- see myself calling the ambulance from the bedroom
- see myself racing for the glucogel
- see myself holding my boy and hoping for him to come round
- See myself crying hysterically and calling out for Andrew
- pee, in case I have to call an ambulance and don't get time to do it or in case he's already dead in which case I am pretty sure I will just do it anyway and be a real mess
- take several deep breaths at his door
- stand over him waiting for signs of life (and I can't tell you how freakily quietly he sleeps)
- put his light on and quietly tell him I am going to test his finger
- test his finger
- wait an interminable five seconds for a result
- breathe out, realising I have been holding my breath in true free diving style
- go to the bathroom and stare a little at my new D-Mom face
- go to bed and try to read something light or challenging but always diverting
- turn out the light, reach for Andrew's hand, squeeze it and hope the next day will be as good as this one; tired, never able to really rest but also never complaining really anymore, just accepting.
So, what is this phenomenon?
Diabetes vertigo? Madness? The Method?
I think it is that moment at the end of the day when I have kept him alive another day but know that I will soon be unconscious myself and unable to look at him and observe how he is. That's the time I find it hard to let go and to fall into the arms of sleep in any trusting way. That is the most cruel side of this condition: even when you do it right you can never take your eye off the beast with the thrashing tail.
I am fine today! I've had a great day! But sometimes I want to write about this, with no photos of the cute boy and no chocolate cake!
Sometimes I just need to be really heard and really seen, cake and tortoises aside.
I'll be back soon with how to make your own pretty feather boa using a live chicken and a stick of glue! (Not really).
Love to all of you who do the same dance every night.