Hopefully His Blah Blahs Will Be More Blah
I appreciate that friends ask routinely how Charlie is doing. I really do. I just don't know what to say anymore. I really don't know how he's doing.
"Well, he's not so good right this minute, but in 45 minutes to an hour he should be fine. Later tonight he'll be bad again for a while, but come morning, he should be good."
There's no short answer. There's no "fine" or "OK." I'm just tired of the long answer - hearing myself repeat the same thing every time someone asks.
"Well we have our blah blahs and our blah blahs. Today is a blah blah. Hopefully, now that he's on the blah, his blah blahs will be more blah."
At the playground the other day, Charlie hopped off his bike for a pit stop and a blood sugar check. He was 55. I gave him 4 ounces of grape juice and a couple crackers. Not too uncommon.
Charlie finished quickly and hopped back on his bike, pumping his small muscular legs to catch up to his sister who was rounding the far corner of the oval path. I stare at Charlie as he pedals. I zoom in on him closer. Closer. I stare with X-ray vision into his skin, down his esophagus and to his stomach. I scan his organs. What's it doing, I wonder. What's going on in there? Did his blood sugar slam the brakes with a screech and reverse direction when the juice came flowing in? Is he 75 now? Is he 40?
How many other dads at the playground are staring into their children's insides with X-ray vision while they play?
One night last week Charlie peed in his bed. I peeled off his wet pajamas and walked him into the bathroom. With no clothing for Charlie to fasten to, I held his pump and walked behind him like he was a dog on a leash. Charlie was whimpering and half-asleep throughout the whole episode. Seemed surreal.
I really don't know how he's doing.