It was a great day. Today my husband stayed home while I went off to work – actually, to a first aid course that I need to do every two years to recertify to teach small children outdoors. I spent the day performing CPR on mannequins, watching gory videos of spurting blood, and I aced the test. This does not mean that you should come to my house when you’re suffering from major wounds, though. Please.
I got home, and we spent a quiet winter solstice evening. My daughter and I practiced some first aid moves, I reminded her how to call 9-1-1, and I showed her a new way to put me into rescue position in case I ever go into a diabetic coma. You know, pleasant evening stuff. My husband left to deliver some gifts to his relatives, and then the fun began. My insulin pump started making a Very Bad Noise. Now, when a medical device that saves my life every day starts making a Very Bad Noise and this device is worth umpteen thousands of dollars, I start to feel a wee bit panicky. And so it was that as my husband returned home, my daughter was sitting in front of the television way past her bedtime and I was in the kitchen having a quiet meltdown as I sat on the phone with the kind insulin pump company. They sent a new pump by courier, and it arrived at just past 11 pm.
Generally, I am a rather calm-minded person. I can deal with high-stress situations without getting all that ruffled. Now that my daughter is a preschooler, I have to remember that she also reacts to my panic, even when my panic appears to be rational and suppressed. She knows. She knows that I am having a freak out. So after the dust settled and the kind insulin pump company representative told me that they could ship one out from their local distributor, after I’d shrieked “yippee!” and given him a large virtual hug, my daughter and I had a chat about what was going on. I realized that she’d been sitting in front of the television rather anxiously awaiting the end of the saga. We talked it through, and she calmed down.
This parenting gig can be so hard. When I’m in a panic, the last thing I want to do is to comfort my child, because I’m trying to think through the situation. But I find myself both feeling my emergency and explaining it to my daughter at the same time. It’s like a postmodern emergency, developing and being commented upon as it develops.
My new insulin pump is blue, by the way. I know that you were wondering. We’re calling it Blueberry.