Nick woke me up last night (this morning?) at 1 a.m. He didn’t feel well. No wonder – his blood sugar had dropped to 70. Suddenly, after weeks of making adjustments for all the high readings, we’re scrambling to figure out the cause of all the sudden lows. They’re likely related to the new bottles of insulin we’ve opened; the stuff’s potency fades with time, which could’ve accounted for the gradual increases while still using the older bottles. School’s back in, so the low blood sugars could be attributable to the fact that Nick’s eating less; at home, he tends to snack more. I need to plan better, make sure we have enough food at night so I can get up earlier and pack bigger lunches for him. I find myself once again armed with Vegetarian Times magazines, the headlines of which announce, “5 Fast Brown Bag Lunches!” and “Healthy Snacks Made Quick!”
But last night’s low had nothing to do with lunch. Too much insulin at dinner? I was at the Planning Commission meeting, but I know they had beans and potatoes, which are easy to count.
This is not the detective work I’d imagined doing in my youth, flush on mystery novels – although I must admit, high school algebra has come in surprisingly handy. (“If one serving of pasta has x amount of carbs and the box contains eight servings, but we cook the whole box and divide it into five equal portions, how many carbs are in one of our servings? And if the ration of insulin to carbs is 30 to 1, how much insulin will Nick need? And if his blood sugar is high or low, and he needs z amount of corrective insulin, how much insulin does he need total?”)
So I was up between 1 and 2 a.m. measuring applesauce, toasting bread, waking Nick back up to eat more, poking the sleepy boy’s finger, trying to squeeze enough blood out to test, poking him again. Eventually we got to a good place. But I have a to-do list spanning pages that I must get through today – tomorrow is Surf 4 Peace and horseback riding and KHSU On Tap and the Kevin Morshing Memorial and the benefit for the blind. Whatever I don’t finish today, I will suffer for on Sunday. I’m trying to avoid the Sunday suffering.
Nick has a slumber party tonight, Chelsea’s off to San Francisco with friends for the Power to the Peaceful concert – and she’s taking her little dog that she rescued/adopted a month ago. A tiny dog. A dog that could get smushed in a crowd or crushed in one bite from a bigger dog’s jaws.
I can’t believe I have something else small to worry about. Not that my kids are small, but it’s that same feeling of letting such vulnerable creatures out into the world. At least Chelsea’s going with adult friends of mine and Bobby’s, not a bunch of we’re-invulnerable, muddleheaded teens.
But the drive… My heart will stop every time the fax machine in the Eye kicks in. We receive every CHP report of every traffic accident. I always hold my breath reading them, terrified it’ll be someone I know. Then feeling that weird guilty relief when it’s not – better deep sadness on someone else’s behalf than on my own. Isn’t that a terrible thing, to be grateful when the tragedy doesn’t belong to you?