Most of today and part of yesterday have been about education. We’ve had nurses and doctors, dieticians and social workers, residents and aides, all throwing so much information at us that my head is spinning. To say that I’m overwhelmed is a huge understatement. Many times during our “lessons” I feel my eyes welling up and my throat tightening, emotion taking over again. It’s all too big. It’s all too heavy. And I am not strong enough. I can’t do it! Carbs, glucose levels, insulin measurements, Lantus, Humolog, Novalog, ketones, Glucagon—these are all things I know nothing about! I haven’t even heard of half of them! And now I’m expected to take my baby home and be the expert because if I don’t you could die! Isn’t that what they are essentially teaching me what to do? How to keep my baby alive? So I HAVE to do it—there really isn’t an alternative. I won’t ever get a break from it, not even a breather. In fact, I’m not even sure when Mom and Dad will ever be able to go out again. You will need constant care, constant supervision until the day that you are out of my care. Yes, anger settled in today. I keep trying to find a way out of all of this and reach only dead ends. I don’t want this life! I don’t want it for you and I don’t want it for me! My burden was heavy enough already! How will I fit diabetes into it? And for my 2 year old?!
So many friends, family, neighbors have sent well-wishes, prayers and concern our way. They want to know what they can do. Answer: Absolutely nothing. “I’m so sorry, we are praying for you, what can I do?” When really, deep down, they are saying, “Whew, sure glad that’s not me and my kid!” Unfortunately, there really is not a thing anyone else can do. Oh how I wish they could! Take it away! Make you not have diabetes! Wake me up! I know I’m not alone, that this happens to hundreds of kids all over the world, but to one so young? It just doesn’t seem right. At least if you were older I could explain a few things.
We had to start giving you shots today. That wasn’t fun. Mom and Dad practiced on each other with saline. The needles are so thin that there really isn’t much pain with the injections. You really don’t like them, nor the finger pricks. We are trying to involve you as much as possible, though. We ask you to pick a finger for us to test and, even though you are crying, you’ll give us a finger. It breaks my heart. You are our sweet little boy and I want to take this all away. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my heart I believe this disease will shape you into the man that the Lord needs you to be. You will bless others through this disease. It gives me a spark of hope.