Diabetes Sucks

Jack was being silly.

“Mom, why are you under there?” he asked.

“Huh? What do you mean? Why am I under where?” I replied in confusion. I’m so gullible.

“You said underwear!” Jack burst out laughing. “Mom said underwear! Mom said underwear!”

Hysterics ensued, as all three kids cracked up.

Then Jack’s merriment ended abruptly.

“I feel low,” he said.

I wished that were just the beginning of the next joke, but I knew better. He never jokes about his diabetes.

Together, we tested his blood sugar level. Sure enough, he was low…again…his third low of the day.

“Why do I have to have diabetes?” he asked, while stuffing Skittles into his mouth, treating the low. “Diabetes sucks.”

His frustration seemed momentary. It was if he just needed a quick vent, because before I had a chance to agree, Jack was onto the next joke, calling for his next victim.

“Hey, Max,” he began. “Do you know you have drums in your ears?”

Max wasn’t falling for it.

“Oh, yeah,” Max answered. “Well, you have guitars in yours.”

“No, seriously, you have drums in your ears,” Jack teased.

“I do not!”

“Do to!”

“Do not! Mom, Jack says I have drums in my ears!”

“Oh, Max,” Jack giggled. “I’m only kidding…well, sort of kidding. You really do have drums in your ears. We all do. We have ear drums. They help us hear.”

Jack had returned to goofing around, but I was still stuck on his “diabetes sucks” remark. It pains me to think he has something in his life that he claims “sucks,” and it really does.

As the day progressed and he battled yet another low, I couldn’t help but wonder if Jack was still thinking diabetes sucks. I certainly was. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t want to remind him, if he wasn’t.

Right before he went to bed, his blood sugar was 33.

“Thirty-three?” he questioned his glucometer. “Let’s test again.”

Test number two gave us a 35. “Oh, man, I’m thirty-five!” Jack exclaimed with a twinge of nervousness resonating in his voice.

Gregg got him a can of soda. We rarely treat lows with soda, but figured it might be fun for a change, and maybe a little fun would distract Jack. It did, but not for long.

“Yum, orange soda! I like orange soda. This the lowest I’ve been in a long time. I don’t feel like I’m only thirty-three or thirty-five. I feel low, but not that low. What if you needed to give me Glucagon? Where’s the Glucagon? Are you sure I don’t need Glucagon now? Are you sure soda is enough? How many carbs is it? Maybe I should eat a gummy worm,” he rambled, sounding as if he were freaked out.

It was then that I knew he was definitely still thinking diabetes sucks.

A few minutes later, after he’d guzzled his orange soda, I tucked him into bed. I bent down for a hug and a kiss, and he planted a raspberry on my cheek.

“Got you!” he laughed.

He never ceases to amaze me. I dwell on his diabetes. He moves on.