Passion Fruit

It is somewhat ironic that what we had on hand was passion fruit juice. Sam got addicted to it when we lived in Germany and every once in a while he will go to a specialty store and pick up a liter bottle of it. It had been in the fridge for about a week.

Sam was going down, he was giving Gabriel a kiss while he slept and he turned that corner. It was dark but I could tell. He stumbled a bit and was slow to respond. I asked if he was low and he snapped at me, so I knew, and I could tell that he was going down fast. I told him to lie down and I would go for something. I scrounged around the cupboards for the perfect thing that I knew he would eat without arguing about. Not honey, not milk, not chocolate. Then I remembered the juice. I also reached for the emergency shot, but no, not this time. I brought up the juice, but by now he couldn't sit up to drink it. So back down the stairs I went for a straw. I held the bottle up, I held the straw to his mouth, he drank. Slow and lazy, he drank. His belly was full and the bottle was half empty and he was no better. I suggested crackers, I had to describe how good they would taste. All buttery and melting in his mouth. He agreed. Down the stairs and up the stairs. I sat by the bed feeding the crackers one by one until he was back again. His hands weren't shaking, but his lips were numb, and would be for a while. His body was exhausted and his mind was scrambled, but he would once again be okay. Now he wanted chocolate and so down the stairs I went. Only this time I paused to catch myself from falling, from being dragged into the undertow of diabetes and to breathe. That is when I thought of the passion fruit juice. It is ironic: this passion fruit/this passion. I don't know how many more times we will go through this together. But we will go through it together and it will be passion that gets us through it.

I love you Sam, forever.