Sometimes I'm like a state trooper knocking on her window.

"Ma'am, are you aware of the fact that your son's blood sugar is 444?"

"What? No!"

"Yes, ma'am. (showing the meter) I've got him at 444."

And then I'm a detective.

"Did your son have anything unusual for dinner? Maybe something he hadn't had before? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"No, officer. Just toast. I made him a turkey club sandwich."

"Mmhmm, and anything on the side?"

"Well, just a couple chips but those don't do much to his blood ..."

"Mmhmm, that's fine. Thanks ma'am."

"And what about dessert? Did you give your son dessert this evening?"

"No. He didn't have dessert."

"Are you sure ma'am?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

More than eight years in, and I am still searching for answers where there are none. Digging for clues. Pointing fingers. Still hanging on the naïve belief that there must be a logical reason for the irrational behavior of blood sugar. I need to know that something is somehow directly responsible. That there is a fixable cause to the unfortunate effect.

Because if not, then what?

Susanne sighed.

"I hate this. I hate 400s."

Sometimes I'm the cross examiner.

"So, let me understand this correctly. You removed his insulin pump to run the insulin into the sink and you gave him an injection but you then forgot to put the insulin pump back on him???"

That's correct.

"Sort of bad timing to forget to put the pump back on him when his blood sugar is 444, no?"

Yes. It was terrible timing.

Sometimes I feel like it's more than I can handle.