“Blogging” sounds less sexy than writing, doesn’t it? “Bluh ogg.” Those are not pretty sounds. I fear my sentences will also lack beauty, but given the hour and the fact that I’m staying awake so I can check Nick’s blood sugar at 3 a.m., perhaps low standards are temporarily forgivable.
I checked him at midnight, per usual. The meter read 401, also known as in the “Oh, shit!” range. He corrected, sent the insulin bolus through his pump, went back to sleep while I spent an hour waiting for that hour to pass so I could check him again. Mostly I ran my to-do list through my head. Alternately I berated myself for all the mistakes I’ve made, especially the ones I keep making. Twice I flung the covers off so I could let the dog out, poor old and bewildered creature. The house was silent except for the snoring of our orange cat, whose sawing of logs rivals that of any old man’s, and the sounds of the ocean rumbling in through the bedroom window.
The clock finally clicked to 1 a.m. I crept back upstairs, checked him again. 125 — a perfectly fine number, other than the fact he still had six units of active insulin. Did he have something sweet on his hand earlier? I wondered. Something that would’ve thrown off the meter and made it read high? In any case, food to the tune of 70 carbs worth would be immediately required.
So I made toast with jam, mixed up some orange juice — because of course it needed to be unthawed and prepared — heated up some milk and made hot chocolate. I aimed for quiet, but the light and noise woke Chelsea, who is sleeping on the futon these days. I apologized, she was gracious, I carried everything upstairs. First the juice, to prevent an immediate lows. Then the rest to compensate for the insulin. In theory, it should all work out. I could have set an alarm for 3 a.m. and attempted to return to sleep, but let’s be real: after all that, dropping back into slumber would’ve required greater peace of mind than is currently residing in my head.
So, here I am.