"So much drama," the hockey dad said to me, scuttling his son back onto the ice.
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
I wanted to shoot red lasers at him from my eyeballs.
I should go back to the beginning. Back when I was getting Charlie’s pads and skates on and looking angrily at a 415 on his meter. 415 was not at all part of the plan.
From the cold bleachers we watch Charlie through the glass. We watch him grimace and straighten his back. We watch him as he falls to the ice and stays down too long, pressing on the outside of his ankles.
Why is he on his knees so much, we ask? The other kids aren’t doing that. Why is he so uncomfortable?
Is it because he’s 400?
Can we blame diabetes?
Or is it just because his ice skates hurt his feet? Ice skates hurt my feet and I don’t have diabetes.
After Susanne took the other kids home, I moved closer to ice level and watched Charlie. Again, Charlie fell to his hands and knees, resting his legs.
"ARE – YOU – OK?" I mouthed to him from behind the fogged glass.
Charlie gave me the thumbs down.
I waved him off the ice. He crashed down on the bench as I quickly got his testing supplies out and he threw his head back, exhausted.
32.
Shit!
"Drink this!"
"Here! Eat this!"
"Drink more of this!"
Charlie has been that low only a handful of times in his life. As we sat together on the cold bench waiting for his blood sugar to rise, I wonder if the two hockey dads standing nearby have any clue that a major medical emergency is taking place. Probably not. There are no blaring sirens with this emergency. Just the sound of plastic being unwrapped quickly.
Charlie bit into a second chocolate chip cookie and watched the hockey as it went on without him.
I hate diabetes! Have I mentioned that lately? Absolutely hate it!
He was 50 about five minutes later and desperately wanted to get back out there.
We waited a few more minutes.
"How do you feel?"
Charlie whimpered.
"How do you feel?" I asked again.
"I don’t know how I feel!" he barked.
With just under 10 minutes left in the hockey session, Charlie went back out and made the most of it – playing like a madman. He raised both arms high in the air after sliding the puck into the goal on his backhand.
Meanwhile, another dad was getting his son back on the ice as well.
"My foot hurts. My arm is itchy," he said to me, shaking his head and imitating his son.
"So much drama."
This makes me sad. And angry. Sangry. Except that sounds too similar to a refreshing beverage. Sad + Cranky = Sanky. No, that sounds like coffee. Bummed + Pissed = Bussed. Wow, I'm pretty bad at this. So I'll just go with >:|
I hate diabetes too. I hate not knowing when my son is being dramatic and when he's having a problem, either directly caused by diabetes, or just him melting down from having to come to terms with it. I'm going with depressed + angry = dangry ;)
Ha! Good ones. Yeah, I too was depressed. Depressed and frustrated. Deprustrated.
I relate to 300+ and within minutes (usually 45 and less) below 50 showing on my blood glucose meter. Even after 59 years, there are those days that just don't seem to make sense. Do we walk the current HIGH off, or do we wait and just continue housework inside? Yesterday's activity, insulin calculations per carbs. to-be-eaten, wrestless sleeping perhaps and the list of possibilities continues. Sunday our granddaughter (1/4 of our grandchildren)turns two years of age. Our oldest grandson is 12 and the others are 7 year old and 10 month old. Our two children and their spouces are living the healthy life without d in their lives except for Gramma. Fear not LOVED ones, being diagnosed Type I at 5 years old has not stopped God's blessings in my life and He LOVES you too. HE's a Very Faithful Friend.
If only the common misconceptions of diabetes by the public could change. People think you just watch what you eat, take your insulin and life goes on. HELLO-O-O. This is a 24/7/365 deal of walking a tight-rope. I wish I could hug you and your son. It's been 45 years for me and I have a daughter who has been dealing for 24 years. It breaks my heart. Down with diabetes, it sucks.
I'm going with sangry. This post made me sangry.