Page 86 of Make Mine Sweet
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“Do you have a headache?”
He doesn’t look up from his book filled with animals driving silly cars. “No.”
“Hungry?”
“No.”
“Tired at all?”
“No.”
Great. The kid learned a lesson from me and is answering in monosyllables. My verbal check in isn’t getting me any closer to an answer.
I would love to blow this off and tell myself everything is fine, but I can’t. It’s like the rare times on mountain trips when someone in my group complained of dizziness or headaches that turned out to be severe dehydration or altitude sickness.
Maybe August’s low-key day is part of a normal pattern. Maybe. My gut tells me I need to make certain.
“I think we should do a finger prick with the other blood sugar meter in a few minutes. Will that be okay with you?” Even though I’m convinced something’s off, I still want to get his consent if I can. He’s more on top of his diabetes than I expected him to be at his age. Each day, we’ve checked his numbers at meals together, and I help him input what he’s going to eat so the monitor can calculate the carbs. I won’t be surprised if he can do his own finger pricks and insulin shots without me even in the room to guide him.
If he doesn’t consent, well…our cozy friendship is going to get mighty uncomfortable when I have to whip out my “dad voice” on him. Assuming I have one.
“I’m not sick.” He still doesn’t look up, though.
“I just want to make sure.”
I go into the kitchen and look over his insulin kit again. He’s got a few emergency medications in here I hope we won’t have to use. I prep the lancet for the finger prick and get everything ready to check his blood.
I haven’t called Tess yet. Right now, I don’t have anything concrete to tell her. It’s just a hunch. As soon as I know more, I’ll update her.
August walks into the kitchen and glances at the insulin kit. “Finger prick time?”
He’s a brave little trooper, but it’s clear he’d rather not.
“I think we should.”
He moves closer to me, crawling into my lap. He rests his head on my chest, one hand curling into my T-shirt. He’s warm to the touch, but not burning up. I cradle him in my arms, wanting to do whatever I can to comfort him.
“I don’t feel so good,” he finally admits.
“I know. We’ll do this, and then if?—”
He tenses. Makes a guttural sound. And vomits all over my front.
Oh.
I run my hand over his hair. “I guess that explains a few things. Any more coming right now?”
He shakes his head, but after the last ten seconds, I don’t trust his judgment there. Not much I can do about it if he needs to go again.
“Okay, buddy, let’s get us both cleaned up, then we’ll do the finger prick.”
I strip both of our shirts off to deal with later and lead him into the bathroom. Grabbing the insulin kit on the way, I sit him in front of the toilet just in case we haven’t seen the last of the yucks.
“I threw up on you,” he says in a pathetic voice. “I didn’t mean it.”
I sit on the floor next to him, opening an alcohol wipe. “I know you didn’t. Sometimes it happens.”
