Page 467 of End Game

He was working at the bar last night, so he’s playing some catch-up.

“I went to urgent care yesterday because apparently seeing my actual primary-care provider while actively sick now requires scheduling the illness six business days in advance.”

Dex winces. “A week?”

“Closest appointment they had.”

He scoffs. “Very efficient healthcare system we've built.”

“Right? I especially enjoy that Griffin pays hundreds of dollars a month for the privilege.”

The urgent-care doctor hadn't seemed particularly impressed by my symptoms, which was reassuring in its own way. Burning, urgency, frequency, some lower abdominal pressure. Urine sample. Antibiotics. Culture sent off to make sure we weren't treating the wrong thing.

Annoying, but boring.

I like boring medical problems.

Boring medical problems get pills and go away.

The antibiotics are already helping, which is the best part of this morning. I only woke up like ten times last night to pee instead of approximately forty-seven times I got up the night before, and for the first time since yesterday afternoon I don't feel like someone has replaced my bladder with a tiny angry hedgehog.

My blood sugar, unfortunately, has chosen violence.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Dex looks at it.

Then at me. “That's the angry one.”

“I know.”

My Dexcom is reading 238 with a diagonal-up arrow.

Again.

I sigh and pick up my phone.

Of course it is.

I've been diabetic long enough that “you're sick your insulin needs might go up” isn't useful information anymore. I've heard versions of that sentence from endocrinologists, emergency room doctors, diabetes educators, nurses, handouts, discharge instructions, and approximately every piece of sick-day guidance written in the last decade.

I know.

My body is fighting something.

My blood sugar is being an asshole about it.

This morning I woke up at 226, corrected, drank enough water to qualify as my own municipal reservoir, ate breakfast, and corrected again when breakfast did what breakfast does.

By late morning, I was back under 180.

Good enough.

More importantly, the correction had worked.

So when the number starts climbing again, irritation comes a lot faster than fear.

Micah glances toward my phone. “That bad?”