Another climb up the stairs. Another flick of the light. Another press of the button that pops the lancet into his finger.
342. Inadequate change for the amount of time that’s passed since the correction. He wakes up enough to point out to me that his reservoir’s low. One of the drawbacks of using a pump is we’ve become dependent on the little machine to do the thinking. We, meaning Bobby and me; Nick programs and fills the pump, Bobby and I just do the set insertions. It gives him far more control over his diabetes, but when something goes wrong, we don’t always know the immediate correct response as we’re not intimately involved with the math on a daily basis.
Anyway, mutual calculations suggested a six-unit bolus was in order, so that’s what I did. Came downstairs, measured insulin into a syringe, returned to his room, slid the needle into his arm, pressed down hoping the dosage was enough to drop his blood sugar, but not send him low. I’ll need to check him again around 5:30 a.m., again at 6:30 a.m., maybe 7, until the insulin’s mostly been absorbed and his blood sugar level’s in a good place. I’d feel sorry for myself for losing all this sleep except I’m the one who has it easy.
I was supposed to be in Portland over the weekend. I’d signed up for a writer’s retreat, been looking forward to immersing myself in fiction and memoir. The trip fell through for a number of reasons. I’m really sad. I’m also relieved to be here, helping to take care of my son. Writing on this blog will have to be enough for now.