You Know you are the Parents of a Diabetic Child when . . .

Here's a nod to the lighter side of having a diabetic child, which I have a hard time acknowledging.

Our monthly diabetes newsletter came today, and there was this list. There were 11 in the newsletter, but only a few were actually funny to me, so I'm only putting down those.

You know you are the parents of a diabetic child when . . .

-- Your husband names his internet gaming character "Lancet" (only sort of funny)

-- Everyone in the family says they are "low" instead of hungry! (Yes, this has happened in my family)

-- You stop calling them "sugar" and start calling them "splenda"

-- The ice cream truck speeds past your house so she doesn't have to answer questions about "how many carbs are in this?" (A shout-out to places that have been willing to be helpful to a poor mom trying to calculate carbs: At Jason's Deli they looked on the hot dog bun package for me; at O'Charleys -- miss that place! -- they brought me a whole binder to look through when ordering her meal; at Chili's they photo-copied several sheets of information for me to take with me for future reference)

-- Your endocrinologist is in your family picture. (kind of funny -- my diabetes educator who taught us everything we needed to know is the one I feel very fond of and think of her as a bff although I am sure she hasn't thought of me again since)

And, my personal favorite, although this hasn't happened to me personally yet:
-- You have no probelm asking your child if they are "high" in the middle of a public place

Wickedly Low

Here is the story of one of the scariest moments of my life. About a week or so ago, sometime in the morning between breakfast and lunch, Emily got a little fussy. I ignored her for maybe 10 minutes, at which point she came walking toward me, and stumbled. And fell. Face forward. With no effort to catch herself. And then just lay there wimpering. I said to Justin (12 yr. old brother), what just happened? And we both said, is she low? So I rushed her into the kitchen, and with shaking hands, tested her blood. The monitor just said "LO." So while Justin tried to find the users manual, to double check on how low it has to be to just say "LO" I started force feeding her jelly bellies, the closest fast acting food I could think of in my panic. She kept trying to go to sleep on my lap, but I kept her eating them. 15 minutes later, when we rechecked her, she was still only in the low 40's, so we kept feeding a little more fast acting, and then got her going on some longer acting carbs. 15 minutes later she was back to normal.

I've been a little more jumpy about her going low these days. I keep asking her: do you feel low? or: how are you feeling? or: are you sleepy because it is naptime, or because you are low? This morning she didn't want to get tested and eat breakfast (I think because she didn't want to get her shot -- we are, regretably, going through another "hate shots!" phase), she wanted to go for a walk first. She stood by the door with her hand on the handle, and said, "I not low! I pwomise! I NOT low!" I still tested her though. And she was right, she was 242. Which if you don't know, is high.

Touching Everything

I realized today how much everything is touched by Emily's diabetes. In some ways I feel like her being diabetic has taken our family and swallowed it whole.

Of course, days go by, and it is pretty much routine, and I just don't let myself think about it . . . it's always there, and it has become a part of the fabric of our lives, but I don't notice it much more than all the other threads, like changing diapers, and folding laundry, helping with homework, driving kids to and from, checking my email, feeding the baby . . .

Then today as I was putting Emily down for her nap, she asked for a song, and as I sang to her, "hush little baby" I stroked her arm. And suddenly I felt so sad I almost cried, because I knew that this was the tiny sweet arm that I have poked a little needle into so many many times in the 7 months since her diagnosis. At that moment it felt like her diabetes was a tangible thing, pressing against me. Not one thread running through, but a shroud dimming all the other colors of my life.

My life. I feel guilty for even thinking of it this way, but sometimes I get so tired of the impact her diabetes has on my life. I know that I should feel more sad for her, but I get tired of all the little changes, and the scheduling, and worrying, and the testing, and the shots and I just don't want to have to worry about it all anymore. I want it to go away. But it will never go away. Even when she moves out of my life and builds a life of her own she will be dealing with diabetes and the ramifications of it. Will I worry about her then, feeling then that death hangs just a little nearer to her than to my other children, or will I be able to let it go, let her husband worry for me, know that she can worry for herself?

I also thought again today about how I feel so passionately about Emily. I feel bound to her in a different way than any of the other kids. The shared pain of inflicting hurt and being hurt has molded us together in a special way. In her novel, The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver talks about how a mother always worries the most about her youngest. But even though Emily isn't my youngest, I think I probably worry about her the most, and that somehow gives her a special spot in my heart.

Amazing!

My sweet little diabetic daughter is so amazing! Here are two examples: One night after dinner, her daddy offered her a jelly belly (about 1 gram of carbs, which is negligible), and she looked at him with a puzzled look and said "but what if I('m) high?" (meaning, what if her blood sugars are too high). Wow. Another time at a swim meet, the swimming kids were all getting a treat, and they didn't do a very good job of being discrete with it, so daddy and I were chiding them for letting her see. One of them said, she doesn't want one anyway, right? and she said, "I can't. I [have] diabetes." I am so thankful for her and her amazing attitude. It isn't all easy, but she is such a blessing.