28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Celeste
Rowen has been sick for three days.
Three long, miserable days.
The virus started small with just a little cough and a fever that hovered around a hundred, but with diabetes, small things never stay small for long.
His blood sugars have been a disaster.
High.
Then crashing.
Then spiking again.
His Dexcom alarm hasn’t stopped screaming for almost forty-eight hours.
I haven't slept more than twenty minutes at a time.
Right now it's just after two in the morning, and the apartment feels too quiet except for the soft mechanical hum of the baby monitor sitting beside me on the coffee table.
Rowen fell asleep on the couch an hour ago.
His little body is curled under the blanket, cheeks flushed pink from the fever.
I check the Dexcom again.
312.
My stomach twists.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper.
I reach for the insulin pen again, drawing up another correction dose with hands that are starting to shake from exhaustion.
I hate doing this when he's sick.
Sometimes, insulin barely touches the highs when their bodies are fighting infection.
Sometimes it sends them crashing.
There's no perfect answer.
Just guesses.
Educated ones.
But guesses all the same.
Rowen shifts on the couch, letting out a soft whimper.
I move to him instantly.
“Hey,” I murmur, brushing damp hair off his forehead.
His skin is warm.
Too warm.
“My tummy hurts,” he mumbles sleepily.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
“I know, baby. The medicine will help.”
I press the insulin into his thigh gently, then kiss the spot.
Rowen barely reacts.
Usually he complains.
Tonight he's too tired.
That scares me more than anything.
I glance at the Dexcom again.
Still climbing.
328.
Something cold spreads through my chest.
High blood sugars during illness can mean ketones.
Ketones means danger.
I stand quickly and grab the test strips from the kitchen drawer.
“Ro, I need you to wake up for a second, I need you to go potty so we can check your levels” I say softly.
He blinks slowly at me as I help him sit up.
I guide him to the bathroom, supporting most of his weight with my arm.
I offer him the clean sterile cup to pee in and he does it half asleep.
He's too quiet.
Too sluggish.
That pit in my stomach grows deeper.
A few minutes later, the test strip changes color. I don’t even need to compare the strip to the chart on the side of the bottle. The color of the strip is dark. Too dark.
“Shit,” I whisper under my breath.
Moderate ketones.
Maybe higher.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to think.
Fluids.
Insulin.
Monitoring.
Those are the steps.
But his numbers haven't responded to insulin for hours.
And now the ketones are climbing.
My chest tightens as a thought pushes its way forward.
Hospital.
Rowen tugs weakly on my sleeve.
“Momma?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I feel weird.”
That does it.
Decision made.
Fear explodes in my chest.
“Okay,” I say quickly, forcing calm into my voice. “We're gonna go see the doctors, okay? They're gonna help you feel better.”
Rowen nods tiredly.
He trusts me.
God, that trust feels heavy tonight.
The emergency room lights are blinding.
Rowen is half asleep in my arms as I rush through the sliding doors, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it's going to crack my ribs open.
“My son is type one diabetic,” I say immediately to the nurse at the desk. “He's sick, and his blood sugars are over three hundred with moderate ketones.”
They move fast after that.
Within minutes, Rowen is on a hospital bed while nurses surround him, attaching monitors and starting an IV.
I stand near the wall, arms wrapped tightly around myself.
Watching.
Always watching.
The Dexcom receiver is taken off his waistband.
“We'll monitor him with our equipment,” the nurse says gently.
I nod numbly.
A doctor appears soon after, scanning Rowen's chart.
“Viral illness triggering diabetic ketoacidosis,” she explains. “You brought him in at the right time.”
My stomach drops.
DKA.
The three letters every diabetes parent fears.
“We're going to admit him overnight,” she continues. “Fluids and insulin through IV until his numbers stabilize.”
Overnight.
My knees feel weak.
Rowen looks so small in the hospital bed.
Too small for wires and monitors.
Too small for any of this.
His eyes flutter open.
“Momma?”
I rush to his side instantly.
“I'm right here, baby.”
“Can we go home?”
The question cracks something deep inside my chest.
“Soon,” I promise softly. “The doctors just need to help your body feel better first.”
He nods sleepily and drifts off again.
I brush my fingers through his hair, fighting the tears burning behind my eyes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I already know who it is before I even check.
Brett
Of course.
I stare at the screen.
Did you take him to the hospital yet?
My jaw tightens.
Another message follows.
You know the court won't look kindly on a kid constantly being hospitalized.
My chest fills with white-hot anger.
But underneath it sits something heavier.
Fear.
Because Brett isn't bluffing anymore.
He's building a case.
Using my son's illness as ammunition.
My hands start shaking.
I lock my phone and shove it back into my pocket.
Not now.
Right now, I just need to focus on Rowen.
I pull the chair closer to his bed and sit down, reaching for his small hand.
His fingers curl loosely around mine.
Outside the hospital room, machines beep, and nurses move through the halls.
Inside, it's just the two of us.
My sick little boy.
And me.
Alone.