Page 87 of Make Mine Sweet
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.”
THIRTY
TESS
Drivingwhile on speakerphone isn’t technically illegal. The way I’m barreling through town probably is, though. Thankfully, August wasn’t with me when Ian called a few minutes ago to let me know about the vomiting. My poker face didn’t even try.
“Did you give him the anti-nausea medication yet?” Forever grateful for the stash of emergency meds August’s endocrinologist suggested I keep on hand.
“I did.” It’s weird that Ian’s “in charge” voice can comfort me even when it’s disembodied in the car, right? “Numbers are still good. Luckily, this happened before lunch, so he doesn’t have extra insulin on board.”
He could have crashed straight into hypoglycemia if he couldn’t hold down food he already took extra insulin to accommodate for. He still could if it takes him too long to eat or drink anything. A shiver of worry floats up through my chest, but I force it back down. I have to keep a clear head and not get caught up in potential scary scenarios. Work the problem, not my fears.
“Ketones?” I ask.
“Negligible.”
“Headache?”
“None.”
“Fever?”
“Mild. Ninety-nine-nine.”
Not bad, all things considered. But even with the anti-nausea medication, we’re only at the beginning of this illness.
“I’m here,” I hang up as I park in the gravel drive next to Ian’s SUV.
Definitely a record commute time, and not one I hope to repeat anytime soon.
I’m through the door and across the apartment in an instant. Seeing Ian standing in the doorway to August’s room, relief washes over me like a cleansing wave. We exchange small smiles, and I know I should thank him for everything he’s done, but I can’t shake out of Mama Bear mode. August first.
Voices come from his room, and I step inside, puzzled to see the small television from my room sitting on his dresser. It’s playing his favorite educational cartoon show about underwater explorers. Who are also animals. And some vegetables. Right now, they’re singing a song about lobsters.
It all makes sense when you’re five.
“Hi, Mama.” August’s propped up against pillows so he can watch the show. He’s got towels spread out around him and the small plastic trash bin from the bathroom at his side.
Dutch is also at the ready, sprawled next to him like he needs to maintain as much bodily contact as possible.
I curl up next to August and run a hand over his head. Warm, but not so feverish he’s burning up. I’ll take the small wins. “How are you feeling?”
