29. Ian
TWENTY-NINE
IAN
My spidey senses are tingling.
I showed up at Tess’s apartment at five-thirty this morning for the third day in a row. She was somewhat frazzled to get out the door on time, August was eager to see me and start building Legos, and I saw Tess off to work with a ball of longing lodged in my chest.
All normal so far.
But as the morning drifts into lunchtime, August’s energy is sinking. He barely tried to run in the yard with Dutch, and the solitary tennis ball he threw for him didn’t make it ten feet into the grass. He’s been content to read books inside, and although we’ve done that some each day, it’s never been this much.
No knock against bookish kids, but this isn’t normal for him.
For the twentieth time, I pick up his phone app with the glucose monitor reading on it and the device that syncs to his insulin pump. The one shows his numbers are in healthy range, the other doesn’t reflect any issues with his insulin delivery. It’s unlikely both could go haywire at the same time and reflect normal readings when he has a serious issue.
Unlikely…but those spidey senses keep ringing in my head.
Ten minutes. If he doesn’t perk up, or his monitors don’t show some kind of change, I’m going to do a finger prick and verify his numbers myself.
I lean against the doorframe to his room. He’s sitting on a little cushion on the floor, books spread out around him, his Lego creations abandoned a few feet away. Normally, he’d be reading out loud to himself, at least, but today he’s just looking at the pages.
My heart does this funny thing as if it’s spreading out like our failed batch of cookies last night. That fits. My heart’s probably overly salty, too. I’ve honestly never paid much attention to kids. Haven’t had a reason. But this one…I know him. Something’s wrong, and I need to find out what.
“How are you feeling, August?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“Do you have a headache?”
He doesn’t look up from his book filled with animals driving silly cars. “No.”
“Hungry?”
“No.”
“Tired at all?”
“No.”
Great. The kid learned a lesson from me and is answering in monosyllables. My verbal check in isn’t getting me any closer to an answer.
I would love to blow this off and tell myself everything is fine, but I can’t. It’s like the rare times on mountain trips when someone in my group complained of dizziness or headaches that turned out to be severe dehydration or altitude sickness.
Maybe August’s low-key day is part of a normal pattern. Maybe. My gut tells me I need to make certain.
“I think we should do a finger prick with the other blood sugar meter in a few minutes. Will that be okay with you?” Even though I’m convinced something’s off, I still want to get his consent if I can. He’s more on top of his diabetes than I expected him to be at his age. Each day, we’ve checked his numbers at meals together, and I help him input what he’s going to eat so the monitor can calculate the carbs. I won’t be surprised if he can do his own finger pricks and insulin shots without me even in the room to guide him.
If he doesn’t consent, well…our cozy friendship is going to get mighty uncomfortable when I have to whip out my “dad voice” on him. Assuming I have one.
“I’m not sick.” He still doesn’t look up, though.
“I just want to make sure.”
I go into the kitchen and look over his insulin kit again. He’s got a few emergency medications in here I hope we won’t have to use. I prep the lancet for the finger prick and get everything ready to check his blood.
I haven’t called Tess yet. Right now, I don’t have anything concrete to tell her. It’s just a hunch. As soon as I know more, I’ll update her.
August walks into the kitchen and glances at the insulin kit. “Finger prick time?”
He’s a brave little trooper, but it’s clear he’d rather not.
“I think we should.”
He moves closer to me, crawling into my lap. He rests his head on my chest, one hand curling into my T-shirt. He’s warm to the touch, but not burning up. I cradle him in my arms, wanting to do whatever I can to comfort him.
“I don’t feel so good,” he finally admits.
“I know. We’ll do this, and then if?—”
He tenses. Makes a guttural sound. And vomits all over my front.
Oh.
I run my hand over his hair. “I guess that explains a few things. Any more coming right now?”
He shakes his head, but after the last ten seconds, I don’t trust his judgment there. Not much I can do about it if he needs to go again.
“Okay, buddy, let’s get us both cleaned up, then we’ll do the finger prick.”
I strip both of our shirts off to deal with later and lead him into the bathroom. Grabbing the insulin kit on the way, I sit him in front of the toilet just in case we haven’t seen the last of the yucks.
“I threw up on you,” he says in a pathetic voice. “I didn’t mean it.”
I sit on the floor next to him, opening an alcohol wipe. “I know you didn’t. Sometimes it happens.”
Checking in with him first, I do the finger prick and apply the test strip. The glucometer readout is within five points of his monitor app. Just a stomach bug then, and not hyperglycemia.
But even a stomach bug can have devastating impacts on his blood sugar. We’re not out of the woods yet.
“I don’t want to have to go to the hospital again.” August takes my hand as if someone’s right outside, ready to drag him away in an ambulance. “I don’t like it there.”
I don’t like the thought of him there, either. Clearly, he experienced some worrying visits before they got his monitor and insulin pump. But just because they’re managing his diabetes better, doesn’t mean he’s forgotten what it’s like to be in the hospital.
I haven’t forgotten, either.
We’re both shirtless, and there’s a good chance more throw-up is on the way, but I wrap him in my arms and pull him into my lap. He’s clammy but not feverish, scared but not shaking. “I’m going to take care of you, okay? And when your Mama gets here, she’ll take care of you, too.”
He nods against me. “If I do have to go to the hospital, will you come with me?”
A month ago, I wasn’t even sure I liked kids. I didn’t know any and wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with one if given the opportunity. Now, I think I would burn down this whole town to make sure this child knows he’s safe.
I press an impulsive kiss to his temple. “I’ll be right there with you, buddy.”