Grief

This morning dawned before I managed to fall asleep on the awful cot in Z's room. I think I drifted off at 4:30 am, and slept through the nurse's visits until 7:30 am. Z got even less sleep than I did- he kept being poked.

Z's blood sugars are stabilizing, they expect to have him off the IV insulin by midmorning. He is already a different child, chipper and flirting wildly with his nurses and doctors. The IV's and other monitors really bother him, since they keep him effectively tied down. Fortunately one of his favorite shows, Phinneas and Ferb, is on an all day marathon today- 12 straight hours. He doesn't get to watch it at home since we don't get television.

S is leaving the girls with some friends for the day so he can join me for our diabetes education classes. He will miss the first one, which I am about to leave for now, but make the second two.

* * *

My first class today (the one S missed) was more of a conversation than a class, a social worker talked to me about dealing with the diagnosis. We had a very good conversation about what I am feeling right now.

I am angry. I don't deny it, though I feel silly confessing it. I am angry that this happened to my sweet little boy (or as he prefers: Handsome Big Boy) who has already been through so many challenges in his short life.

I am frustrated. I want to make this go away- I want to fix it, to kiss it all better, to find the cure.

I am sad. Z is being so brave in there, though I'll admit he fights those pokes. He doesn't really understand what's going on, but he's trying his hardest to be a tough guy. No kid, no matter what their age, should have to have this many needles shoved at them. I am sad that his future holds what seems to be an endless line of needles and lancets aimed at him.

Toward the end of our conversation, Gail (the social worker) gave me a word to use for these emotions: Grief.

I hadn't considered myself to be grieving until that moment. It is true, though, I am. I grieve for the loss of our meal time spontaneity. That was something I enjoyed, and enjoyed providing for my kids. I grieve for the child that Z used to be, and for the mother that I used to be. Surely we have grown, and will grow from this experience, but just as surely we are not, nor will we ever be again the same people who walked into the Dr's office yesterday. I grieve for the things that Z will never have a chance to do. The list is so small as to seem insignificant, and I will try to make it seem that way to him, but it is a hard thing for me. After all, as a five year old boy, right now his dreams are of trucks, racecars, airplanes, rocketships, and of being a soldier like his grandpa. Those are things that I love also, and grieve that I can not give the chance at them back to him.

* * *

He is finally allowed to eat something other than sugar-free Jello and cheese sticks. Good thing he loves those.

His nurse was astonished at how quickly his lunch disappeared. I wasn't. He was a hungry boy who hadn't eaten a real meal in 24 hours.

Our other classes today were on nutrition and on the basics of diabetes. I actually enjoyed the nutrition class, which thankfully was not too difficult since I focus on keeping a well-balanced diet for my kids. The class on diabetes basics was very basic, but simultaneously very enlightening. I learned a lot of new things and cleared up some basic misconceptions that I had.

Z is off of his IV's! He still has one in his arm just in case, but he is up and walking around! That makes him so happy!

Right now my mind is overly full, and I am happy to leave S to stay the night with Z while I go pick up the girls and take them home to sleep. I miss my sweet girls.

Through a Dark and Terrifying Door

Today I walked through a dark and terrifying door. I took my five-year-old to the pediatrician's office for what seemed to be a simple urinary tract infection. He had been listless, pale, and urinating a lot. He was running a low-grade fever, and his skin seemed unusually dry. His other symptoms, eating and drinking more than usual, I chalked up to nothing more severe than a summertime growth spurt.

While we waited in the tiny room in the doctor's office, I mentally planned the rest of the evening. What to feed the kids for dinner, when to make jam with the 18lbs of blueberries in the fridge, which load of laundry to put in the washing machine next. I read the kids (yes, I had all three with me) a couple of stories. I commiserated via text message with my friend who's husband just threw his back out and can't work. I expected to get a prescription for antibiotics, and run to the local grocery store for the prescription and some cranberry juice. I expected.

I don't imagine I'm the only one in the world who has ever felt this way- blown away and reeling, clutching at each firm thing in the world while still expecting it to dissolve.

Well, our pediatrician walked through the door, and told me that Z didn't have an infection, but that she needed to prick Z's finger. As soon as she told me that, it was as though the kaleidescope of symptoms spun and snapped into place. Even as I asked the question, "You think it might be diabetes?" I knew. How could I have missed it? It was so obvious!

His blood sugar was so high it defied the meter to calculate it. His ketones were moderate to large (I think I know what that means now). Our pediatrician debated whether we needed to have an ambulance transport him to Seattle Children's or if we could make the lengthy drive in our car. We determined that the car was fine. She called Children's, I called friends. Within minutes I had a friend's husband at the pediatrician's office picking up Z's little sisters. What a relief.

Three hours (and 8 toilet trips) after his initial diagnosis, Z was admitted to Seattle Children's via the ER. His blood sugar was 413. He was started on IV insulin and saline almost immediately. We were moved to the Endocrinology department around 10pm, and Z has his own room where he is watching something Disney with the volume turned down, and drowsing in between blood sugar checks. They have to check hourly, but every other hour they draw from an extra IV in one of his arms so he doesn't wake up.

I am exhausted. I am stressed. My husband is on the way home from what was supposed to be a 50 mile hike with the boy scouts. My girls are with babysitters. My phone is dying, I have no charger, and it is too late to call anyone. I feel so alone.