I am learning, slowly. I’m working exceedingly hard to interpret data from Pokey and the Meter without letting Worry interfere. Treatment is so simple, so specific, and yet so ambiguous at the same time. This fact does not sit well with me. I like answers. I don’t have them.
Tonight at bedtime, Pokey popped Madeline’s middle toe and the Meter cranked out 119. This, normally, is a beautiful number. Perfect. Within range. And that is the goal of all of the pancreatic acrobatics that we—me, my husband, Madeline’s teachers, Madeline’s sitter—engage in all day long. So, I should be relieved to know that the insulin is doing its job, when there’s a number like that.
But the thing is, I am not relieved. In fact, I’m having the opposite experience: a slowly swelling panic. See, I have realized that I don’t like it when Madeline’s glucose level is below 150 when she goes to bed. I. Don’t. Like. It. She gets an evening dose of a slow-acting insulin before bedtime, but her dinnertime dose of fast-acting insulin is still working its magic then too. This means, as I have observed many nights now, that Madeline’s level might pitch down just as she is going to sleep, and sink further as the night wears on.
So, at bedtime, I had Madeline chow down a small package of peanut butter crackers. A nice, 16 grams-of-carb snack that should help to push her level up steadily. It’s a little trick I’ve discovered, something to keep her level from bottoming out as she sleeps. And, it has worked. But tonight, for some reason, I am plagued by Worry that it will not be enough.
I put Madeline to bed, then began to compulsively Google information on Dead-in-Bed Syndrome. I know, I know. WTF am I doing??? I really don’t need a good scare just before I put my head to the pillow. But I can’t ignore the fact that T1 can kill my daughter. At 9:30, I crept upstairs to check her level again. By this time, the dinner insulin should be just about done with its job, and the crackers should have boosted her level. I grabbed her warm little hand… poke… 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…112. 112?!?!
So, I grab a granola bar and coax her awake just enough to eat it in slow-mo. Can’t you see I’m sleeping? she said, annoyed. Yes, baby, and I want you to wake up in the morning.