10 years…

10 years…

10 years of checking…checking blood…checking insulin pumps…checking if he’s high or low or somewhere in between…checking if he’s ok, I mean REALLY ok…checking if we’re good…checking if we got this.

10 years of needles…from syringes to pen needles to insulin pump inserter…10 years of OUCH and sometimes DAMN and other times TEARS…10 years of did that go in right…will this do what it’s supposed to do…or will things go wrong.

10 years of stopping…stopping playing because of a low…stopping eating because of a high. ..stopping sleeping because we need a drink…10 years of stopping breathing because I hear no noise from the basement…10 years of stopping in my tracks on the way to his bedroom hoping he is breathing.

10 years of numbers…10 years of blood glucose checks…45, 155, 400, 1250…10 years of ratios…1:45, 1:100, 1:10, 1:80…10 years of basal rates….05, .90, 1.24, 1.40…10 years of adding, subtracting, counting, covering, and weighing.

10 years of little sister taking the back seat…10 years of interrupted stories for a low…10 years of interrupted mommy time because of a high…10 years of waiting for the attention to be back on her…10 years of hoping to be the center of attention without interruption.

10 years of starting…starting Kindergarten…starting Middle School…starting High School…starting sleepovers…starting roller coasters…starting parties without mom…10 years of starting creating a greater distance…starting to become independent…starting to find ourselves again.

10 years of ignorance…10 years of can he eat that…10 years of my grandmother went blind from diabetes…10 years of too bad he ate junk food to get this disease…10 years of stares…10 years of judgment…10 years of impositions…10 years of educating the masses.

10 years of friendships…10 years of crying on shoulders of people that get me…10 years of questioning my worth as a mom…10 years of needing reassurance that I am doing the best I can…10 years of talking me off the ledge or pushing others back on the wall…10 years of ‘you got this’ and ‘you are doing great’ and ‘i love you’.

10 years of worry…10 years of waiting…10 years of anger…10 years of pain…10 years of questions…10 years of strength…10 years of awe…10 years of bravery…10 years of hero status…10 years of it is what it is…10 year of kicking diabetes in the ass.

10 years of winning.

Go to hell, diabetes, today and everyday.

Share

Teenage hands.

When we (yes, I typed ‘we’) were first diagnosed almost ten years ago, my son was a baby. A real live 4 year old baby. A baby in many other people’s eyes too. I mean, c’mon, 4 year olds are still adorable, cute, funny, silly and well, babies.

I used to test his blood using his teeny, baby fingers. I would hold his little, yet chubby, hand in my hand. I would separate one tiny finger away from his chubby friends and I would make him bleed. I would poke a needle into my baby’s chubby finger, to make blood flow, to check his sugar. Check his sugar to see if it was too high, too low, or just right.

I remember thinking and even saying out loud to some of the more seasoned moms, “I will never be able to do this to a teenage boy hand.” I mean, c’mon, teenage boys are smelly, gangly, goofy, and sometimes even obnoxious. Never mind thinking where there hands have been. Teenage boy hands are in places that no mama wants to think about. Sorry for making you think about that.

But, alas, here we are. Here I am with a teenage boy. A 13 year old to be exact. And I can now tell you first hand, that teenage boys are indeed smelly, gangly, goofy and sometimes even obnoxious, but yet, he is still my baby boy. The world sees a 5′ 10″ pre-man, yet, for some reason I still see my 4 year old baby. I still see his chubby cheeks, his two missing front teeth and his teeny, yet chubby, baby hands.

I see his little chubby hand when I dig it out from under him while he sleeps. And in the wee hours of the morning, as I hold his now larger than my hand, if I take pause for a moment, I can still feel his tiny, baby fingers. The slight weight of his tiny hand in mine. How his little fingers curl in tiny fist as I try to separate one friend from the others. So much time has passed since our diagnosis, but in the dark, for those middle of the night checks, it’s just us. My baby and me. Tiny hands turned big. Broken heart turned strong. Little boy turned almost a man. Forever my baby. Forever my heart.

My baby and me.

 

Share

Eight years…

Eight years feels like a lifetime. But I certainly know it’s not. It flew by in the blink of an eye, or rather a

click of a poker.

 

I want to share with you some things I’ve learned over these last 8 years A TOP TEN list if you will.

 

1.The experienced T1 moms were and still are right. They are the BTDT of my world. Everything they

told me and continue to tell me is like a look into my future.

And they will be surviving.

 

2. Those same T1 moms (that I kind of hated in the beginning ‘cause they knew everything) would

become my closest friends, cheerleaders, advocates, and shoulders to cry on.

And they will tell you that you will survive.

 

3. I would send my son to school with a sugar of 400.

Correct that nonsense.

Peck on the cheek.

Slap on the butt.

Have a nice day!

And he will survive.

 

4. Number 3 does not make me a bad mom, in fact, it makes me a great mom.

And survival seems like we’re low balling.

 

5. There will be people that refuse to learn about type 1 diabetes, people that know ‘too much for their

own good’ about type 1 diabetes, those that know nothing but want to learn, and those that are

completely indifferent to type 1 diabetes. It’s my job to be educate and be patient with them all.

You pray for their survival in the meantime.

 

6. Both you and your kid forgetting you have Type 1 diabetes can be a good thing in most cases.

Survive, hell, thrive.

 

7. When you are 50 miles from home, your POD (diabetes insulin pump) will fail, and you will not have

any insulin.

Or the test strip container sounded like it had more strips than it really does.

Or the insulin you thought was fast acting, was indeed, long acting. Why do they look so similar?

And you will cry, and then survive.

 

8. You will stay awake checking blood sugar and blood ketones every hour on the hour for as long as it

takes when your child with Type 1 diabetes is sick.

And you will drink coffee likes it’s air, and survive.

 

9.Swimming in oceans, going on bike rides, sleepovers at friends house, roller coasters and other

activities that out of arms reach are going to cause stress. Stress and worry like no one can ever

understand unless you’re a mom or dad of a child with T1.

And you both will hold your breath until your back on firm ground, and of course, survive.

 

10, Your kid’s friends’ parents will tell you that you are doing an awesome job with him, because of how

he handles his diabetes like a boss.

 

Like. A. Boss.

 

Survival is for amateurs…more like kicking ass and taking names.

 

Like. A. Boss.

 

 

Share