I heard the crash. I heard the intake of breath. Something was wrong.
I called out to the kitchen, asking my son if he was still alive. He was. He had decided to cut his hand instead of a bun.
I went into check on the level of damage.
“Who knew that we had sharp knives!?” he exclaimed.
The blood was flowing and I reminded him not to get it on the food. It would spoil the aesthetics if nothing else. At that point blood splattered on the top of the loaf. I quickly told him “Don’t clean up your finger yet. Keep it bleeding! I will be right back. When was the last time you tested yourself?”
He told me it had been a bit. I rushed into my youngest son’s room and grabbed a meter. I brought it into the kitchen and applied the test strip to the decent sized pool of blood sitting on top of his finger.
He was 5.6(100). Life was good. Diabetes had not moved into his world. I did a small happy dance and suggested that he might want to clean up the blood that was dripping off of his hand. We went to the washroom, added the Scooby Doo Band aid and were good to go.
To the casual observer, I am sure that experience would have seemed bizarre. For us, it was the norm. We do not waste blood. My oldest son knows this and knows that cleaning a cut only happens AFTER the blood has been tested.
Okay it is a little warped but its what happens when diabetes has lived in your house for over 12 years!