A Daughter with Diabetes

           Three weeks ago, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. After the barrage of normal questions regarding my health and family history, and after the routine peeing in a cup, the nurse tested my hemoglobins with a prick to the finger. It was, as always, more shocking than painful. However, immediately upon being stuck, I began to tear up. All of a sudden, after six months, I felt my daughter’s daily pain.

            Even before Lily-Anne was officially diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, I suspected that she had the disease.  Not only had she woken up from several naps, shaking from head to toe, but she also suddenly began voraciously drinking and peeing, leaking through diapers within a coupe of hours of changing her. However, it wasn’t until she began vomiting and became extremely lethargic that I knew definitively that something was terribly wrong. Even Jody, who never shows worry, expressed concern over her condition, urging me to get her into the doctor.

            Because her doctor was off that day, I made an appointment to see the nurse practitioner. It wasn’t until I expressed my concern that the NP decided to test her blood glucose levels. Lily-Anne’s regular nurse performed the test and immediately ran out of the room without a word to me. When she returned with the doctor on call and the nurse practitioner, I was informed that Lilly-Anne’s blood glucose was 488 (normal is 80-200). Her diagnosis was definitive. We spent the next 3-4 hours in the ER, where she was hooked up to IV’s and an insulin drip was started, waiting to be transferred to the pediatric ICU at Dartmouth Children’s Hospital, two hours away.

            We spent three days at the ICU. Three days, which today, is much of a blur. I remember sitting by her bedside watching her unable to move because both arms were hooked up to IV’s. I remember her sleeping for the first 24 hours. I remember the hospital cafeteria, where I ate three meals a day. I remember the hotel room where my mother and I stayed. I remember people constantly coming and going, throwing more information at me than my addlepated brain could handle. And I remember crying, everyday.

            I spent the first 3 months after Lily-Anne diagnosis in a tunnel, my emotions lingering close to the surface. One word, one look of concern or look of sympathy from someone and I would break into tears. Surprisingly, not because I felt sorry for Lily-Anne, after all this was now her reality, a reality that would last a lifetime, but because I felt sorry for myself. I despised everything about having to take care of her, from having to wake at two in the morning to test her sugar levels, to having to count every single carb that entered her mouth. I hated the strict schedule that is a natural consequence of diabetes, a schedule that effects mealtime, travel, and even everyday errands. I hated the constant preparations, and the constant worry over her lows and her highs. I hated regular calls to the doctor and constant mealtime ratio changes. I hated giving her 4-5 shots a day, not because it hurt her, but because it seemed like such a hassle and a burden. I hated this disease.

            It took four months for the fog inside my brain to begin to burn off. Four months for me to feel relatively comfortable taking care of Lily without having to call her endocrinologist for every high and low. After four months, I began to control my emotions a bit better, though, I admit, I still have my days when tears are easily accessible. After four months, I began to accept the reality of having a daughter with diabetes.

            However, it took a small prick to my own finger, and six months for me to feel Lily-Anne’s pain. To empathize with her plight. To pity her reality. In the course of a second, I imagined having my finger stuck five to six times a day. I saw Lily-Anne’s tiny little fingers riddled with holes. I saw myself receiving regular shots, and I pictured her exclaiming, “I’m all done!” after every one.  I realized that my two year old has handled this disease with more grace than I have. Despite being poked, prodded, and unable to eat whenever she wants, she has remained a happy, joyful little girl. A little girl who is stronger, more accepting, and far more brave than I will ever be.