Where My Rope Ends
The phone rang at 10:30 in the morning again. I spoke with my daughter, trying to calm and reassure her as she finished her juice box. When I hung up, there were tears in my eyes.
This kind of reaction doesn't happen often for me. I'm ordinarily even-keeled and able to roll with the punches diabetes doles out on a daily basis.
It's not the dramatic, emergency-type moments that send me over the edge. I'll treat a 30-something with great calm, and move past a night of high post-birthday cake blood sugars with a deep breath.
It's when I can start to see it in my daughter's eyes, or in this case hear it in her voice, that I lose it.
This was the fifth or sixth time she'd had to leave music class or gym (back-to-back favorite classes) to treat a low blood sugar. It was the third day in a row. She was mad.
I'd been making what I thought would be helpful insulin adjustments. I'd even downloaded the Dexcom, which is a rare event around here. But there she was. With the nurse, while her two friends worked on the guitar trio as a sad duet.
And I sat less than a mile away, helpless, wishing things could be different.