D Day

Yesterday was D day, the second anniversary of Jack's diabetes diagnosis. All day long, I kept wondering how many pokes and shots has Jack endured since October 8, 2007. In the evening, I finally calculated the numbers. We have tested his blood by poking his finger roughly 7,300 times, and we have given him approximately 3,650 injections of insulin. The numbers are mind-boggling, especially when you consider he's had this disease for only two years. I clearly recall the first few days after Jack's diagnosis. Those pokes and shots were the worst. Jack was terrified to the point where his little, four-year-old body shook. He would cry, he would run away, he would hide, he would cower in the corner of the room. He would do anything to avoid the pain of his skin being punctured by a needle. And yet, we had no choice. To keep him alive, we had to push through his fear and through our own fears. We had to keep testing his blood and injecting him with insulin. It was awful. As a parent, the last thing you want to do is traumatize your child or inflict pain upon him. But we were not about to let this horrible disease take Jack away from us. We cried as much as Jack in those early days. We were fortunate, though. We were able to go through all of this at home and in doctors' offices instead of in the hospital, like most newly diagnosed children. We had caught Jack's diabetes early enough to prevent hospitalization. Little did we know back then what diabetes would really entail. Diabetes is about so much more than just pokes and shots. It's about balancing carbohydrate consumption, insulin dosages, activity levels, hormones, the weather and even unknown factors. It's about trying to calculate grams of carbohydrates when no nutritional information is available. It's about attempting to find reasons for blood sugar levels, when the answers just aren't possible. It's about trying to figure out why yesterday's routines are creating different results today. It's about continuously trying to control something that just can not be controlled. It's about reacting as best as you possibly can to whatever is thrown your way. It's about worrying about your child's future health and questioning his mortality when he's only four years old. It's about chaperoning your child to a drop-off birthday party. It's about training grandparents, friends, babysitters, teachers, camp counselors and everyone else who supervises your child about diabetes management and trusting that they'll remember and take good care of him. It's about always carrying a fanny-pack full of testing supplies, several forms of quick-acting sugar and a life-saving Glucagon injection kit wherever you go. It's about freaking out and immediately turning around to go home when you've realized you've left that fanny pack on the kitchen counter. It's about needing a lunch aide at school, when no one else has one. It's about having a cell phone for emergencies at age five. It's about antiquated laws that hinder your child from receiving the medical care he needs and deserves at summer camp. It's about repeatedly having to tell your son he can't have and can't do the same things his siblings and friends have and do, because his numbers are out of range or the proposed situation wouldn't be safe. It's about telling his siblings that they can't have juice or candy, only to hear "That's not fair!" in response, when really what's not fair is the disease they don't fully understand and that's causing their brother's blood sugar to plummet. It's about staying awake until the wee hours of the morning to make sure your child is stable, no matter how tired you are. It's about wondering whether a nap is really a nap or a coma. It's about having strangers stare at you in public when you treat your son. It's about having a cause and feeling compelled to ask every person you know to donate to that cause, when you feel most awkward doing so. It's about all these things and more. Two years down, a lifetime to go...