9 O'Clock...

9 O'Clock last night...

The approach sounded a bit like an "Orignal" (pronounced "Ori-G-Nahl", a large ungainly moose ~ a vocab word attained from forced-family-fun while playing Balderdash).

The quick, loud, stumble down the stairs doesn't surprise me. My ears are in tune to beeps, rushing, and crashing and at times "thudding"... a life with "D".

"He's 33 ..." Dave is fumbling in our supply closet in search of a juicy juice ..."he's still breathing."

*ah-f*cking-"bonus"*

I grab a juice from the fridge and chuck it down the hall at Dave. He receives. He runs back up the stairs with more grace than his ungainly approach a second ago. The comfort of his fingers wrapped around the life-saving elixir providing him with agility, I imagine.

As I approach Joe's room...

I see my husband holding the juice box close to Joe's mouth. The straw is crammed into my son's sedate-slack lips. Dave is coaxing a sleeping-low-Joe with a straw-wiggle and a "Just drink Buddy...drink...you are low"...

A day-in-the-life of our night-in-the-life trying to "manage" Type 1 Diabetes...