Two Years

Two years ago we didn’t know yet. We knew there was something wrong, but we weren’t sure what yet. The sneaking suspicions I had were being pushed to the back of my mind with the argument that “He doesn’t have all the symptoms. It’s something else. Surely.”

Our doctor agreed with me, but also agreed to add a blood glucose test to his blood draw, if only to put my mind at ease.

Two years ago they gave him candy, because he was so brave while they were drawing his blood. Two years ago they called me shortly after we got home and told me that the children’s hospital was waiting for us. Two years ago I called my bestie as I was tossing clothes and his 3DS into a backpack and said “His blood sugar is over 500. Are they going to have us stay the night?” (They didn’t, but only because it was after midnight before we left the hospital, and we were scheduled for a 7:00 AM crash course to learn how to be Type One Parents.) 

Every doctor that walked into that room that night took one look at my very pregnant self and asked “Ma’am, are you okay? Do you need to sit.” They all also repeated, over and over, that “This is not your fault. There is nothing you could have done to prevent this. You must not feel guilty.” It didn’t register at the time. I didn’t feel guilty that night. I was in auto pilot. I didn’t have time to feel guilty, but I have been thankful so many times since then for those words. Because eventually it did hit me. The doubt and the worry. The blame and the guilt. The “How didn’t I see it?” and the “My genes did this to him.” 

And the worst one: “A few more days and it would have killed him.” Because that’s how close we were according to all of his doctors, and if I were to let myself dwell on the fact that I was teetering on the edge of loosing my child forever I’d go mad. 

I will forever be thankful for the medical team we had that night in the ER. They smiled and joked with us the entire time. They laughed when telling Bash they could smell the keytones on him, which meant he was the sweetest boy they’d met that night. They explained everything calmly and clearly, answering every question we had about the tests, numbers, and insulin drip they had to put him on to bring his blood sugar down. (He was over 800 by the time we got to the ER due to the chocolate he got for being so brave during his blood draw.) They explained that his A1C meant that his body had been fighting for a very long time, and assured us again that it was not our fault. They held our hands, literally and figuratively, and told us confidently that “If he had to be diagnosed you are in the best place in the country. The Barbara Davis Center is the leader in diabetic research.”

They gave us permission to grieve. We were assured that it was normal and healthy. They told us we were going to do great. That my boy would thrive. 

And here we are. Thriving! I remember, when we were still in the hospital, calling my grandmother and asking “What am I going to do about birthday cakes? Parker’s birthday is coming up. I always make their cakes.” I thought that tradition was over at the time, and it seemed like such a huge blow. Fortunately, our team was quick to assure us that Bash could eat everything we do as long as he is dosed for it, and now we unapologetically celebrate his absolute badassery with cheesecake at brunch. No regrets.

His Diaversary isn’t about celebrating diabetes. It’s about celebrating how far he’s come. His survival. How he’s conquered every hurdle put in front of him, and how he’ll keep doing it. It’s turning storm clouds into sunshine and rainbows. It’s about thriving and life and small victories.

And cheesecake.