Complacency

It's taken me three weeks to write this, and I still shake when I think about it...

I've become complacent about Mark's diabetes "management." I count carbs and adjust insulin-to-carb ratios in my head. I test Mark's blood sugar late at night while I'm half-asleep, and I dole out juice boxes absentmindedly whenever Mark says, "I feel low." I don't give diabetes any more energy than it deserves, and diabetes doesn't like that.

It likes to be center stage. It likes to be in charge, and when it's not, it turns into a fearsome wild tiger, gnashing its teeth, and baring its claws. It reminds me that diabetes is "manageable" the way a caged tiger in a zoo is manageable; give it food and routine care, and it will mostly behave. But turn your back on it for a second, and it will rip you up, reminding you that it's not some wimpy domestic house cat.

Three weeks ago, that tiger attacked Mark.

It was a routine morning. Mark said he felt low when I tested him, but his blood sugar was an acceptable 97. I pre-bolused him for his breakfast, as I do every morning, and returned to bed.

Thirty minutes later, Mark refused to eat his meal, and started mouthing off at me. I'd only been awake a couple minutes, and I was sick. My patience level was set to low.

Mark refused to listen. He refused breakfast, his morning meds, my suggestions to get dressed. Finally, out of frustration, I called my brother Scott to talk some sense into him.

But Mark wouldn't listen to Scott, either. He laid on the floor and covered his ears.

I still couldn't figure out what was going on. Scott said, "Get some sugar into him right now," and it was like a verbal slap. Of course that was the problem!

I almost burst into tears. How dumb am I? I didn't even think about that, but Mark was probably low. He wasn't acting like himself, and even Scott, 120 miles away, realized it was diabetes-related. I wrestled Mark to the chair, and tested him. His blood sugar was 49--dangerously low.

The verbal assault went into overdrive. Mark went from yelling accusations to just plain shrieking. He turned into the Incredible Hulk--angry, and freakishly strong. I bear hugged him and shot some juice into him, but he spit it out, then flung the juice box across the room.

I tried glucose gel, but he spit that out, too. I even tried candy, but he chucked that across the room. He needed sugar NOW, but I couldn't get it into him.

I knew I needed the big gun--the glucagon. It's an emergency shot that comes with a big needle--it causes the liver to immediately dump all of its sugar into the bloodstream. I've never used it; all I know is that it's a weapon of last resort, and that it will make you vomit.

The Hulk was still in overdrive, trying to knock the glucagon from my hands. I debated calling the paramedics--the kid was really out of control, and I needed help right away. But I knew they wouldn't get there quick enough; the glucagon would work faster. I had to chance it.

And so I shot him. I ran by and stuck him in the arm, then threw him a trash can in case he barfed. He was still shrieking like a madman. I grabbed the phone and dialed 9, then 1, but before I got to the last 1, the shrieking suddenly stopped.

I looked at Mark. He went from screaming to an eerie silence in about a minute. He smiled at me and said, "I love you, Mommy." And then he started inhaling all the food on the table.

He downed his breakfast shake in two gulps, and stuffed the candy into his mouth. He yelled, "I need a turkey sandwich NOW!" candy falling from his mouth, and I snapped into gear.

It was amazing to watch him come back to normal. As soon as the food and glucagon hit his bloodstream, he calmed down. He was shivering and cold, and wanted a warm shower. I agreed, but stood just outside the door the whole time. The adrenaline and fear rampaged through my veins, and it felt like we'd just narrowly escaped a major medical emergency. I couldn't stop shaking or crying.

The good thing is, Mark didn't remember any of it--he blacked out during the whole episode. His blood sugar came back up, and he danced around the house playfully. I kept him home another 90 minutes, until he begged me to take him to school so he wouldn't miss recess. I finally did, but not until I'd hugged him about 500 times.

"You scared me to death," I told him. "I'm going to hug you and kiss you 175 times a day for the next month, and you're just gonna suck it up. You scared me that much!"

And to his credit, he agreed. I kissed him 20 times after that.

The hardest thing I've ever done was to let him walk off to class that day. I wasn't gonna be there to keep him safe, to protect him. Hell, I hadn't even been able to protect him that morning when he was in my care! I know what to do, I've trained and prepared for it, and still, it took my brother's voice to slap me into it. I almost broke down thinking what would've happened if he'd gone that low at school, or after school. Or even when he's 16 or 20 or 25, and taller and stronger than me. Who will stop the Incredible Hulk then???

But I couldn't think like that...it was too overwhelming. So instead, I steadied myself, took a deep breath and dried my tears. I shifted the car into drive, and went to work, where I couldn't do anything but worry about my kid all day long.

I'm beginning to realize now that as a mom, that worry never does go away...