In the fog of my blissful sleep, I hear something. It's important. I recognize that as I slumber. I try to remain asleep, but my mind searches for the implications of the sound.
It's 1:37 am.
My subconscious knows to to be on "high alert". Joe just participated in a power skating camp this evening...with a failed site...which resulted in a HIGH blood sugar... which required a new pump site...and a correction dose of insulin. This may, or may not, end up with unstable blood glucose readings.
Unfortunately for me and more importantly Joe, this will be a rough diabetes night.
It's 1:37 am. My mind and my body wake from the alarm. Joe is low. It's the "MEMMMP...MEMMP...MEMMP!! - Your kid is super friggen low...low alarm". I'm still a little dazed from my slumber. I catalogue the day. The power skating, the site change, the correction are recollected. This could be bad.
I stumble into his room. I'm tired.
I ready his glucometer with the test strip. I lance his finger, as he sleeps. The blood is wicked up the test strip. He is 40.
I turn off his insulin pump for 2 hours. Four glucose tablets are grabbed from the supply kept in his room for exactly this; our nights. I didn't even need to coax him to chew the tablets. In his sleep, he chomps on each tablet. They are each consumed in short order. His body knows ... it needs them to survive.
I plod back to my bed. I lay down. I know I won't sleep; he is too low for that. I'll need to know he is OK. 40 is nowhere near "OK" when he sleeps.
I start on my left, turned away from my night stand where the CGM resides. Eventually, I turn to the right. I take a peek. He's only 45, smooth. I wait. I turn. It's about 2 am. I turn. 50 smooth. Still, I wait. I know it will turn around. I just need to wait a bit longer. Just a little longer until I'll feel OK. Just a little longer until I'll feel he'll be OK. Just a little longer until I can go back to sleep again. Back and forth I go, peeking at his number. At 2:17, or so, 63...diagonal up. The next time I check he's 115 ...diagonal up.
But, is he truly alright?
I need to check on him to be able to sleep. I prop myself out of my bed. I plod back into his room. I want to check his pulse. Weird, I know. If it's his carotid (on his neck) it may wake him. I take his wrist in my hand. I feel a strong, steady radial pulse.
Finally, I can go back to sleep.
A glimpse of a rough night in the day-in-the-life of parenting my child who has t1d.