I heard the crash. I heard the intake of breath. Something was wrong.
I called out to the kitchen, asking my son if he was still alive. He was. He had decided to cut his hand instead of a bun.
I went into check on the level of damage.
“Who knew that we had sharp knives!?” he exclaimed.
The blood was flowing and I reminded him not to get it on the food. It would spoil the aesthetics if nothing else. At that point blood splattered on the top of the loaf. I quickly told him “Don’t clean up your finger yet. Keep it bleeding! I will be right back. When was the last time you tested yourself?”
He told me it had been a bit. I rushed into my youngest son’s room and grabbed a meter. I brought it into the kitchen and applied the test strip to the decent sized pool of blood sitting on top of his finger.
He was 5.6(100). Life was good. Diabetes had not moved into his world. I did a small happy dance and suggested that he might want to clean up the blood that was dripping off of his hand. We went to the washroom, added the Scooby Doo Band aid and were good to go.
To the casual observer, I am sure that experience would have seemed bizarre. For us, it was the norm. We do not waste blood. My oldest son knows this and knows that cleaning a cut only happens AFTER the blood has been tested.
Okay it is a little warped but its what happens when diabetes has lived in your house for over 12 years!
Last night I wrestled my son to the ground and later heard about the consequences. You see said child, admitted that no he hadn’t been spending his time mulling over the perfect gifts to purchase for his devoted mother for either Mother’s Day or her birthday. In some countries I am sure his actions would have constituted a hanging offense but in our house in meant that I tackled him, interrupted his Wii game, pinned him down and tickled him. Thankfully I still have a few pounds and an inch or two on him so I can still win.
The downside to this fun when you have a child on an insulin pump who wears sites in his leg is obvious to those of us who live there. After the screams of “I’ve gotta pee!!!!”, came the grumblings of “You pulled out my site!”. With the cost of pump supplies being covered for us, it felt good to say “Well, just go and change it.” Once upon a time, I would have cried at the $20+ that I had just wasted even if it was in the name of fun.
Being a teen, my son was in no rush to change the site and Mom had visions of highs for the rest of the evening. The longer he waited, the less insulin he would get, the higher his bg levels would climb I was sure. Again, being a teen and being my son, he stated that the site was salvageable and he had simply taped it in place. I was worried. Was the site really still in? Yes he assured me as he headed off to the shower. His grumbling about being bested by his mother had been replaced by the comment that if Mom could wrestle him then wrestling with his brother should once again be allowed (It was discontinued after brother’s elbow met son’s eye and left a nasty shiner). I attempted to burst his bubble but he still was quite proud of his logic as he headed off for his marathon shower.
Once he undressed he proclaimed “Mom, I look like I have been shot!” What did that mean? He told me that there was blood all over his leg. I said that was it, the site was gone! He had to change it. He proceeded to shower and I never got to really check out the damage. He kindly left the dead and bloodied site in the shower for me though. Ironically he was disgusted when he found it on top of an envelope later. I had taken a picture and left it for him. He told me that the site should be in the garbage! Um, who left it in the shower to start with? Oy!