Today was that day we all dread…the diabetes clinic day. It started badly. We circled the hospital parking lot forever waiting and waiting for a spot to become vacant. My son rode shotgun and called out “Over there! There’s a truck…too late. Follow that little old lady, she’s…nope someone got there first.” This was our morning for close to 45 minutes. We were late for our appointment.
I was only mildly concerned because, like all good doctor’s offices, I knew that this one would also be running behind. I was right. The time spent looking for a parking spot was the time we otherwise would have spent sitting in the waiting room.
Relatively quickly, we were ushered into a room and waited for our numerous visitors. The first person to come in and chat wanted to know how things were going at school. Did we have any issues? Did we need her to call the school? No, we were doing alright there. The issues I had at school were not anything that would be fixed by a phone call. I needed my son to be a little more visible with his diabetes and be less self-conscious about testing. No one could fix that but us.
I was surprised to see my son’s doctor arrive next. I have been lucky to have had great doctors for my son since his diagnosis. She asked him how he was doing, asked about any illnesses and then turned to me for basal rates. She looked at his age and asked him how long he had had diabetes for. My son was stuck.
He looked back at her with a blank expression. I could tell that he was thinking, “What do you mean? I have always had diabetes. I can’t remember when I was diagnosed. I can’t remember my life before.” Instead he just said “I don’t know.”
I piped up and said that it would be twelve years on Saturday. She smiled and said that Mom never forgets. How right she was.
Ironically, on our drive to the hospital that morning, the conversation of my son’s diagnosis came up. He asked a few questions and I told him that he had escaped Death’s grasp those many years ago. He was rather silent and then said, “I am glad that I don’t remember any of that.”
I smiled. I wish he remembered life before needles and testing. I wished he remembered a time when it hurt to lance his fingers–he told the nurse today that he no longer feels these things. I hope for a tomorrow when he can look back and say “I used to have diabetes.” For now, I just remember how far we have come and continue to grateful every day that my small little boy didn’t answer the door when Death came knocking almost twelve years ago.