You are not better than me…

You are not better than me if you check your child’s sugar more than I do.

You are not better than me if you only feed your child organic food.

You are not better than me if your A1C is a whole point lower than ours.

You are not better than me if you make your own granola.

You are not better than me if your child’s wake up number is lower than my son’s.

You are not better than me if your child eats a low carb diet.

You are not better than me if you control every number that pops up on your child’s meter.

You are not better than me if your child only uses 15 units a day and my son uses 30.

You are not better than me if you limit your child’s carb intake.

You are not better than me if you change your lancet at every poke.

You are not better than me if your child was in DKA at diagnosis.

You are not better than me if your child has been to the ER for high blood sugars.

You are not better than me if your 7 year old gives his own shots.

You are not better than me if your 15 year old does not check his own sugar yet.

You are not better than me.

I am not better than you.

We are simply soldiers…fighting in the same war…

Involuntary draft…voluntary warriors.

 

 

How dare you…

How dare you assume when my son’s blood sugars are higher than expected that it is something I am not doing.

How dare you assume when my son’s blood sugars are higher than expected that it is because I am not giving insulin.

How dare you assume when my son’s blood sugars are higher than expected that it is because I am not trying my absolute hardest.

Rest assured, how to keep my son’s blood sugars in check is on my mind 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. When I eat. When I sleep (or don’t sleep). When I am watching my kids boogie board. When I am food shopping. When I am watching TV. When I am on Facebook. When I am roller skating. When I am reading. When I am in the bathroom. When I am walking our dog. When I am getting the mail. When I am applying for jobs. When I am booking our vacation. When I am helping my husband in the yard. When I am putting my daughter’s earrings. When I am navigating the subway. When I am catching a cab. When I am getting dressed. When I am brushing my teeth. When I am getting a haircut. When I am working. Twenty-four seven.

Next time, before you assume it is me not doing my job as a pancreas, consider the following: puberty, hormones, stress, weather, illness, exercise, incorrect carb count on food, bad insulin, or bad insulin site as the possible cause.

Consider this too…I would kill for my son. It breaks my heart into 10,000 pieces every time he has a high blood sugar that I cannot figure out the cause. Until my dying breath, I will continue to work on my son’s numbers. I will never stop trying to figure out how to get his numbers as close to range as possible.

How dare you assume that I am doing anything less than everything I could possibly do.

Shame on you.

This was the flip…

The flip.

This diagnosis anniversary that flipped our years.

My son has now had diabetes longer than not. My son was diagnosed at age 4. Four glorious, shot-free, no-carb-counting, who-cares-what-my-baby’s-sugar-is years.

Fours years of tired just meaning tired. Four years of letting my baby sleep for as long as he liked. Four years of hungry just meaning hungry and whiny was just the sign of the age. Four years of tantrums…just because he was acting his age. Four years of ‘sure you can watch my son’ when I run to the store. Four years of ‘let’s all sleep late today.’

Four years without the big D.

This anniversary marked 5 years with D. Five years of counting carbs. Five years of shots and pump changes. Five years of weighing breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Five years of checking blood sugar over 10 times a day. Five years of feeling that empty pit in my stomach when my son falls asleep in the back seat on a long drive. Five years of feeling sheer terror when my son sleeps too late in the morning. Five years of screaming, “ARE YOU OKAY!?” when my son doesn’t answer when I call his name. Five years of dreading each school year. Five years of sleepless nights. Five years of crunching blood glucose numbers. Five years of interrupting my son’s life with blood glucose checks or to readjust his pump. Five years of searching for other moms that get me. Five years of watching my son deal with highs, lows and in-betweens.¬†Five years is 1,825 days too long to live with a disease that no one should have to live with, especially a child.

Five years of realizing my son is my hero. Five years of learning my son is the strongest little boy in the world. Five years of seeing my son handle more and more nonsense with regards to his diabetes. Five years of witnessing the patience my son has with a disease he never asked for. Five years of watching my son be just a kid despite living with a disease that could rob him of his eyesight, or make him lose a limb, or take him while he sleeps.

Five. Years. Too. Long.

Nine years of knowing my son is 1/2 of my heart and soul and I would be nothing without him.