2:00 am

Old Clocks

Old Clocks (Photo credit: servus)

2:00am seems to be some magical hour.  Or it is the standard hour that all broken pancrei (not really sure that is a word – but a fellow DBlogger used it so I am sure that is in the dictionary, if not on Webster’s list to be added to the dictionary next year).

 

It is the hour in which I wake up to test my sons blood sugar.  It is actually 2:00am right now, maybe not in your part of town, but here in North West Indiana it is.  Like so many D Moms and Dads. I am not sure what a full 8 hours of sleep looks like any more.  I was hopeful that tonight I might get about 3 maybe 4 hours straight.  However, I do not think that is going to happen.  I tested his blood sugar and he was at 80.

 

Now technically this is a very Awesome and wonderful number, but for my son this is a number that is as rare as a purple zebra.  (He must have been in my dreams, otherwise why would I say Purple Zebra?)  It is a number that neither myself or Bubba are comfortable with.  I gave him one glucose tab just to bring him up a tad to hopefully nudge his numbers up a bit, turn them around.

 

Hold n a second….

 

Yep, it turned it around just enough.  To give me a little comfort to go back to sleep for a couple of hours.

Sweet dreams….  Haha that is funny.  I hope my dreams are laced with a cure for jump starting the pancreas.

 

 

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Middle Finger

This has been a really tough year one that has tested not only my patience but my strength.  Brandon has struggled with accepting diabetes and he has spent many months angry.  Frankly, I have spent many months angry.  Diabetes stole from me this super funny kid that laughed and joked and left me with this kid that slammed doors, and cursed and broke plates.

During this time there were days that Brandon refused to test his blood sugar and take his insulin.  His therapist suggested some extreme forms of getting him to be compliant.  Things I was not ready to do and struggled with.  I wrestled with the ideas she gave me and the kid that I know.  A sweet boy that is uber funny.  When spoken to gently can be reasoned with.  One that I knew was trying in his own way to come to terms with what life just dealt him.

I on the other hand was dealing with increasing anxiety of making sure that my son would not die.  That he would not damage his body with the highs.  This anxiety took over.  This anxiety made me angry when he would not take his insulin because I was scared that he would die, that he would cause damage because of the highs.

It took time and patience, it still takes time and patience.  And by the expectations of his therapists he may not be making the progress that they would like him to make, but he is making progress.  What makes me believe that he is making progress other than the lowering of numbers?  Let me tell you.

About two weeks ago I went into his room to wake him up for school and take his blood sugar.  This is a task that I need to be throughly prepared for.  I learned quickly not to sit by his legs during this new morning ritual.  He rolled over and stuck his hand from underneath his blanket.  “Hey bub, what finger do you want me to prick.”  Remember he is still under the blanket except for his hand, facing the opposite direction.  He slowly pulled back four fingers to revel his middle finger.  There it was, his humor.  It’s back. Giving Diabetes the middle finger was absolutely priceless to me.

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