With the insurance paperwork, multiple doctors, a list of prescriptions, school forms and daily tasks, managing a child's type 1 diabetes feels a lot like a part-time job that lasts all day. It's not the only thing you do, but it's something you do all day long, and hopefully, there's a team of at least one working with you. My husband gets cc'ed on any diabetes-related email I write, because he might be the one to get the call from school tomorrow. Any insulin dose change gets written into our log, highlighted with a post-it, and verbally called out to Greg (or virally: You saw the Levemir change tonight, Dear?)
This system of cross-referencing at every turn makes this "job" feel like one I did many years ago. As a stage manager in professional theaters, I kept many a prompt book, which contained all the information needed to run a performance. Light cues, actors' blocking, costume notes...all in there. I was groomed in the "hit by a bus" school of stage management, which instructed us to be so clear as to be able to be dead and yet: the show would go on.
With diabetes, I have to think this way. I have to organize in a highly logical fashion, because Greg needs to be able to make decisions in my absence, and vice versa.
It's a very practical method, if a bit morbid and facetious, but selfless, too. Others come first: the show must go on, your death be damned.
What if we approached every job, every day, like this?
If this is all there is, how might I best spend today? What's best for those left? Have I done the best job I can with what I've been given?
It's tough to sustain this day in and day out, both on the job and as an approach to life. Today, there were things I did not do that I should have, and words left unsaid.
But I'm indoors now, and counting on tomorrow.