I’ve neglected this blog thing for awhile. Anyway, here is a column from the Esquimalt News I wrote just this week.
There is a long list of things I hate about my daughter’s diabetes. I mean things above and beyond the obvious ones of her having to puncture herself several times a day to measure blood sugars or administer insulin. Or all the things the future holds if my angel doesn’t keep her blood sugars in a reasonable range: blindness, kidney failure and limb amputation, to name a few.
Nope, there are a few other things, admittedly a little further down the list of concerns and irritations this pancreatic spanner caused when it was tossed into the general works of my life. Yes, I said “my life”. Sometimes, believe it or not, it really is all about me. If I can take on all the guilt and blame that goes along with the price of admission to parenthood, surely I can also lay claim to some sympathy time for those moments when my little bundles of joy bring home injured birds, weird friends, contagious diseases for which I have no immunity and the odd chronic illnesses for which there is no cure.
Yes, I know, she is the one with the insulin pump keeping her alive by means of a thin tube of plastic and a wicked long needle she has to re-insert every three days into another place on her tummy. She is the one who has to do the finger pokes and take insulin and get paraded in front of a series of medical professionals on a regular basis, every one of which asks the same questions and stress the same need to be vigilant about her blood sugars. Not only does she get the standard haranguing from parents about her homework, the current bio-hazard rating of her bedroom and “who was that boy you were talking to?”; she also has to put up with being reminded several times a day to do finger pokes, what was your last blood sugar, is it time to change your pump site, how many carbs are in that cookie and did you increase your insulin enough to take care of it?
Here is the true evil of this particular illness: it hits kids. From babies to teenagers it robs them of their childhood and burdens them with the dark truth of their mortality. If there is one thing I hate the most about this wretched disease it is that my daughter was robbed of those precious years of her childhood dreams of immortality. When she was 10 she had to grow up overnight and realize life could end for her in an instant.
How can this be about me, I hear you ask. Well, let me put it this way; ask any mother if she’d stand in front of a gun to save her child or face down any threat to her baby. I’m pretty sure most fathers would gladly arm themselves with a butter knife and fight a bear if it would save their little girls from one broken heart. Now, ask which will hurt more, a bullet, a bear or the knowledge there isn’t anything you can do to keep the hurt and the broken heart out of your baby’s life?
Being a parent of a child with diabetes means knowing he or she has to physically hurt themselves repeatedly throughout the day in order to stay alive. It means dealing with the emotional fallout when a well meaning adult- who doesn’t know there are three types of diabetes, two of which have nothing to do with the current catch phrase of “lifestyle choices” – teaches your daughter’s class that diabetes is caused by being fat, lazy and eating too much junk food.
Then there are those dear folk that insist on taking her or me or her grannie aside to tell them insulin only makes diabetes worse, she should be taking this vitamin or going to that naturopath or eat a diet of tofu and groats. Fortunately, my daughter has more sense than a lot of adults.
I guess it is more accurate to say we are a family with diabetes because it affects every single one of us. Even the dreaded big sister, who will smother me in my sleep for what I am about to reveal, knows she can’t protect her rotten little sister from this one cowardly bully. Hard to believe, I know but it’s true. One day at school her class was lined up for a vaccination against one of the many Ite-esses starting with the letter H. A girl in the line kept whining about why do they torture kids this way, gawd, like, the size of the needle, the pain, how sick she was last time…the usual things. My first born fixed this classmate with her patented dead fish stare and said “quit your complaining, friend, my sister has to do this four times a day. Be grateful.” She may have used a fewer words and slightly more pithy language but that was the gist of it. Now I have to go into the parent protection program.
Okay, there are a whole of things I really don’t like about juvenile diabetes. At this time of year, however, I’m supposed to be upbeat and talk about how close medical research is to actually sending this particular demon back to the seventh level of hell where it belongs. And it is; it really is getting closer every day. But close only counts in horse-shoes and hand grenades, as the old saying goes. And lab rats don’t work for free, y’know.
So, when it comes to my daughter I’ll swallow my pride, brow beat my co-workers, friends and family to pledge me in the June 12 Walk to Cure Diabetes. Whether I like doing it or not, at least it is one way I have of actually doing something. And it is a little less painful than wrestling with a bear.
If you want more information, go to the website www.jdrf.ca . If you don’t have a computer, call the foundation, toll free, at 1-877-287-3533. Or come down to Beaver Lake this Sunday, June 12, around 10:30 a.m.. There’ll be information, balloons and lots of people being more upbeat than you’d ever believe possible. We can always use a few more feet on the walk and a few more dollars to fight the devil.