Hey gang, its Kim. Writing about The Six Year Anniversary and thought Id share. ------ Six Years. Some families celebrate these so-called Diaversaries. That doesnt sit well with me. And in full disclosure, if you try to argue your point on this, Ill delete your comment. For the love of all thats wrong with our country, please just let me have my own opinion. Its January. And I find myself in a familiar misty mood. Subconsciously, my body knows January is a grieving month, even when it takes my brain a bit to catch up. Im cranky, wistful, nostalgic and melancholy. Because it’s been exactly six years since life as we knew it came to an abrupt and mind blowing halt. Six years. 2,190 interrupted nights. 6,970 shots. 19,710 fingerpokes. 42 doctor’s visits. 697 insulin port insertions, 364 continuous glucose monitor port insertions, 8,200 chalky glucose tabs. $30,000 max out-of-pockets. One broken arm cast signed by Brett Michaels. The rest of his life to go. I look at every photo, think of every event, as BEFORE and AFTER. But I can’t remember much of Jaxs life before Type 1. It feels like yesterday and seems like forever that my four-year-old with big brown eyes looked at the nurse from the hospital bed and said, I want my mommy to do it, and I bravely gave my first-ever shot and died inside. I remember the time my five-year-old whispered from the back seat, “I wish I could wish away my diabetes for Christmas.” I remember the car ride when at age 8, he wept while telling me about the day of his diagnosis. And the night I went to tuck him in and found a tear soaked pillow as he mourned the loss of a life he can’t recall. Vivid is the night we sat a restaurant; when the tears reaching the bottom of his chin tore my heart out of my chest as he spat out, “And those people who say they know how I feel, I want to tell them: NO YOU DON’T know how I feel.” Sixty percent (60%) of Jax’s life has been spent thinking about lows, highs, carbs and exercise. We’ve driven all over town looking for lost glucometers and insulin pumps. So far, we’ve lost a CGM (continuous glucose monitor) in the ocean, once in a hot tub, two died in swimming pools and, oh yes, one even bit in the dust in the toilet. What in the world does the rest of the world do with all of their spare time? No, I’m not sympathetic when you moan about a flat tire, the flu hitting your house or getting a ticket on the way to work. Your lame excuse for a bad day sits even worse with me than those “diaversaries.” But my worst day pales in comparison to the bad days of those who have lost children, so while I grieve the loss of six spontaneous and carefree years, I force myself to find the good. Good things never die. Isn’t that what they say? So I count my blessings. My best friend. My best friend in all of the world is in my life because of diabetes. I’m weeping now. How can I force myself to find good when I’m hating all of the bad? This is my grieving day, after all. And I can’t help but wonder what harm has come to the unspoken hero in our family: Logan, the sibling who watches it all go down. Compassion. All of the compassion in my life is because of diabetes. I’d like to believe I know what to say when someone is hurting, because I remember all of the thoughtless things people have said to me over the years that have singed my hurting heart. Priorities. Not work. Not a clean house. Not a new car. Not things. Not any of those things beginning with the letter “i.” Normal. My new normal feels normal. I hate that it is. I love that it is. The chaos, the craziness, the sleepless nights, the highs and lows, the doctor’s visits and the doctor’s visit I sometimes forget, the never ending trips to Jax’s school. It’s all just another day in the life and I can’t remember when or how that happened. We’re moving on. Limping, maybe. But the general motion is forward. It’s not getting easier, this diabetes that I refuse to let define us. We’re just getting better.
Posted on: Tue, 20 Jan 2015 01:26:52 +0000
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