Waking my 11-year-old at 2 am

He hits me flat-handed
and he’s not even awake to apologize.
He hits me when the lancet hits
his finger, before I get the jewel
of blood onto the test strip.
I try again, don’t blame him.
How could he feel this diagnosis
as anything but assault.
The glucometer beeps and I take out a juice.
You’re low I say though he’s not awake.
I pull on his shoulders and he whines.
Get up I say. Drink this I say.
His insulin pump beeps, tardy in its duty
but effective in breaking through sleep.
My son moans, growls, wobbles
to an upright seat—I can’t have him choking.
I hold the juice box to his mouth
and remind him to drink, to drink more,
to drink again, to drink it all up. He hates me.
I allow him to lie back but I watch
for breathing, for color in his moony face.
I watch how his jaw twitches and see
subtle angles emerging, a cross
of Peter Pan and Christopher Robin.
His elongated limbs twist within the sheet
and break free. I wait out fifteen minutes
and repeat protocols. This is how it is now,
how I get to be by his side.