In the lobby of the Children’s Hospital and Health Center of San Diego there used to be a rather fantastic ball machine. After arriving with his suitcase packed, a somewhat bewildered Garrett stopped to watch the balls in the machine as they rolled around the mini-tracks, up and down, activating spinners and gadgets. It was difficult pulling him away from it. But we checked in, and Garrett was given a patient wrist band. We were directed to his room, which was ready and waiting. A nurse met us and drew Garrett’s blood, much to his displeasure.
We tried to situate ourselves somewhat, taking a few things out of the suitcase and moving chairs where we liked them. After a while, a doctor came in to meet us. “Garrett’s blood sugar is over a thousand,” he said. “He has juvenile diabetes.” By this time, however, we already felt it in our guts. It was not “news,” but a final confirmation– a lifetime sentence.
Training and Tests
For the next five days, we practically lived at the hospital. Garrett stayed overnight, while my husband and I arrived in the mornings and left at night. Sometimes we brought our other children, Kyle, who was five, and Riley, three. But usually they stayed with grandparents while we went through training.
My husband and I were taught how to fill a syringe, including how to tap or flick the plastic barrel to eliminate bubbles. Then we learned to inject oranges, squeezing the imaginary fluid into the unsuspecting fruit. We were given a mini-course in how the pancreas functions, how to calculate an insulin dose, how to poke your finger with a lancet, and how to use a glucometer to test blood sugars. At the end of each day we were given written tests to demonstrate whether we absorbing all the information.
“Don’t Do it to Me!”
The true test came when it was time to inject my son with a real insulin dose. I measured the medication into the syringe, with a cranky nurse standing over me. Then I had to approach Garrett, who began to wail. “Please, Mommy, I don’t want a shot! Mommy, please! Don’t do it to me! Mommy, I don’t want it! Pleeeeeaaaaasssseee!” I felt like my heart was tearing inside my chest. Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision.
“I’m sorry, son. I have to do this. You’re going to have to be brave, because you’ll be getting a lot of shots. And I’m going to have to be brave, too.”
The Cranky Nurse Conspirator
The nurse pushed me along. “Alright now, let’s give him the shot.” Honestly, I felt displaced rage at that woman. True, she was cranky and impatient, but she probably didn’t deserve the hateful look I gave her. My real anger was at this awful reality that we couldn’t escape. And I must admit I was a little bit angry at God. I was standing before the raging, furious river, asking why. Not just asking why, but in my soul I was demanding an answer. Kyle had already been diagnosed with autism, and now this. There better be a darn good explanation. And I viewed this poor nurse as part of the conspiracy against my family.
My husband and I ate lunch in the hospital cafeteria most days. While eating one afternoon, we introduced ourselves to another couple whose 7-year-old daughter had just been diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. They had the same fears, frustrations, and anger. We became fast friends. Phone numbers were exchanged, and we promised to keep in touch.
Can I really do this?
After all the tests were passed, and Garrett’s blood sugars had been brought under control, we were given the okay to go home. It was scary. What if I gave Garrett too much insulin? Could I really keep up this daily regimen, day after day? Would our lives ever feel normal again?
The cranky nurse approached me as we checked out. “I’m sorry,” she said, “if I was a bit abrupt. I’ve found that I need to be stern to push parents along. You’ve really got a big responsibility now, caring for a diabetic, and I’ve got to make sure you know what you’re doing.” I apologized too. We hugged each other briefly.
Magical Distraction
I signed the final papers, and then Garrett and I took one more pause at the ball machine, for a welcome ten minutes of magical distraction.
To deal with our new predicament, we learned to seek out all kinds of wonderful distractions, until the diabetes became an ordinary part of our lives. It finally did. Before we knew it, Garrett was managing things on his own. I still have to scold him when, as a typical teenager, he sneaks a cupcake without testing. But so far, we have survived this thing, and are stronger for doing so.