Now I waited. I didn’t know who to call. His brother was in jail, and he didn’t talk to his parents. I could have texted Cody, but I wasn’t sure if he’d want the guys knowing about this. So I just sat there in the same hospital I was born in and stared at the same piece of peeling pink wallpaper for nearly an hour, all the while going over scenarios in my head.
Why didn’t I kiss him yet?
I was scared of him hurting me, that’s why.
But now I was scared he could die without me ever getting the chance to kiss him. What would I say to him when he woke up? What if this happened again? My mind spun like a dryer on high until the doctor came out.
“Family of Ethan King.”
I leapt up. “That’s me! Is he okay?”
The doctor motioned for me to enter a more private room.
Answer the question, motherfucker! Is he okay?I wanted to scream but forced myself to stay civil.
He looked at his papers. “Okay, Ethan King, type one diabetic, was brought in—”
I grabbed the doctor’s arm. “Is. He. Okay?”
He looked up from his papers and I could see the bags under his eyes more clearly. He was too young to be a seasoned veteran, probably a fucking intern.
“Yeah, he’s fine. It looks like he took his long-acting insulin this morning instead of his short acting.”
The breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding whooshed out of me. “Thank God.”
The doctor went on: “The long acting insulin is only given once a day. He took it last night and this morning. Basically a double dose and it brought him too low. It could have been avoided had he been wearing a continuous glucose monitor. I’m surprised he doesn’t have one.”
Whatever it was, we needed it. “What is it and how can we get one?”
The doctor nodded. “It’s a little device the size of a quarter that he wears on his abdomen. A small catheter reads the interstitial fluid, giving him a constant reading of the blood sugars, which he won’t even feel. He changes it out every two weeks and it sends the continuous glucose readings to his phone. It will sound the alarm if he’s too high, too low, or falling too fast.”
Jesus, why didn’t he have one? “Can you get us one?”
He nodded again, like a robot. “I’ll write a prescription. Hopefully his insurance covers it. They can be pricey.”
They better fucking cover it. I didn’t have the tits to be a stripper.
He scribbled a few more things down on his paper. “You’re his … fiancée? You live together?”
I may or may not have thrown the F word around when hospital admitting came by. “Yes. We live together.”
Not a total lie.
“You can set your smartphone to get alerts as well. So if he drops too low during sleep, it will set off an alarm and you can wake him.”
Guess who was finally getting a smart phone. Ethan was worth it. I didn’t care how much it cost.
“Thank you so much. Can I … see him now?”
The doctor did another little bobblehead nod. “Yeah, we just want to monitor him another few hours and then he can go home.”
“That’s it? He almost dies and we’ll be home in a few hours?” They must need the empty bed.
The doctor shrugged. “Unfortunately, this is common in diabetics. They get too low or too high and need to come in to be medically managed. Then we send them out again. He looks like he’s in shape and eats well. I’m sure we won’t be seeing you again anytime soon.”
You bet your fucking life you wouldn’t.
“Thank you. Please don’t forget that prescription.”
