Concessions

There are certain lengths I’m willing to go to when it comes to my Pip spending time with her diabesties.

I find myself looking at the events on our absurdly large family calendar and saying “yes” to the most ridiculous of requests. Because it’s important. You know? Her mental health is just as important as the attention we give to her day-to-day diabetes care.

Mom, you think after our 12-hour day of marching band competition that I could go to the USS Nightmare with Kurtain? And then have her spend the night? I mentally tick off the weeks its been since they’ve seen each other. The answer is an easy yes. I know I will be exhausted. And in that moment I don’t care. Because I know I can get out my invisible SuperMom cape which helps me tap into any available energy reserves I have left and then some. When diabesties get together, I’m wearing a cape for two and am super-charged. Doing this for her makes me feel like a better mom. Doing this for her bestie makes me feel like a better human being. But please don’t get me wrong here. I don’t have a high and mighty opinion of myself, because sometimes what I do borders on the insane and I know it, nor do I judge other moms. How can I? We do not know the sacrifices of others.

My sacrifice is time and sleep. And when I am merely a drop off/pick up service peppered with a little conversation, that sacrifice is rewarded in time alone to unwind and be by myself. Most of my friends might find it hard to believe that I thoroughly enjoy being by myself, with myself, completely and utterly happy and aware of where I am, what I’m doing, what I’m eating. My food tastes better when I’m in this state.

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This is my heaven. And a teensy bit of hell (how dare they give ME bread that I can’t eat?). Or maybe angst is more like it.

I have my phone on the table within easy reach. And, yes, I do from time to time make sure I have battery power and the volume is on high. Time will tell how many times tonight.

 

After a 12-hour day of a very cold marching band competition. She should be exhausted and too cold to stand in line for the fright of her life. But this is where her own cape comes out and she taps into her own energy reserves in order to fit her diabestie into her schedule. So she stands in line and is reminded to check in with me. Adrenaline does not affect her. Instead, fear and terror are on her list of low-provokers. I get a text through BlueLoop. It says this:

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I text her back:

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the meantime, I am wholesomely entertained by a girl waitress who calls herself “MeMo”. Initially, she doesn’t want to tell me her given name. I am gently coerced to guess and the next time she appears at the table I’m given the hint that it starts with M-O. MeMo knows I’m having a lovely time alone while my little D-twinnies are out getting the bejesus scared out of them, and hopefully the diabetes too! But, I feel she’s trying to distract me. I think and think, as names are my gig. Monroe. Moe (too easy), Moses. She says no go…it’s not as normal as Monroe or Moe or Moses. Morgan. She says, Morgan. Well, damn, girl! Morgan is more normal than my own name! (I’m disappointed that it isn’t Mohave or something like that.) Then she tells me about her family and how she was originally given the name. I had her pegged as a hippie and I was right. Her parents? Let’s just not talk about them. She’s cool and seems to have a good life. I’m happy for her. And I plan on a nice tip.

And, it worked. She was a distraction. (Hi MeMo.)

New message (she’s 140):

 

IMG_3539-756They’re in. I get this new message and draw in a sharp breath. Because it’s funny, but then again it’s not. Ugh. That word. She uses it so casually, and that makes me feel good. So I continue to wait. I’m Jonesing for some dark chocolate, but I can’t remember if I have to buy a ticket for a movie in order to get to the line to buy the chocolate. All this place has is chocolate cake. And I’ve all but forgotten what that tastes like, it’s been so long. MeMo keeps asking me if I want desert. Do you have 72% chocolate bars in the kitchen?

I sit and type, resigned to push the craving away, and wear the cape for yet a few more hours. I’ve been up since 7:15. I think bedtime will be 3am, with a wake time of 10:00am to prepare for our band fundraising car wash my Sweet’s dad has organized. Her diabestie will be coming with us.

 

This is the concession I make; my comfy couch, time with the hubs. And it isn’t even our night to have the kids! I could have set myself up for a night of pleasure. I’m talking about heated matttress, comfy jammies, eye-mask-wearing pleasure. Sleep.

Sleep can wait. My daughter who needs experiences like this, can’t.

 

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Disclaimer:

I've spent a lot of time in front of doctors, but I am NOT one, although I am without a doubt the best nurse my daughter's ever had. Only there's no degree involved and my payment is made in hugs and respect (mostly).

No content of this site should be taken as medical advice. If you read anything of interest that you'd consider trying yourself - don't be silly! Consult your doctor for the best course of action.

Who I’m Reading Right Now

Sharon C. Written by:

Night Owl Crackerjack - juggling the needs of two talented and witty teenagers (one a T1D), one terrific husband, and my own adventures in a complicated life that's still good.