Readers of these chronicles know that we try hard to highlight the positive. That includes our acceptance of Sam’s diagnosis, our marvel at his bravery, and our appreciation for our child just as he is. Still, it would be misleading to say that we actually have a handle on the emotional strain we fight everyday.
On Monday night, Sam’s blood glucose was over 500. This is a ridiculously high reading considering that when he was hospitalized for his diagnosis he had been around 250. He was lethargic and cranky from being high all day. We decided to change out the pod for his insulin pump which turned out to have a bend in the cannula, but because of the length of time he had been high we also decided to give Sam an injection to be sure he got the needed dose quickly. At the mention of the injection Sam started to cry. Really cry. I can count on my hands the number of times Sam has cried hard in his five years so when he does, it breaks my heart because I know his upset is real.
Before Sam had an insulin pump he did injections multiple times each day and never fussed about it. It has now been a long time, and he was expecting it to feel like a flu shot (which he never cries about anyway). I showed him how tiny the needle was and I held him while he negotiated with us. Eventually, I just gave it to him. He cried and asked me for a band-aid which I did not give him because I didn’t want to set that precedent. I also didn’t want him to see the band-aid as a lasting imprint of this event. After a few minutes he stopped and said, “Mom, I just forgot what it was like. I just forgot and I wasn’t used to it anymore.” It occurred to me that I am not “used to it” either and there will be a thousand episodes in our shared future that will make sure to remind me not to “forget what it’s like” for a child to have to endure this.
