At ten, his pump trills, insistently. He turns off the alarm, and balances the last reaction.
His stomach feels like someone is driving a knife into it under his infusion set. He shifts in his seat to relieve the pressure. He plugs in headphones into his iPod and pushes through his calculus.
At twelve-fifteen, he goes to pee and get another bottle of coke. He works his second calculus problem.
At two-thirty, he goes for another soda. He drinks the can in a single gulp. It's sickly sweet and syrupy in his mouth. The carbonation is a relief, until it foams and leaves his mouth dry. The liquid is a relief, even though he knows water would be better. But, water cannot keep him awake. He needs this bitter medicine.
He finishes his calc at three. He has a history essay to write, but he is nauseous and tired. He can't go to class without his essay. He can't bear to write the essay. He wishes he had a pause button: something to let him control his life.
He's desperate.
He's alone.
He's exhausted, and probably half-baked with acidosis.
The idea dawns on him as quickly as a turtle runs a mile. No teacher can deny him acidosis as an excused absence. He'll spend the day sleeping. He'll have time to finish his history essay and check his chemistry problems. His life will be on hold, for just a little while.
He gathers his books.
His out of breath when he reaches the stairs, but he attributes it to exhaustion.
He chugs a water bottle.
He brushes his teeth.
His stomach still aches, but he shifts his sleeping position so he doesn't feel the pain. His pump chirps again, but he is too tired to hear. He turns it off automatically.
There was a time when Nick would have stirred in his sleep, but one of the most useful skills anyone sleeping near an insulin pump could learn was the ability to sleep through the various alarms. Nick has the additional advantage of being able to sleep through a fire alarm.
He is asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow.
He has found a way to take control of his life again.