Last night I woke up at 3am as usual. I grabbed my housecoat and headed across the hall to test my son. He was low. He had been high the night before but a site change and set things back on track…he was now low.
I decided against feeding him glucose tablets because of his aversion to the “glucose hangover”. I headed instead to the kitchen to grab a glass of juice. Just in case, I added extra sugar. It was 3am and I really did not want to be up until after 4. Armed with juice and straw, I headed back to his room. I touched the straw to his lips and watched him drink it down like so many times before.
I went to my room to grab a book and my glasses. I had at least fifteen minutes to kill before retesting so it was time to get an Iris Johansen fix. I curled up on the couch and settled into my novel. I kept my phone nearby so I could see when my time was up. Fifteen minutes quickly passed. I slowly walked back to his room. I tested him and he was in range.
Normally I would remember the reading that allowed me to leave my book for the night but last night was different. It was overshadowed by a sadness. I don’t normally allow any sadness or much pity to enter my life when it comes to diabetes. I have had a “no nonsense” approach since I learned my son would live. It has served me well for over 11 years. Don’t get me wrong, at 5 am, after two hours of battling a low, I do still have meltdowns and the “why me??’s”.
Last night, something different took over. It was a complete sadness. A sense of futility. I looked at my son sleeping in his bed. I knew how lucky we were. I was grateful for a five second meter. I appreciated the pump that kept his life almost “normal”. I was glad that I was able to wake so often and catch both highs and lows.
All of that paled in that moment for some unknown reason. I looked at his sleeping form, peaceful and without a care, and I saw no end. I saw no end to the highs and lows at night. I saw no end to the testing–no end to the worries. I saw him becoming a man and carrying this burden himself. I saw him trying to balance the financial burden with his need for quality health care. For just that moment, there was no stopping the sadness–the desire to take it all away while knowing that you can’t. I felt hopeless.
I slowly walked back to my room with a tear stain on my heart but in the morning I would be ready to face things again. We can only take each day as it comes, brush away the sadness, and hope for a better tomorrow.