After all these weeks of highs, suddenly Nick’s dropped to 38. Bobby’s sitting with him, while I distract myself for a moment, “a moment” being the long 15 minutes we have to wait to see if the glucose tablets elevated his blood sugar to better number. I’m hoping for 101, 110, anything up to 150, really. Eleven minutes to go.

Later this month, we’re scheduled for a pump class, after which, hopefully before too many weeks pass, we’ll acquire one. Pumps aren’t perfect, but everyone I know that has one or knows someone who has one says it’s a remarkable improvement over shots.

I had a surf session days and days ago, nothing special to welcome 2009, just a pretty day up at South Beach. The waves lined up fine under a sunny sky with a light offshore breeze hollowing them out a bit. I felt strong, coordinated, but still somehow off. This whole year, all eight days of it, has been like that. Nick’s running high, high, high despite our efforts, then the meter beeps normal numbers at us just enough times to make us think we’ve figured it out with the near-doubling of his insulin doses and then – wham! – 38. What if I’d fallen asleep and not checked him? That doesn’t happen, but I’m always afraid it will, that I’ll wake up and remember too late.

Five more minutes.

The north wind blows in the upstairs bathroom window, left slightly ajar to prevent the litter box smell from taking over. The chill permeates into the hallway, the bedrooms. Nick’s twisted up in blankets, shirtless and clammy.

Three more minutes.

I’m going back upstairs. Another retract, pop, prick with the meter, sliding the strip along the drop of blood, listening to the beep, hoping the little machine lights up with reassurance.

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