Christmas Wishes
As I was making lunch today, a snow day, Theo said to me, "It's amazing that you have to cook the food AND count the food."
It is, yes. I'm glad for the recognition, especially by the guy it's all for, and especially after a week when diabetes tested my will and soul.
Last weekend I found myself pretending, if that's even possible, that diabetes wasn't the elephant in the room. Casually I'd cook meals and not allow time for carb counting, though of course I had to, and of course the shot was waiting. Somehow, yes, I tried to play cool while doing my job. Maybe this was a good thing, but it felt like denial.
Sunday night, we're watching AFV, which is followed by Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. The kids always beg to watch the first part before heading off to bed, the part that gets Mom crying and Dad angry that he's been manipulated into crying.
"Sure, we can watch til the first commercial," I say.
The bus, blah blah, meet such-and-such family. The wife is visually impaired, the husband blind, both due to diabetic retinopathy.
I can see the wheels churning in Simon's head. Theo, for his part, simply remarks that it's a double bummer: diabetes and blindness.
The week continues. Monday, I'm featured as a D-Mom. Thursday, I'm called to attend a field trip; the teacher was unaware she needed to arrange with the trained personnel at school. Friday, I sneak Theo a snack in the dark of the theater, during an awful production of Alice In Wonderland.
Someone brings a birthday treat to school. It's ice cream, so Theo can't have it. He can't even take it home with him in the bags I've provided for treats. This doesn't faze him--he got to have a lollipop from the stash I fill in his classroom--but it's killing me.
Last night, there's a reception following Greg's church Christmas presentation. Theo loads his plate with cookies. "But he can't eat that, right?" person after person asked. Yes he can, I say, as I ruffle through the pages I've printed off the internet ("Carbohydrates in Cookies").
Five pages of this; I give up. I call it three units and give the shot while answering someone's question about something, and hoping Theo's rambunctious friend doesn't bump into him. Later he's low, but we give him a fix and check him while he sleeps. It works out. But no matter how hard I try, there's no wishing this away.
It is, yes. I'm glad for the recognition, especially by the guy it's all for, and especially after a week when diabetes tested my will and soul.
Last weekend I found myself pretending, if that's even possible, that diabetes wasn't the elephant in the room. Casually I'd cook meals and not allow time for carb counting, though of course I had to, and of course the shot was waiting. Somehow, yes, I tried to play cool while doing my job. Maybe this was a good thing, but it felt like denial.
Sunday night, we're watching AFV, which is followed by Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. The kids always beg to watch the first part before heading off to bed, the part that gets Mom crying and Dad angry that he's been manipulated into crying.
"Sure, we can watch til the first commercial," I say.
The bus, blah blah, meet such-and-such family. The wife is visually impaired, the husband blind, both due to diabetic retinopathy.
I can see the wheels churning in Simon's head. Theo, for his part, simply remarks that it's a double bummer: diabetes and blindness.
The week continues. Monday, I'm featured as a D-Mom. Thursday, I'm called to attend a field trip; the teacher was unaware she needed to arrange with the trained personnel at school. Friday, I sneak Theo a snack in the dark of the theater, during an awful production of Alice In Wonderland.
Someone brings a birthday treat to school. It's ice cream, so Theo can't have it. He can't even take it home with him in the bags I've provided for treats. This doesn't faze him--he got to have a lollipop from the stash I fill in his classroom--but it's killing me.
Last night, there's a reception following Greg's church Christmas presentation. Theo loads his plate with cookies. "But he can't eat that, right?" person after person asked. Yes he can, I say, as I ruffle through the pages I've printed off the internet ("Carbohydrates in Cookies").
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, enriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, enriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, enriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, enriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, enriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, enriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, unenriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, unenriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, reg, higher fat, unenriched | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, regular, lower fat | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, regular, lower fat | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, soft-type | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, soft-type | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, special dietary | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, commercially prepared, special dietary | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, dry mix | ||||
| Cookies, chocolate chip, dry mix | ||||
Five pages of this; I give up. I call it three units and give the shot while answering someone's question about something, and hoping Theo's rambunctious friend doesn't bump into him. Later he's low, but we give him a fix and check him while he sleeps. It works out. But no matter how hard I try, there's no wishing this away.
For the record, I wasn't crying. I had a cold...
ReplyDeleteGreg just wrote me on facebook and reminded me of your blog. I'm glad to read about your life again! It really sucks that Theo has diabetes. Being in the midst of our own health crisis with our son, (ask Greg to fill you in - he got the details on facebook, or the details are in our Christmas letter which will soon be on its way), I wonder if people say stupid things to you like "He couldn't have asked for a better mom to help him through this" or make me out to be some kind of hero. Like any of us have a choice. I'm amazed at the power of doing what you need to do. Anyway, I'm happy to be in touch again!
ReplyDeleteI really like your entry, Amy. Good to share the experience of mothering a child with diabetes. It is really tough. Amazingly, the long term health issues with diabetes haven't come up. We haven't gone out of our way to avoid the subject and haven't initiated it as a topic of conversation either.
ReplyDeleteThe holidays are tough because of all the treats. Guessing becomes a real art! Mark and I work together at estimation: "60 grams" "50 grams" -- "Alright, let's call it 55." Glad your guess went well.
Often it seems as if everything reminds me of something. Everything important, anyway. Some people won't discuss race because they don't want to offend. Some people are afraid to speak to me as they would to a non-wheelchair user. And I'm afraid of writing anything because I don't want to it to be the wrong thing.
ReplyDeleteExcept I can't imagine how difficult it is to undergo what you and your family are dealing with now, and I care about you. And that isn't good enough, but I read your writing, and I can learn about some of what you're experiencing through that. And I'm sending the love.
That's plenty good enough, Jennah. You and Mara are right: people say--or neglect to say--the darndest things. Mostly it's all with good intentions, but there are times when that's hard to remember. I still get physically ill every time I go to the school for anything diabetes related, even good things. Karen know all about this, too. Thanks, all, for commenting.
ReplyDelete