Late at night. When I’ve roused myself from the futon where I’ve fallen asleep watching yet another DVD, brushed my teeth, washed and lotioned my hands and want nothing more than to stagger to and collapse in bed that Nick’s blood sugar, upon what is supposed to be the last check of the day, has dropped below safe and acceptable? Why is it always in the middle of the night that I must struggle to raise it when during the day it’s been either high or when it’s been low, the number has shot right up over 100, making the panic short-lived? Why is it that when my eyes ache with exhaustion, my knees twinge from exertion, my neck feels weary from the act of holding my head up all day long that caring for Nick’s diabetic condition threatens to wear me out? 56… 58… 68… Forty-five minutes of waiting. Long enough to be reminded: What if something happens, something that makes acquiring his insulin, his glucose meter strips, impossible? What then? An earthquake happened today. What if it had knocked out computers, left us unable to prove his medicine is covered by California Children’s Services? What happens when the state runs out of money?

Daytime buoys me, keeps me treading in optimistic waters. In the nighttime, though, my worries ripen.