Friday, March 15, 2013

Crying out for a cure

How is it that after 5 months of living with Miss Chief's diabetes I can still spontaneously burst into tears at the thought of what she has to go through every day?

Do D-parents ever get over this? I'd give anything to take this from her, for it to be me instead of her. The old phrase "this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you", I get that. I really, really hope it does hurt me more than it hurts her. Every so often she screams when she gets a needle. Sometimes she cries at the indignity of lying on her tummy so we can put a needle into her bottom. Sometimes she is perfectly willing, lying perfectly still but for some reason it hurts and she cries. And it tears me apart inside. Every time. It breaks my heart to think that she might feel a fraction of the pain I feel for her. Watching her brother tucking into his breakfast until he's full whilst we quiz her about how much she wants, weigh it, calculate carbs and insulin, give her a needle, all before she can eat.

It is such a cruel disease to affect children and therefore their entire families, rather than adults who are much better equipped to deal with it. Make no mistake, this is not an easy thing for anyone to live with at any age and diabetes crafts some strong, healthy, switched on and incredibly brave kids. But what a price to pay. Right now, at this particular moment in time, I have never wanted a cure more.  I read a post on Facebook, one of those sweet, poignant and utterly annoying wise-mother-to-naive-daughter type posts. It said,
"The physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable."
"I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs."
At that moment the desire to cure my child was overwhelming, as was the utter anguish that this is just not currently possible, and my feeling of inadequacy at having done no fundraising and having no idea where or how to start.

But it's a moment and it will pass. I'll pick myself up and get on with the day, counting carbs for dinner, researching insulin pumps and preparing for Diabetes Camp. Because this is what I do now. And there will be more such moments. And I'll get over them too. And move on. And on. Because what else is there to do? This is what keeps my girl alive.


Lois L said...

brave little girl; brave mammy; like mother like daughter

Jules said...

One day at a time xx