Loud crystal drops are calling to me in the dark stillness of my bedroom. They echo, over and over, striving to pull me out of a deep slumber, although it doesn’t take long for me to open my eyes. I loathe their annoying persistence, and yet, I am grateful at the same time. I chose this cell phone alarm setting thirteen years ago (from a long list of choices)—and not once has it ever let me down.
When Micah was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, his pediatrician advised us to check his blood sugar level during the early morning hours to make sure he wasn’t too low or high. If we slept through the night, not realizing his blood sugar was low, we ran the risk of him not waking up in the morning. Dead in bed is a hideous phrase most of us who have children with t1d have heard in describing this terrible outcome. But scary as they may be, these three words keep me vigilant. So, despite the technology that changes and improves frequently, my alarm will always be set for two a.m. Some might call me type A, perhaps others would label me a control freak. All I know is that checking his number during the night gives me peace of mind.
When I awaken to the drops, I waste no time in hitting the alarm’s red delete button, then I find the green app that shows Micah’s blood sugar number. Perhaps I see that he’s 130 (his range is 80-150), so I decide I can go back to sleep; he should be okay until morning. I can stay under the covers and drift off to sleep, feeling thankful for a solid connection.
Those same crystal drops will sound the next night, and, like always, I will awaken and go through the same steps. However, when I open the green app, this time I might see the words Signal Loss. Now, instead of putting my head back on my pillow, I will force myself out of bed and walk through a few rooms and into the mudroom where I take Micah’s small black diabetes test kit out of his school backpack. When I reach his bedroom, I will grab a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom and wet it. I will sit beside him on his bed and clean the fingers of one of his hands. “Why won’t it show my number?” he will ask groggily.
“It will soon. Isn’t it nice that we have this backup way of seeing where you’re at too? Remember, this is the way we always used to do it.” I’ll say soothingly, trying to diffuse his agitation.
I will prick his finger with a pen-like device, then draw the small drop of blood onto the test strip I’ve inserted into the glucose meter. It will read 95. He’s not low but needs at least one carb to get him through the rest of the night. I’ll grab one of the small apple juice boxes from his nightstand, fit the straw inside, and tell him to drink. When he’s finished, I’ll kiss his forehead and tell him to go back to sleep. Then I’ll head back to my room, knowing I’ll need to set my alarm again, so I can check to make sure his blood sugar is going up. I will silently tell myself that it’s going to be a very long day.
It’s been three years since Micah started wearing a continuous glucose monitor. After ten years of manually testing his blood sugar eight to ten times a day, we were elated to be able to see his numbers on our cell phone screens. No more finger sticks I announced to everyone, words I’ve eaten many times since. But, despite the imperfections, I’m still very thankful for the advances. And most of the time, the numbers show up when they’re supposed to.
Maybe someday technology will reach perfection. An even greater hope is that we’ll see the day when there is a cure for type 1 diabetes.
In the meantime, those crystal drops will continue to summon me in the night, reminding me to keep Micah safe—to lift my head from the pillow and check his blood sugar. One way or another.