Thought I was heading to bed, but the standard pre-sleep check of Nick’s blood sugar offered up only 66, just below the 70, which defines “low,” and definitely less than the 100-plus we need to rest easily till morning.

A year-and-a-half and I still hate poking him. There he is, sacked out, comfortably tangled in blankets, lost in dreams, when I, vampire-like, come to take his blood. I tug a hand out from underneath, line a finger up with the “pricker” and ka-cham, a tiny stabbing produces a drop of blood. I set the poking device aside, quickly, and press the test strip against the blood. It absorbs, then the monitor in which the other end is tucked beeps once, then twice. We hope for a number between 80 and 150. We work with what we get. Tonight that meant a toddler-sized juice box – those are perfectly sized to deliver the 15 fast-acting carbs needed – followed by a half-cup of Humboldt Creamery French Vanilla, left over from K’s party. I’m sure ice cream isn’t ideal for the teeth, but the sweetness encourages Nick to eat in his sleep, while the fat promises to sustain his glucose level through the night.

Soon, I will check him, poke him, again. If the number is good, I will tangle myself up in my own bed, assured that he’s safe, at least for this night.