Fourteen feels like a lifetime, and yet it’s a lifetime for which I hope.
Storytime.
I was talking to my daughter without Type 1 the other day. She is 21 months younger than her brother. I was telling her a cute story from when she was in Kindergarten.
She was in a half-day morning program that got her home around 11:35 am. She rode the bus to and from school like a big girl. As a parent of a little one, we were obligated to stand at the end of the driveway to get our babies off the bus. One particular morning the bus rolled up and opened its door for me to greet my daughter, but she was not there to greet me. Usually, when the doors opened, she did not step off. Usually, she was right there, a smile on her face, waiting for the doors to open.
On this day, she was not there.
I peered through the doors of the bus, said hello to the bus driver while simultaneously seeing my daughter, my 5-year-old, with her body leaning forward, forehead pressed against the seat in front of her and eyes closed. I could not tell if she was breathing. She looked asleep. I smiled, and said aloud, “Oh my poor baby is so tired. Look at her,” as I quietly whispered to my daughter that she was home and to, “Come to mama.”
I was robbed of these sweet moments with my son. Sleeping at odd times, laying down in the grass for too long, not waking up when called all elicited feelings of fear in me. I was robbed of moments like, “Oh he’s sleeping late, glad we all slept in,” or “He’s so quiet downstairs, he’s being a good boy,” or “Look at him laying with the dogs in the grass.” Everyone one of these moments was followed by a shake to wake him up *sometimes a loud scream of his name) and a finger prick.
Every. Single. One.
Sure I have lots of sweet moments with my son, too many to count, but none of them involved him sleeping or resting peacefully.
Having diabetes is an all-encompassing, ever-present, existence and at the same time, it’s not.
My son has diabetes but it doesn’t have him. And I got my son. Fourteen deep.
Hey, diabetes. For old times’ sake. Fuck you.