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My husband gruffly interrupted my morning greeting with the usual question.

"What was Zoe's number?" he asked as he slid into his leather coat.

I tried to hide my irritation with a warm reply.

He gave a brief nod, as pleased as I was that the number was OK. It was a shifty promise that maybe she would make it through the school day with no complications or panicky phone calls from the teacher's assistant.

Meanwhile, I nursed a few hurt feelings. After all, I had made the effort to smile on this cold morning and fake a little wifely cheer.

I don't know why I was surprised at his query or his abruptness -- this is how we begin our days, commence our meals and end our nights.

These numbers that are too high, too low, a little high, a little low or on target shape and bully our lives.

Our oldest child, Zoe, is a Type 1 diabetic on an insulin pump.

When we said in sickness and in health 13 years ago, I didn't know we would be talking about our child.

Or that I would hold my breath so often.

The endless drama can wear on a marriage. And it binds us ever so close.

We don't always agree on the best course of action. When her sugar is high, my husband may vote for an immediate insulin shot while I suggest giving the pump a little longer to work its magic.

When she is slightly low, I may propose a glucose tab while he advocates merely dialing back her basal insulin.

On Saturday nights we confer on the wisdom of eating pizza.

Sometimes we discuss whatever is concerning us further, sometimes we actively disagree and sometimes we say nothing.

Sometimes he is right, sometimes I am right and a lot of the time, neither of us is right.

But it isn't about being right or who had the best idea.

There is no room in our house for harsh words or finger pointing. We are a team. No one will ever love or care for Zoe like my husband does. No one else will ever so gladly awaken at 3 a.m. to make sure her sugars have stabilized as he does.

Sometimes the roller coaster of emotions is too much. Maybe her day began with a scary low and ended with a dangerous high.

Only my husband understands my sorrow and can offer the needed comfort late at night. He can reassure me that she will be fine, that she is tough and brave and doesn't mind all the pricks and pokes.

But I mind.

And he knows just how much I mind.

So when we say or do the wrong thing, we hold our tongues and measure our words carefully. I can see him pondering each sentence like a well-seasoned public official and I try to do the same.

Because this long journey of keeping Zoe healthy is far from over, my husband can be curt from time to time.

He's more than earned that right.

Contact Janice Carmac at janice.carmac@news-record.com or 373-7098.