Quite suddenly, the boy is interested in attending the monthly school dance? I guess that’s a good thing. At least, he’s pretty sure he wants to go. Yes. He wants to go. He’s sure. Huh. How about that.
Half an hour before the event, the parents plan to fill him up with cheeseburgers so that he won’t want to eat at the dance, where the advertised snacks are homemade cupcakes and packets of pretzels.
Waiting for burgers, he’s 53 mg/dL. He has Glucolift.
The boy’s phone dies. The parents are counting on that Share App. All casual-like, the mother stands by an outlet between a table for two truckers and a ketchup smeared trash bin. Hello, gentlemen.
The carbs hiding behind the grease of these fries will leap into action in a few hours. For added security the parents give a very cautious bolus, calling this 15g CHO.
The parents drop the boy off in the fog with his buddy and about a thousand other kids.
The parents run errands in between looking over each other’s shoulder at Share. The mother is sure she can piece together how much fun the boy is having from the points plotted on the graph.
She thinks, “Those french fries will start kicking in at any moment. He is having the time of his life.”
Totally. Time of life. Quelle bolus!
The parents think, “Should we text him?” They decide no. They should not. They should give a person some space for 45 more minutes.
The mother thinks this is not her *favorite* number right now, but the event is almost over and it’s not like it has a down arrow or anything. Also doesn’t it look like a tiny curl up since two dots ago?
The father is picking the boy up. The mother is at home, looking at this. She thinks, “I should text him to nudge him to eat Glucolift while he waits for Joe to get to the head of the pick up line,” and simultaneously thinks, “I should give him space; he has probably already been Glucolifted and texting would be app abuse.”
The mother thinks, “And now he’s on the way up and I bet he did have that Glucolift after all, just like I thought and here he is, he’s home! He’s telling us about Air Hockey and a rock wall and it was so much fun.” And the mother thinks, “Let’s give him a snack and ourselves an A+ for not texting and then let’s go to bed.”
Everyone snug in bed. Bigfoot/Joe Blue Jasmine.
11pm: Zzzt Zzzt Zzzt! LOW UNDER 80. Arrow down. Joe stumble out of bed for BG test.
JOE: He’s thirty-six. He’s never been this low.
(Bigfoot hide under covers, say to self think-think-think.)
JOE: Juice. I’ll get the juice.
BUBS: Nyah! I am ALL SWEATY.
BFOOT: Do you feel okay? You’re really low.
BUBS: I need food. I need a banana—two bananas. Can I have rice cakes with peanut butter? Two rice cakes with–no–THREE. And a glass of milk. I am so hungry. I need food.
BF: I’m sorry honey, you can’t eat that stuff until we make sure your blood sugar is coming up from the juice.
BUBS: NO but I need to EAT! I am so, so, so, so, so hungry.
JOE: I’ll go make the snack and maybe he’ll be up by the time it’s ready.
DEXCOM: (rude blaring nyurrr nyurrr nyurrr noise.) 45 mg/dL down arrow.
BF: Could you sit on my lap on the big chair while we wait for the snack?
BUBS: No. I really just want to sit on a flat surface. No offense.
BF: (Empty arms and lap ache from being empty.) Do you already feel kind of better?
BUBS: I’m not sweaty anymore.
VERIO IQ: 107 mg/dL.
BF: You can eat!
While Bubs eats, Bigfoot scrolls through pump history.
BF: Hon, you took like 8 units of insulin at the dance. Did you eat?
BUBS: Yeah, there was a lot of candy.
BF: But 8 units? That would be more candy than you could really even eat, I think. That would be like…120 grams…it would be like four whole big candy bars.
BF: Was the candy wrapped?
BF: Did you read the labels to see the carbs?
BF: Oh, right. it was probably too dark to see.
BUBS: No. I was just too lazy. It was small ones. I did my best to guess.
BF: That’s good that you remembered to take insulin, but can you see how it’s kind of dangerous to take too much?
BUBS: They played Uptown Funk.
This story no point except perhaps: mark beginning of person not living life as directed.