Conquering the mountain

I hate diabetes because it's physically hard on my son--it's hard to watch Mark suffer when his blood sugar's too high or low. But I also hate diabetes for the emotional toll it takes on him.

And this week, selfishly, on me.

I try not to give too much credence to the emotional toll, like if I don't acknowledge it, it's not really there. But that's just wishful thinking...like diabetes, it's always there.

I don't let Mark use diabetes as an excuse. I remind him he can do anything--that diabetes might slow him down a bit, but not knock him out entirely. He can do whatever he wants despite diabetes--sports, travel, swimming, camping, eating. Everything just takes a little extra work. Our diabetes motto is the same as the Boy Scout motto--be prepared.

"Always take your meter and glucose tabs with you," I tell Mark.

And your mom, I add silently, because Mark would roll his eyes in disgust if I actually said that comment out loud. (Heck, even I roll my eyes thinking it!)

But it's true, I feel it, even if I never say it. I chalk it up to that other feeling I don't want to acknowledge that is also always there. Fear. I don't let Mark use diabetes as an excuse, but sometimes, I use it because I'm fearful. I hate diabetes for making me scared, for turning me into a big ball of anxiety over simple childhood passages like slumber parties or overnight camping trips, for making me want to hide Mark and protect him forever.

It scares the crap out of me, sending him out into this big world alone every day. Since the state requires he attend school daily, I've gotten used to the days. But the nights still scare me. Night time is when all the scary stuff happens, the unexpected lows or random wicked highs, and it usually happens quickly, without warning. No one knows how to care for Mark like I do--no one else sees him wilt as his blood sugar drops, or sees the anger rise as his blood sugar does. No one else has that mother's intuition, which jolts me awake at midnight to check his blood sugar (it's always low when this happens). No one knows Mark like I do, or can care for Mark like I do.

And yes, even as I write that paragraph, I realize how selfish and arrogant it sounds. I don't want to be either, arrogant or selfish, I just want to keep my kid safe.

But my job isn't just about safety, it's also about healthy. Raising him to be emotionally strong and confident, sure of himself, able to care for himself, giving him opportunities to succeed so he knows he really can do anything. Because one day, he'll be off to college, and he will have to do all that. The short-term answer is always the easiest--just do it myself, because I'm faster and more accurate, but really all that does is rob Mark of experience he'll need later in life.

All of which comes back to my worst nightmares: the fear, emotional toll, and selfish feelings I experienced when I saw something as simple as an email about an overnight Scout backpacking trip.

"You wanna go?" I asked Mark, halfheartedly. I didn't want him to miss out, but I also didn't want to chaperone.

"Yes!" Mark answered enthusiastically. "If Sean and Jonah are going."

Sean and Jonah were going.

"It's sleeping out in the open," I told him. "No tents."

"So?" Mark said.

"Lots of hiking," I reminded him. "Probably seven or eight miles."

"Psssh," Mark scoffed. "I can do that, no problem."

And with that, I was officially out of excuses.

The trip was nearby, within 25 minutes of home and across the freeway from civilization, including hospitals and emergency services. The leader-to-Scout ratio was high (five leaders for 20 boys) and one knew Mark well (he was Mark's Cub Scout den leader). Sean and Jonah also know Mark well, and take great joy in annoying Mark by reminding him to check his blood sugar and bolus. There really was only one excuse to keep Mark home.

Fear.

My fear. That stomach-churning, sweat-producing, anxiety-fueled sinking feeling that immediately took over my body. Damn you! I cursed the fear, in my head. But outwardly, I smiled at Mark and left the room, so as not betray my true feelings.

I struggled internally for a few days. He'll do fine, I told myself. He knows how to take care of himself, he's been learning all these years. He's with people who know him, he's with grown-ups I can trust to care for him. Those were the positive thoughts.

He's gonna die, I also told myself. This was the unproductive, super not-helpful thought. There were multiple variations of this thought, but essentially, they all boiled down to one simple fear: that he was gonna die. (I know I'm not the only parent with this fear--all parents have it, in one form or another.) He was gonna die because I wasn't there to watch over him, protect him, care for him. And then diabetes would laugh at me afterwards, triumphantly waving its victory flag above me, finally winning the battle Mark's been fighting since he was two years old.

And that's what finally turned me. I didn't miraculously overcome the fear. There was nothing brave I did, or any noble Yoda moments of wisdom that turned me around. It was just these two simple thoughts: Mark is ready, and I'm not gonna let the fear win.

I let him go. I trained the leaders about diabetes and high/low symptoms to watch for. I still worried, but not exclusively about diabetes. I worried his pack was too big, he didn't have enough warm clothes or water--the things all parents worry  about. I took my sister-in-law's wonderful advice, reminding Mark the day before about everything diabetes-related. And then, on the morning of the hike, I sent my grumpy, sleepy son off to the mountains, telling him simply to have fun.

I wanted to curl up on the couch then, but thanks to my amazing village, I did not. My friend Liz invited me to the movies to get my mind off the trip. My friend Karen texted me when the boys arrived safely from the hike. My cousins took me to dinner, and reassured me I was doing the right thing. One cousin even works for the company that makes Mark's insulin pump, so she's an expert on diabetes. I told her how I'd prepared him, and how nervous I was. She told me I'd done everything right, and I almost burst into tears.

And then, before I knew it, it was Monday. Liz sent me a congratulatory text ("You made it through the night!"). Mark called to say they were on their way home, and just hearing his voice brought me to tears again. He's safe, I told myself. Take that, fear.

I asked Mark a million questions on the way home. I wanted desperately to ask about diabetes--did he check his blood sugar? How often? How was it? Did you bolus? When?

Instead, I asked every other question. Was it cold? How was the food? How was sleeping outside? How was the hike? Did you make it to the top of the mountain?

I asked questions for 20 minutes, about every detail, until finally, I could ever-so-casually ask about diabetes. Like it was an after thought, like it hadn't consumed my every thought until just right now.

"My blood sugar was fine," Mark said. "A little high this morning, but fine. I took care of it."

"I'm so proud of you," I said. "You did a great job managing it. I bet you feel really proud of yourself, too, huh?"

He just stared at me. I thought this would be a big, dramatic moment where it hit Mark that he could do this. I pictured a light-bulb moment, angels singing, harps playing, the epiphany where Mark realized, I got this. I'd beam at him, so proud of his new-found maturity.

Instead, Mark stared at me. Then, finally, he shrugged, and said, "I do this every day. I did the same thing I do every day. What's the big deal?"

And for the third time in 24 hours, I nearly burst into tears. Because it turns out, the epiphany was not Mark's, it was mine. It wasn't Mark who needed the lesson, it was me.

"You're right," I said, giving him a hug. "You do a great job with this every day."

"Are you crying?" he sighed.

"No," I said.

He stared at me, deciding whether to call me on my lie. Finally, he made a safer move and changed the subject.

"We made it to the top," he said. "I am sooooooo sore, but we climbed all the way to the top of the mountain."

"That's awesome!" I said.

Because he did it. He climbed that mountain, literally and figuratively, and came back safely. He took diabetes to the top of the mountain, kicked its butt, and dragged it back down. While I was busy worrying, he was busy scaling mountains.

So, yeah...take that, diabetes.