Had he been awake, he probably wouldn’t have appreciated the pink straw in his mouth. But we were out of juice boxes and the box of straws had been picked clean of all its blues and greens.
Sounds are louder at 2 am. The trigger snap and pop of the pricker. My bare feet smacking the wood floor. My sloth-like descent down the stairs and the familiar creaks in the wood that groan under my weight.
I don’t need to tell you. You know.
His eyelids bend open just slightly and quiver like closed moth wings. His mouth opens on cue.
"Good, Charlie. Just a little more."
One eye opens and then closes.
While he drinks, I think about the news of the artificial pancreas. Everything is always four to five years away it seems. It’s not a cure, but it’s something.
I do the math as I have many times before, trying to maintain hopeful. Like the scenario I’ve played in my head regarding a cure.
"Let’s see. If there’s a cure in 10 years, he’ll still only be 13. He’ll still be a kid. He’ll have a whole lifetime ahead of him."
Only that was five years ago when I first said that. The years do go by fast. Now he’d be 18 if a cure was 10 years away.
I count years knowing full well that the parents of children with diabetes who came before me probably did the same thing.
And now their children are adults.
Carey,
I love to read your posts, as I am on the same side of this disease. I think of myself as the assistant D coach, as I'm always ready and prepared to help but not really in charge any more... In the past eleven years every time I heard about a "cure" my heart stood still. I am still hopeful that they find a cure. For now we deal with things as they come, even juice boxes in the middle of the night...and hope. A cure in ten years would make her 28, I'd take that!
Four when diagnosed. Now 57. Of course, they didn't know as much and there was not the technology of today when I was young. I am amazed when I hear about how you parents test your child in the wee hours of the morning. Mine never did. Soon after my diagnosis, there was the one time when I laid half paralyzed with my right arm waving and my parents panicked, called the Dr. an then drove me to the hospital on his command. I'm sure I scared them half to death. At that time and for a few years after, I slept in their room on a folding bed.
Yeah, the promises of a cure were around then, but I am convinced that we will have a real cure within the next 15 years. Probably not in my lifetime but I'll be happy for Charlie and other children who have this disease.
It's funny. I never think about a cure. I only think about what will happen in the future. He was dx'd at age 3, now he is 8.
I think about CGMs and their integration with a pump, but that is not a cure. I wonder why I don't think of a cure.
I can't help but want to rant every time someone suggests a "cure" for Type 1 that does not include arresting and reversing the autoimmune cascade. Or that just because I don't have to take pills for my Type 2, that I am "cured" of it. There's so much that needs to be accounted for to produce a real cure... Thanks for giving me something else to write a huge long blog post about!