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.