I still have moments where it hits me: my son has diabetes, he will have it for the rest of his life. It
is tiring having to account for every carb that goes into his body, to make
sure the calculations are right, to make sure he doesn’t have too much insulin
and go low, resulting in coma or death, or too high, resulting in loss of
circulation, blindness or death, as the information from our insurance noted in
a recent letter. It is even more
overwhelming when I think of the thought that one day he will have to handle
these things on his own.
This spring break was different from all previous breaks. I
didn’t plan activities for each day, but unlike winter break, this time it
didn’t stress me out. My plan for the break:
breath and experience each moment. I spent time with the kids, I enjoyed
the moments for what they were. I read three books. I sat in the basement with
Blaine while he played xbox. I helped clean the basement with Aislin so that
she could play school. I hosted a few play-dates with their friends. I
accomplished a few things such as cleaning out drawers and closets. I also
spent nearly two hours on the phone with the insurance company. In a kind
letter, stating the many risks of Blaine’s condition, if not handled properly,
the insurance company informed us we could fill his prescriptions at a local
pharmacy three times a year, after that all items must be mail ordered. He needs supplies monthly, and will for the
rest of his life.
I had looked at the paperwork for a week before garnering up
the energy to tackle it. I decided just to call a live person, rather than mail
in or complete the forms on line. An hour later, I think I got it all correct.
The insurance company will send the requests to the endocrinologist for
authorization, then it will go to a pharmacist and then the items will be
mailed to our house, overnight. Thirty days before we run out, a letter will be
sent and I will request the supplies be sent again, in a three-month supply. We
need lancets which are the tiny needles he uses to prick his finger 4-10 times
a day, smart-check strips for testing his blood 4-10 times a day, insulin pens
and needles for the insulin shots 4-6 times a day, and then the long acting
insulin which he takes nightly, plus syringes that he needs nightly for these
injections. He will need these supplies
the rest of his life. Once he moves out
for college he will be responsible for ordering these supplies (unless he still
wants my help, which I would gladly do for him). This is our new normal. I am
beginning to accept it, but I still miss our old normal.
I no longer feel as though I’m going to cry when I see Brent
or Blaine count out his mini-wheats in the morning. It is second nature now for
me to grab a measuring cup and fill it will pasta or rice for him, and I am
becoming accustomed to Blaine bringing a measuring cup to the table, watching
him pour his syrup into it and then pouring it over his waffles. A few weeks ago these things made me want to
cry.
My friend Jackie stopped by my office yesterday. She was
completing research for her PhD at the elementary school where I’m working one
day a week. We chatted for a while, with her asking about Blaine. I told her
that I wish I had known to enjoy my old normal more. She assured me that I did.
That I was grateful. I feel that I have always been grateful for my life. I
know each day is a gift, but still I wish I would have enjoyed it more. I wish
I would have known to enjoy the freedom of not needing prescriptions every
month, the freedom of not second guessing insulin calculations and dosages, the
freedom of not worrying about very real complications that could happen.
My original coping phrase has been resurfacing lately: It is
what it is. It will be what we make of it. 
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