38 and I wish I had some wise words about the new year

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.


6 thoughts on “38 and I wish I had some wise words about the new year”

  1. Thanks, Monica. It’s been a long night. The glucose tabs brought him up to 89; the applesauce I followed with should have seen him through.

    But I just checked him again and he’s back down to 63.

    Did I mention the raccoon that showed up on the porch in between, causing Sandy to freak out, jarring us out of what little sleep we might have had?

    Now I’m passing time at the computer again, waiting for the eternal 15 minutes to pass. I’d read, but that would involve turning the lights brighter than I’m up for. I really should get a reading lamp one of these days.

    Brrr. It’s so cold. I think of people with no choice but to sleep outside – I’m sure many of them are huddled in the dunes right now – and I’m sorry for it. Which is weak to write, but thoughts and words are failing me so that all I can say is, Wow, that would suck.

  2. A new year begins with Mother taking care of Child. You are part of a timeless continuum. No words are needed to express the wisdom here.

    Happy New Year! Keep on keepin’ on…

  3. I send you my (a stranger’s) best wishes, for whatever that’s worth. I hope the pump comes along soon and will make it easier on your son’s body. I hope you get some stable blood sugar, some peace of mind and some rest soon.

  4. Man Jennifer. I feel so spoiled with my kids’ health. Knock on wood.

    I had a scare a few years ago that my son Asher might need heart surgery. He had a murmur and everything I read about it freaked me out. People who had been telling me that they had murmurs all of their lives, some of them already in their 60s or 70s, couldn’t comfort me. The worst case scenarios just kept popping into my head.

    When we went in for the ultrasound, he was such a little three-year-old trooper at St. Joe’s surrounded by all these machines. They played a movie for him (Godzilla vs. MechaGodzilla) and I cracked jokes about the movie while the woman examined him. She laughed at my jokes more than he did.

    She told us that she couldn’t discuss her findings with us, but she was kind enough to make sure we could hear her discuss it with his pediatrician. The murmur was so insignificant she could barely detect it. By the next check-up the murmur was gone.

    I was a basket case for just that week trying not to imagine life without him. We didn’t have Lilith yet. The house would have been so quiet.

    I really admire your strength Jennifer, and you are an incredible Mom.

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