Just a Little Nudge

It’s quite late on evening of our Presidential Election and the polls in Michigan closed more than seven hours ago, and yet I find myself still seated, staring at a computer monitor and enjoying an unexpected conversation with a friend on Facebook.  This night has brought several events I wasn’t expecting.

Michigan had a state constitutional amendment proposal on the ballot concerning loosening state control over embryonic stem cell research. We spent some time discussing just what this amendment would actually mean– for science and for the sought-after-embryos. I’ll save my opinion on that issue for a later date, and I do have a strong opinion on it, by the way.

Our talk drifted into other things as well.  Artistic endeavors, Spiritual gifts, a little of this, a little of that.  It’s been delightful, and stimulating.  My friend has encouraged me to continue writing– he thinks I have a little talent for it! At least that’s the impression I got.  I don’t know how one gauges such things, but I’m a little biased about my own writings.

So I’ve gotten  a little nudge with some wonderful encouragement and an invitation to join  Creative Community, though no formal invitation was ever required.  With that little bit of sweet contentment I’ll be on my way to curl up under my covers, which we both said we needed to do about two hours ago– and save my commentary on politics, ballot proposals or any other potential hot button issue for another day.

Taking a Break to Make Decisions

I’ve just gotten off the phone with a friend who was asking if I’d be using or be interested in selling a science text book we have. She wanted to know if we’d be using it for Sugar Bug when she gets old enough.  I told I was still thinking about sending Sweet Pea to the co-op class that’s starting in a couple of weeks, which would use the book.  Problem: no money to sign her up, or pay the class fees.  She’s a good friend, and would probably let me make installments over the semester, all I’d have to do is prob’ly ask.

There’s a history/Lit/Bible class also offered.  It would be worth 3 high school credits, which Sweet Pea needs to have.  She wants to go to MSU and go through their Veterinary Medicine program and, well.. be a vet.  She loves animals, but thinks she wants to take care of large ones– horses, hippos, elephants, giraffe.  I think she’d cry just as much as any family to have to put a sick or injured animal down.

Sonny Boy has been tolerant of his parents of late.  He’s convinced we’ve screwed up his life, which isn’t entirely true.  We (read: I, me) have made some mistrakes with parenting and schooling decisions, and they can’t be undone.  I need to sit with him, have a long talk and ask for his forgiveness.

I was trying to work hard at getting caught up on a lot of housework that’s been pushed aside for a very long time when I got that call. I decided to take a break, grab some lunch and write. Only I haven’t eaten yet.  I think I’m actually making progress– with the housework, but I’m not nearly done.  I’ve decided to save laundry folding for later tonight, after sunset, so I can do it and listen/watch some TV. I’ve got stacks of books that need to be sorted and re-organized into subjects.  That may be a good job for tomorrow, after my walk.

Tomorrow is my next long (group) training day.  We have 14 miles on the agenda, but I may do 16.  Last week was supposed to be 16, but I didn’t see that until after I was home, showered and ready to devour a side of beef.  I wasn’t going to go back out to finish those last 2 miles.  I’ve realized the marathon is just 7 weeks away now! I have fundraising to do still– almost $1500. Any takers!?!  No? well, how about $30 or $50? As much as I’d love for an anonymous stranger to just 15 Benjamin’s into my lap, I know that’s not realistic– well, as realistic as winning tonight’s Mega Millions $134 Million jackpot.

So, to recap, I’ve decided: A) Sweet Pea should take the co-op classes.  I’ll have to find the money from somewhere. B) I need to talk to my son, really talk to him and apologize for not being the parent he needed. C)  Fold laundry during Numb3rs tonight D) Go eat some lunch, then scrub the kitchen floor.  E) Resist the urge to spend $1 on the voluntary tax that is the Michigan lottery.

Must dash off now, hunger beckons, and the cookies are screaming Eat me! so I better find something healthier than that.

Un-ordinary People

I went for a walk with Sugar Bug a couple of hours ago. We went up the main street past the city cemetery. After I told her I love cemeteries, she wanted to know why.

“There’s so much history buried in there. People who have lived their lives, gone places, done things. You know, just ordinary people who went about their business.”

“What kind of people?” she asked.
“Well, some were parents raising their families, dads who went to work. Some were in the military and fought in wars.”

“I don’t think they would be ordinary. I think that makes them un-ordinary”

“Which ones are ‘un-ordinary’?” (I knew she meant extra-ordinary, but I didn’t want to correct her; grammar lessons could wait. I wanted to hear what she said.)

“The ones in the military. That makes them special, because they were there ready to give up their life so someone else could be free. That makes them un-ordinary.”

“I suppose that does, then, doesn’t it. There are a lot of people who don’t think the same way today.”

“Why don’t they?” (She has no idea how loaded that question is in a post-modern 21st Century USA.)

“Well, back when those people were alive, they –and the culture and society — used to think it was a privilege and a duty to serve their country. It was an honor for them to be in the military. They did it out of respect and honor for their country.”

“O, that definitely makes them un-ordinary.”

[ I thought of telling her that back then they didn't think about whether it was the nations business to be there, if the military action could be politically and socially justified, or if it was 'the right thing to do'. They left that to politicians and government to sort through; they joined because they wanted to serve, not earn a free college education. That's what I wanted to add, but I didn't. I'll let her 10 year old innocence stay intact for as long as it can. I'll let her patriotism stay strong, so she can still think people today serve their country in the military because of love of country-- nothing more, nothing less. ]

Un-ordinary indeed! To her, they are heroes, and that’s the kind we need to look up to more often.

Seen on the Street

Introduction

Every once in a while something grabs my eye, and it leaves an impression. It’s one of those things that just make you stop to think, not good, not bad, just “Hhhhmmmm” and wonder what they must have been thinking when they said/wrote/went/did whatever, and I was a witness to it.

Seen on the Street #1

Homemade car window *thing*, hanging in the rear window for all the world to see. At first I thought it was one kind of societal dig; turns out it was another:

War in Irag: 4,000 dead in 5 years

9/11: 3,000 dead in one day

Abortion: 3,000 dead per day, for the past 35 years

Abortion is killing America!

I just did a quick calculation, and that comes to ever 38 MILLION babies in the United States since 1973. I guess when it comes to making a life and death decision, one female and one child it, it becomes my own decision, and no one can stop me. When it becomes one President, one Dictator and peace and stability for a nation oppressed, it must be stopped.

Milestones

Yesterday was Sonny Boy’s 16th birthday.  He was very excited.  I am handling this birthday/milestone much better than when he turned 10– much, much better.  When he turned 10 I didn’t feel old enough to have to a kid hit “double digits”. I’ve got three of the “double digit”-ers now, it got easier with each one.

We didn’t have big plans, but did plan to take his driver’s road test, and if he passed we would go get his drivers license.  To his great joy, we got there on time.  He passed the basic skills part pretty easily.  ( “I don’t know why everyone freaks out about parallel parking.  It’s no big deal, you just go do it”, says he.)  I was glad that didn’t take very long; it was a little chilly with a breeze and the parking lot still had massive snow piles trying to melt, which I happened to be standing next to.  If you’re not sure what that feels like, just think walking into a walk-in beverage cooler with the fans blowing and waiting there for 10 minutes, not moving.  At least it’s not the middle of February.

We hit the road.  The instructor deliberately practices using monotone commands at home, I’m sure of now.  “At the next light, turn left…After you make the stop, turn right…When attempting to avoid a head-on collision, what must you do?..” Imagine Ben Stein in the Visine commercials.  Sonny Boy did just fine getting onto the highway, making his turns (not swinging too far over/near the other lanes), but he was nervous.  Boy! could I tell he was nervous.  As he progressed through the road test I started to notice all the things he was doing wrong– things I knew he knew how to do properly, but just wasn’t.  “He’s going to choke! He’s going to fail!! His bad mood will totally ruin MY day–crap!”  I almost thought of sending a text message to my husband: “He’s choking; start praying”, but decided not to, in case Sonny Boy would hear the buttons clicking on my phone.  I didn’t want to make him any more tense than he already was.

I’m not sure how many points are on a driver’s road test, but the driver is only allowed 25 negative points (mistakes) and still be allowed to pass.  At 26 and beyond, you fail.  I told him earlier that we would pay for this one, but if he failed he would have to pay for any and all re-tests.  Toward the end I could see that he knew he was on thin ice.  For a kid whose tendency leans toward perfectionism, and self-defeatism it was hard to guess what he would do.  Would he try harder to prove he was actually a good driver, or throw in the towel, and just scrap the whole thing?  If we had been on the road much longer I think the self-defeatist would have won out.  He did pass– but barely– with 25 points off.  I was advised to reconsider letting him get his driver’s license that day so he could get more road time in to practice.  I thought about it for about 5 seconds.  I also think that ‘near miss’ to failure knocked the over-confidence out of him.

He’s a good driver. If you know my Sonny Boy personally, you know he’s a young man of good character, a little impetuous, and loads of energy, but all-in-all, a pretty good kid.  I’m not saying this just to sound like Rain Man (“He’s a really good driver”.) His girlfriend’s father won’t let her get into a car with him just for the sake of joy-riding.  They have to be going somewhere, with a purpose to it.

I hit a parenting milestone today, too. I let him take the car to go run an errand to use a gift card he got over the holidays before it expired.  He said he wouldn’t be gone long.  After an hour, I was starting to think:  ‘Okay, it’s been an hour, he should be home soon. I’m glad he has his cell phone so I can call if I need to.’ Then  good sense prevailed.  I reminded myself he was headed to Best Buy and had to drive up one of the busiest retail streets in town, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, get his stuff in a store he loves to wander in and then come back home on the same busy street. Mentally, I decided to give him another half an hour, then I’d call.  If he answered while he was driving, I’d have to yell at him for talking while driving.  He was in the driveway about two minutes after this whole thing ran through my head.

Later, I gave him the keys and sent him to the grocery store to go get some stuff we needed for dinner.  I didn’t panic, hyperventilate, and worry the whole time.  But after dinner I was ready to work up a really good *mad* because he was gone and so was the car and he didn’t clear it with me.  Turns out he talked to his dad about that one, and had to run his girlfriend home for some reason or other.  Good thing she lives less than half a mile away.

He moved toward the next phase of independence, that first, faraway step to adulthood.  I let him go and didn’t even cry;  milestones indeed.

How to spend a gorgeous Palm Sunday…

..in the med station.

Yes, that would be correct. I spent my Palm Sunday afternoon waiting… and waiting… and waiting.

I went to bed Saturday night with an incredibly itchy eye. I thought maybe there was a scratch on the cornea, or a dog hair or eyelash caught up under the lid. Turns out it was pink eye. If you’ve never had pink eye in your recent memory, feel blessed and grateful. It was the most miserable thing. I couldn’t go to church, or work. ( I am a cashier for a grocery store, and I can’t touch people’s food with contagious conjuctiva.) I am living in fear of being fired right now. I’ve had to call in a lot already in 2008, and they (management) are starting to crack down on repeat call-in offenders and sack ‘em.

So how does one spend ones time in the local Urgent Care Center –a.k.a. the med station? Well, first off it may be worth a call to your own doctor. This should be common sense given the environment of HMO’s and PPO’s and all their rules. But if your insurance has lax rules, or you have no coverage, try this then.—->

Next, call the med station you want to go to. Depending on where you live in town, there’s a good chance there’s more than one nearby. Why bother and do this? Couple of reasons, and I learned this the hard way last Sunday. A) You may just want to go to the ER, especially if you suspect broken bones B) You’re sitting on the fence about whether what is bugging you is worth the trip in, the co-pay, your time, etc. C) Find out how many patients are waiting, and how many doctors or PA’s are on staff that day. I’ll cover more on this later.

Okay, you’ve decided to go to the med station. You are in some level of discomfort, for some reason or other. A) Bring something to occupy your mind, hands and mouth. Sure they have some magazines, but they’ve been touched by a whole months’ worth of flu-bug sickies. I’m not really germ-phobic, but there’s got to be a limit, yes? Bring your word search, knitting, crochet, crosswords or something else you can stop doing right in the middle of doing. (Did ya get that? make sense?) Moving on… Your mouth: bring a bottle of water and a snack, unless of course you’re puking your guts out, then that’s not such a good idea. A bucket would be good for you then. Anyhoo…Chances are you won’t find complimentary Beaner’s coffee and muffins.

One should avoid bringing this to the med station unless ABSOLUTELY necessary and I’m not joking. You’re whole family and their cousins! There isn’t room enough in the waiting or exam room. People are sick and they don’t want to watch someone else’s kids go completely wild. Even happy children will drive a person bonkers after enough time. Think about it.. you are one of the flu-bug sickies, and there’s this 7 year old next to you pretending to be the next Michael Jordan, or, worse, Einstein. There is nothing for them to do here, except get on people’s nerves. The TV, if there is one, is probably on CNN or a private medical show closed circuit loop. If the yungun’s must come, pack a suitcase– not kidding here either– filled with books, snacks, drinks, toys, a blanket or pillow, hair brush and pony holders. Why the hair stuff? They can play beauty shop and do each other’s hair.

Now back to why you should call ahead about the patients-in-waiting and the MD’s on for the day. I called ahead, to see if the phone nurse thought I might actually have pink eye, and we concluded I should be seen. Phone Nurse asked which Center I wanted to go to, since I’m halfway between two. She said there were 9 patients waiting at “A” and 9 at “B”. I said “So, I should bring something to keep me busy while I wait?” What I didn’t ask was: how many doctors are in the Center today. It turns out “A” had only one; “B” had three. Guess where I ended up? Yup, that’s right, at “A”.

I decided to wait a bit at home, hedging on the thought that if I stayed home I’d not have to wait as long in some uncomfortable chair, with a bunch of flu-bug sickies trying to whisper loudly over the chattering, clanging, crying, whining, bored children sitting three chairs away. I was way off on that one. The med center was still packed when I got there. After I had finally been seen, and discharged and at the counter to pay my co-pay, I asked the nice young man sitting in his quiet cubicle just how long I’d actually been there. He checked. It was exactly 3 1/2 hours.

Driving away to a pharmacy that kept late Sunday hours I thought to myself, “I wonder if I should have just called my eye doctor to call in a script for pink eye instead”. I called Monday morning to find out; sure enough they could’ve done that. O, I did get 12 rows on the blanket I’ve been crocheting done.

Blogging?.. ice cream would be jealous

I got a random comment from someone about the last post about blog-tag; they didn’t want to be “it” and, well… read the comment if you must, but read the post before that.

That’s basically the reason I’m writing this. Blogging can become an all-consuming past-time, like video games, except the reality is actual and not virtual. That’s not to say some bloggers’ reality’s aren’t delusional, misinformed, biased, confused, one-sided–well, they’re all one-sided. Back on point: we write to get something off our chest, make announcements, pronouncements and even denouncements; but we all do it hoping that someone else will stop by and leave a comment. We humans are pack animals, and crave interaction within our social structure. Even the anti-social still need and crave that contact, even if it’s to rebuff and reject the contact, to growl out “Back off and leave me alone.” We want some random strangers to stop by and read our chatterings about mindless babble or significant social events. We want someone to acknowledge “Yes, indeed, you have an opinion, and I heard what you have to say” and leave a comment of praise, encouragement, like-mindedness and agreement or disagreement.

When I started this, I figured it would be an outlet for the quasi-author in me to release creativity onto the world, and if I didn’t get any responses– well, so what? Well, guess what? I love–no LOVE– getting a response from someone, ANYone. Why? it means that person stopped and read what I had to say. It doesn’t matter if they were wilf-ing, or purposely looking for a blog to read. That person saw mine in a tag listing, and decided to stop by. Well, how cool is that? I’d say I’m so cool, ice cream would be jealous. (My son would say: Mom your so not cool, ice cream would melt.)

So, to the 2 or 3 who stop by here regularly, Thanks!

But, hey! Psssst! Can you send them a link to my blog, I’d like more than 3 regular readers, cause that kinda makes my “ice cream coolness” seem pretty lame.

Ain’t I a Woman?

In honor of women, and Women’s History Month; it’s well worth re(print)posting.

 

 

Ain’t I A Woman?by Sojourner Truth

Women’s Convention, Akron, Ohio
Delivered 1851

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that ‘twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what’s all this here talking about?

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain’t I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain’t I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man—when I could get it—and bear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman?

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what’s this they call it? [member of audience whispers, “intellect”] That’s it, honey. What’s that got to do with women’s rights or negroes’ rights? If my cup won’t hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn’t you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?

Then that little man in black there, he says women can’t have as much rights as men, ’cause Christ wasn’t a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.

Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain’t got nothing more to say.

Checkered Flags and Finish Line Ahead!

We get settled back into our little cold room and another Sally comes in. She is a Diabetes Nurse Educator and her job is to cram as much information into my blurring whirling brain about diabetes as possible so I can go home later and take care of my little girl. I think again “I’m tired of thinking about this. There’s just too much to think about. God, if we give her this for a couple of days can you just ‘fix’ it and make a miracle happen so we don’t have to do this forever?”

Sugar Bug has had just about enough for one day, and she reminds me again that we haven’t eaten anything since 9:30 that morning. We snuggle up close and I whisper in her ear “I’m really hungry too.”

It’s now about 2:30. It seems my phone keeps ringing today, too. I’m glad to have it so I can keep people informed with what’s going on. At the same time the realization the many interruptions from it are keeping us in the office longer and delaying our exit. Sally is very patient with these interruptions, especially after I explain that my two older kids are home, and babysitting Peaky when I should have been. She quietly reminds me that phones are supposed to be turned off in the office, but says she understands given the circumstances.

We take a break while Sally gets some more results or papers or supplies– or something. I try to call my mother. I need her to pick up Sweet Pea for basketball practice. She’s not home, and I leave a message to have her call me back. My brain is reeling, and I can’t remember if she was supposed to go for her next chemo treatment today or not. I try my sister to find out if she knows where Mum is; she’s out to lunch with one of my aunts. Now I have to track down my aunt because Mum doesn’t have a cell phone. “Who knows her number? Who knows her number? Grandma and Grandpa!”

I love them. I love to talk with them; but they are 86 years old and Grandpa can’t hear much so I’d have to speak up to be heard. I’m breaking the phone rules already, and now I have to raise my voice and everyone within a three room radius will know. I don’t want to call, too, because I know it can’t be a long call, and I’d rather spend half an hour chatting up their routine and doctors appointments and who came to visit last night. That, and I don’t want to lie if they ask if anything is new or if they ask after the kids and family or how things are going. All this races through my mind in about 2 seconds, and I call them and hope for the best.

The call was brief, they didn’t ask a lot of questions and I apologize for not being able to stay on the line and chat, and explain what I need and why I called. I have my aunt’s cell number. I call her next, and she answers with an expected ‘how did you get this number?’ tone. I fill her in with the details of how I got her number, ask after Mum’s whereabouts and find out she’s been dropped off to home already. SIGH, I just missed her.

My attention goes back to Sally, who’s now back. She has a tackle box of stuff with her–really, it’s a tackle box. She opened it up and started laying things on the examination table. I knew all of these things would be part of our daily lives, but there was so much of it and I tell myself to ignore my empty stomach and focus my attention on what’s going to happen next because my daughter’s health depended on it. She begins with the testing meter and a brief overview of how it works: bottle codes must match, “piano keys” side of test strip goes in, lancet goes here and this is how to change them. Sugar Bug starts to cry again. (This needle fear is going to get very tiresome and exasperating very soon. She’s just going to have to get used to it.) We get another finger poke done and her results are over 340 mg/dL.

My phone rings; it’s Mum. We talk for just over 2 minutes. In that time I skirt the details of where I am and what’s going on, and only say we’re going to be here for a bit yet and wonder if she can go pick up Sweet Pea for practice. She says she’s feeling really quite good today, which is why she went to lunch and would be able to help out. I give the details of ‘when and where’, thank her and hope she doesn’t hear the weariness in my voice and start to worry. She knows me so well, I’d have a hard time trying to hide it from her. I am so grateful she doesn’t press for more answers.

I make a quick call to Sonny Boy to let him know that his Grandma was coming to pick up his sister for practice and ask that he not say anything about what is going on because I hadn’t told her anything yet. He asks how much longer we’re going to be at the doctor’s. I repeat his question out loud so Sally can hear, and glance up to her so she knew I was asking her as well. “Another hour, hour and a half,” she says. I relay that to my son. Holy cow! is what we’re both thinking. That call is done, and hopefully we can finish without anymore interruptions.

I can now turn my attention back to Sally. It’s now 2:45 PM.

Sugar Bug learns she must now have her first insulin shot in the office and she panics. Sally tries to intervene and convince her to be brave and get it over with. I know my daughter, and no amount of talking is going to get her to cooperate right now. She’s terrified and it shows. Then I remember what it was like when I was facing surgery at 16 and the doctor says there’s a slim chance my thyroid goiters could be cancerous. I tried not to panic back then, be remember feeling like I could be dying and he’s just so casual about all this. I gather her up in my arms, hold a hand up to stop Sally mid-sentence and ask “Do you think you’re going to die?” Her sobs are louder, and I know the answer before she nods her head. My heart breaks, and I start to cry with her.

We recover, dry our eyes and noses and move to the insulin injection. She panics again–remember the needle phobia–starts to cry and refuses to take the injection. I make some attempts to reason with her, get her to decide to do this on her own. I don’t want to get heavy-handed and force her; that would just make tomorrow even harder for both of us to endure because her memories would be filled with anxiety and fear. I’m aiming for her memories of this as more in the ‘it’s not a big deal’ range. I don’t know how long this takes, but even Sally is losing her patience with us. She wants this done and over with so we can move on, this I can tell by the look on her face. I am forced to pull Mean Mommy out and threaten her with no computer or TV if she doesn’t just sit still and do this. She tries to push the envelope, but soon realizes I am not going to budge and relents. She is still in tears, but clutches her new bear, ‘Rufus, the Bear with Diabetes’, and lets me do this first one. I hug her tight and wipe her eyes. SIGH

We are able to get through the rest of this bit of diabetes education and learn there is still more to come. Sally wants to know if my husband is able to come the next day for us to be able to finish up. I said I’d have to call him to find out, and explain about changes in his job and say I’m not sure he could get away. The day is almost over, and I am very ready to get home. I make the call and his reply is ‘tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.’ The time: 4:07. It’s set for us to return at 9 AM for more diabetes education. This time it should only be about 2 hours. (ONLY, she says. He got off easy.)

Kristi, a Medical Social Worker, comes in next. It is her job to answer any questions we may have about how to deal with testing and what happens at school and how we make adjustments to our life in general. She uses the word normalize a lot, almost too much. “I want to help you normalize this for [Sugar Bug],” that sort of thing. She mentions a supplementary insurance program through the state. We’ll get more details the next day. She talks about the importance of communication– in our family, with the office, our diabetes team and the doctors. I’m trying to pay attention but my empty stomach is making itself known out loud now, and Sugar Bug is visibly tired. We are both spent.

Kristi doesn’t say anything else I haven’t already heard from the social workers we had to deal with during my late mother-in-law’s final weeks; except that she a big advocate of crying: “Having a really good cry can be very good for you.” This I knew, I didn’t need a social worker to tell me that. She’s very empathetic and that could be a downfall for her in her field of work. Social workers want to ’save and help’ and sometimes people just don’t want to be saved or helped. We end up talking for just over an hour.

The second Sally comes back and starts packing things away. She double checks on my confidence level with finger pokes, testing, and calculating Sugar Bug’s carb-to-insulin ratio. I’m not feeling especially proficient, but I’ll manage. We pack up a back pack from the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, her complimentary insulin/testing kit bag, our binder with a log book and calculation/conversion chart. We get instructions to call the on-call doctor at bedtime with ‘her numbers’, wake her at 2AM to do a blood sugar test, reminders about what do if this-or-that happens. We gather our things and Sally says good-bye. The lights are off behind the reception area, and most everyone has gone home already.

HOME, it sounds wonderful. Take-out is what I want for dinner. Can’t do take-out because 1) I have no money and 2) I have no clue about how to convert that into insulin units and 3) I don’t even want to try to do an injection away from home. Drat, that means I have to cook and I don’t want to because I’m so tired and hungry.

I can’t go home yet. I have one more stop to make. I look at the time on my phone and realize we have to fly to go pick up Sweet Pea from her basketball practice. It’s 5:40 PM as we pull out of the parking lot at the clinic.

We arrive at the school where practice is held and I collect my middle child. As we are walking out the doors we see it’s raining quite hard, which it wasn’t doing just a few minutes before. I take this opportunity to break the news to her and tell her that her sister has diabetes. Sweet Pea’s jaw drops in shock. I fill her in with bits of our day, and then the rain stopped as quickly as it started. We climb back into the car and head for home.

DD-Day (Diabetes Diagnosis) Drags On

We get to the Pediatric Endocrinology Clinic (it’s referred to as the Diabetes Clinic), and I’m still promising lunch when we get done. How long can this possibly take?

I fill out forms and questionnaires; we sit in an overly warm waiting room. She’s nervous, I can tell. Her coat is zipped all the way to the top and her cheeks are starting to flush and she refuses to take it off. She obliges me by unzipping it. I hang mine on the crowded coat rack.

We are taken to the back for the usual height, weight and blood pressure checks. We are introduced to a nurse, Sally, who’s farther into middle-age than me and wearing a fuzzy pink sweater with a square, crystal or cubic zirconia pin attached to her sweater’s neckline at her collar bone. It’s set so it’s lines follow the ones of her sweater’s seam, so it looks like it’s cocked on it’s point, but it’s not really. She seems very cheerful and smiles at us like we are old friends. It was a real smile, not the nervous or tight lipped ones from the pediatrician’s off ice or the ladies at the reception desk here. I like her already, and can’t say why. The nurse taking Sugar Bug’s vitals says we’ll be going back to see her in one of the rooms once we get called back from the waiting room.

Our wait is not very long and we are soon ushered into a room with a view of the parking lot. It’s an unusually warm day for early January, in the mid 50’s, and it’s raining steadily. It is very cold in this room and I wish I had my coat with me. I hate breaking out in a cold sweat, especially in situations like these, where uncertainty and tension reign.

Nurse Sally talks about diabetes a bit and asks questions: how long have we noticed symptoms, any ______ (about medical history)? Did you have _____ done? Most of this means very little to me. I explain we were at her doctor’s earlier, and then sent straight here and have no idea about much of anything. Sally says we need to do a couple of quick blood tests and Sugar Bug starts to cry. (Did I mention how much she hates needles?) Nurse Sally reassures us these do not require large needles, only a quick poke on her finger to collect just a couple of drops, and that’s all. She calms down a little, but the tears come back after getting her finger poked. They draw up enough for about three drops. One test showed her blood sugar at that moment; another was going to show her sugar levels over the past three months. I don’t even know what the third one was. I mentally chide myself for not asking, but figure it wouldn’t be done if it weren’t necessary. At this point I’m very grateful we have health insurance.

We talk with Nurse Sally some more and soon Diabetes Doctor comes in to talk with us. It’s now past 1:30 PM, and now we are both very hungry. This is taking much longer than I had thought. Of course, no one told us how much time this would take either. I thought about asking, but figured it would be pointless since the fatal flaw in all of my best laid plans was always me, and if I planned to be home in another hour, well, let’s just say I knew that plan would fall apart before it ever got made. Diabetes Dr says we need to go for blood tests at the lab. He points vaguely out the window toward what must have been a door in the adjacent building and says we can just walk over there and come back when it was done.

Off we go.

We sign in and the clock in the lab says 2:03 PM. My phone starts to vibrate in my coat pocket. I see it’s Sonny Boy, and tell Sugar Bug that I’m going to step back into the hallway to talk to him. He asks how much longer we were going to be. “I have no idea. We’re at the lab to get blood tests done, then we have to go back to the doctor’s office and then I’m not sure what will happen. It’s going to be at least another hour or so for sure.”

“Oh, well I was just wondering what was for lunch.”

(Good grief, of all the things to call about, you had to ask about lunch. You are 15, you can figure out your own lunch.) That’s what runs through my head, but he has no idea what kind of day his sister and I are having, or what we’re actually facing as far as major changes for our family. I hope my “kind voice” is the one he hears because that’s the one I’m trying to use. I give him some ideas. He then says that the SD card he bought on e-Bay came, but it’s not the one in the description. He wants to know how to handle taking care of getting a refund, or exchange or something. He chatters on about the description, and pictures in the listing and how they were different… I mentally remind myself that I can’t ignore what he needs, and keep looking through the glass door to watch for any change in Sugar Bug’s face in case they called her name. I can see by the look that they hadn’t, and I have some time to deal with this. “Contact the seller, and find out…” I give my advice and he seems happy enough with that for the time being. Silently I’m hoping he hasn’t gotten sheisted and lost his $14.00.

In the in-between times I’ve also called the Hubby to keep him as informed as possible. I could hear in his voice he was very surprised his little girl has diabetes. I could hear he’s catching a cold, and also apprehension and a touch of fear. If he could have, he would have dropped everything and sped across town to come join us. It crosses my mind to call him again, but with no new news to report I decide to wait.

We get called to come back and have the blood draw done. I was relieved to see how they do the draw in this lab—not the usual vacuum tube, but with a manual syringe attached to a small line—you can tell they work with a lot of kids. Sugar Bug does okay for the draw, and we stand and chat with the phlebotomist while she transfers the syringes to the vacuum tubes and she says her head hurts really bad. Shame on me for thinking she was making it up, for whatever reason she may have had. Next thing I know her half-hug goes limp and she’s dropping to the floor.

Faster than I can write this they had a snap-tube of smelling salts under her nose and an ice pack on her head. We get her coat off her—it took passing out to finally get it off—and wait for her to come around. She’s looking at me, well at least her eyes are pointed at mine, but she’s not ‘seeing’ anything yet. I feel so bad for her. She’s tired, hungry, hot and seeing all those tubes of her own blood must have just pushed her over the edge. They help her up and onto a table into a little room off this one and she’s aware enough to decide she’d prefer some apple juice. “What happened?” is all she could muster. I call Hubby and give him an update, and let him know she’s just passed out, but doing fine now. Again, the tone in his voice tells me he’s more worried than the words are saying. He says he’d like her to call him later, when she has a chance.

As we walk back to the Diabetes Clinic I’m already tired of thinking about living with diabetes, and it’s just been a couple of hours. ‘Good grief, what’s the rest of her life going to be like?’ I also make another mental note to remember that not everyone thinks it’s as cool as I do to see vials and vials of blood lying on a counter top. It’s now painfully obvious Sugar Bug would vote NOT COOL when it comes to seeing blood, especially her own.