His blood sugar level is low (59) right now. Earlier it was high. On average, it’s been higher lately. But he’s still had low episodes. We have not been chronicling his food, carbs, insulin and blood sugars with the sort of precision I’d imagined we would. (“Bad mother,” says the voice in my head, again.) Not that anything major is wrong at the moment, but I’ve feared we’d too quickly adjust to how well things have been going and slack off. Trying to balance what must be done, is supposed to be done, with letting Nick feel normal, feel in control, is difficult.

“We must keep careful records so we can understand the trends that occur.”
“Nothing you do can be spontaneous. Everything must be planned, counted, tracked and interpreted. Test your blood sugar. Write this down. You need to exercise. Test it again. Write this down. Don’t have a banana, have a sandwich so we can see how your blood sugar reacts. Test again. Write it down.”

“Diabetes doesn’t have to stop you from doing what you want.”
“You can still eat, run, play, have a great life, do things on the spur of the moment. We can make anything work. You’re still mostly normal. Don’t worry.”

His blood sugar is back over 100. Now we’re waiting on toast. He’s tired. I’m tired. His thumb is pocked with teeny marks from pricking it for blood.

I smear cold butter on the warm toast, wishing the butter were softer, easier, not causing the bread to tear. I wake Nick back up to eat, convince him to sit up. His eyes barely open, he chews by rote.

“Love you, sweet dreams, goodnight,” he mumbles and drags himself off to bed, another small rescue complete.