26 February 2018

My Son: Pin Cushion

It has been a life-changing couple of months, at least for my older son.  Two days after our new insurance kicked in, I made a doctor's appointment of him.  He'd gotten the flu over Christmas break (which must be some kind of cruel joke) and never got feeling completely better.  So, his first day back at school he called me during first period and asked me to come get him.

For some teenagers that would be a hard and fast no, but for him it was a clear signal that he was really sick. Hence the doc.

Just before we walked out the door to the appointment, my son filled up this enormous bottle of water to take with us.  We were just going for a ten minute doctor's visit and he needed a two liter bottle of water?  Suddenly a light bulb went on in my head.

Getting my blood glucose meter out, I tortured him by poking his finger with a tiny needle until we got a drop of blood.  The way he moaned, you would have thought I was using a machete and his finger had come off.  I sincerely wish that was the worst of what happened that day.

His sugar levels were so high that my meter couldn't read them.

We got in the car and I started grilling him about how he was really feeling, because I knew it wasn't just the flu anymore.  The doc confirmed it... my son is diabetic.

He spent the next four days in the pediatric unit of the hospital, and while we had a few exciting moments -- like when he dosed up for a massive meal and then couldn't finish eating it, and when he had an allergic reaction to some medication, and when his stomach started cramping so badly he thought he was dying-- mostly he lay in bed watching movies and eating whatever he wanted.  He thought it was the best vacation ever.

When asked, he will tell you that he knew that if any of my children were going to get diabetes, it would be him.  He said he wasn't even surprised.  Since coming home from the hospital, he has pretty well adjusted to life as a pin cushion.  He does everything he's supposed to without complaint and willingly measures and weighs his food so he can dose up correctly.  He's a superstar.

So, while I'm glad he's doing so well, I still feel bad that my genes brought him such a crappy disease.  It makes everything he attempts for the rest of his life "high risk" and that's just stink. Stink. Stink.  So I'd like to take this moment to apologize to him publicly because I am sorry.

At least he doesn't whine about sticking himself with needles anymore.