm squeezing yet another of my son's calloused finger tips. The blood doesn't come at first, not until I rub my thumb up the front of his finger, repeatedly (something I fear will wake him, but doesn't).
86
Should have given him some glucose.
Grabbing the plastic jar sitting on his nightstand, I unscrew the cap, and pause.
How many? If I give him too much he's gonna have a huge spike-- and then we'll be chasing the high all night...
Hmmm.
Well, two bounced him right back up when we he was dropping earlier-- and he's not falling nearly as fast.
I fish out two large, pale-orange tablets-- and pause again.
"Joseph," I whisper, "I need you to take some glucose."
Without waiting for a response, I gently stroke his cheek, and for a moment just look at his face -- and at the headgear firmly attached to it -- then take a deep breath before maneuvering a tab between rubber bands and metal.
No words, just a low, muffled "crunch" as he mechanically chews each tablet without ever opening his eyes.
Then I pull myself up and walk heavily back to bed.
I'll give it 30 minutes.
One more poke, a snack, and then-- sleep.
2 am.
This time when I take one of his hands in mine, he pulls it roughly away -- shoving both his hands deep beneath the covers -- eyes still closed.
When I reach down and take hold of his left hand again, I bend his arm to make that hand floppy-- to lessen the resistance. Then I prick the tip of his index finger-- and immediately, he yanks it out of my grasp, smearing blood in the process.
Thankfully, before his flailing left hand disappears under his blanket, I manage to grab hold of it. But when I raise the loaded test strip to his index finger -- no matter how much squeezing and rubbing I do -- I can't bring up any more blood.
I have to poke him again.
Suddenly, anger and sadness erupt with such force I have to move away from my son.
Why does he have to have this thing? Why?! Poking and poking and poking my child with a needle every damn night!
I sit on the floor, shaking.
Until that internal alarm sounds, and I can't sit there any longer.
Wiping a damp cheek with the back of one hand, picking up the lancet with the other, I return to my son-- and prick yet another battered fingertip.
75
Still dropping.
Should have given him four in the first place-- but damnit, he wasn't falling that fast.
I watch him as he dutifully chews two more glucose tablets.
The whole time, all I want to do is go back to bed.
To just sleep until morning.
I return to my bedroom and set my alarm.
For 20 minutes later.
