On Monday, I signed us up for a class on coping with diabetes. It was at the hospital from 5:30-7 on a school night, which meant a rush-hour nightmare, but I was willing to do it for Mark.
Mark, who does not appreciate my maternal support, complained the whole way there.
"I've been stuck in traffic for the last hour and a half," I reminded him, through gritted teeth. "I'm feeling a little road ragey right now, so you should tread lightly."
He opened his mouth to argue back, when suddenly another car cut me off. I aimed a loud stream of profanities at the guy while Mark stared at me, shocked.
"I also haven't eaten," I warned. He silently handed me a granola bar.
The class was split into two groups, one for kids and one for parents. Three silent, sulking kids slumped around a table, sighing loudly and avoiding all eye contact. The group leader, a chipper young lady, pointed me to the other group.
The parents group wasn't much different from the kid's group, except that the other two moms didn't look angry, they just looked...defeated.
This group leader handed me a set of slides, and spent the next hour reading them to us verbatim. She talked about kids having denial and being angry at diabetes, and the other moms nodded in agreement.
She paused after the presentation.
"So," she said, looking at me. "Are you having any of these issues?"
"Um...no," I answered, truthfully. "Not right now. In the past, yes, but we're actually doing okay this week."
She looked at the mom next to me. The poor lady confessed that she had TWO teens with Type 1, and that it was very, very difficult. She teared up, covering her face in her hands and emotionally shut down.
I stared at her, wanting to reach out and ask if she was okay, but she clearly wasn't. As she sat there, curling up more into herself, the group leader turned to the other mom.
She rattled off the crimes her 16-year-old commits--not checking his blood sugar enough, not bolusing, not telling people (like his football team) that he even has diabetes. She said they fight constantly because he always wants to eat, and told how she warns him he'll get his feet or legs amputated like other family members if he doesn't take care of his diabetes.
The longer she talked, the more my heart hurt. For her, because she was obviously struggling, and for her son, who sounded depressed and, well...hungry. He's an active 16-year-old boy, and I know how much teen boys can eat, but all I heard was how much she resticted his diet.
I've lived through the stuff she discussed, so I tried, gently, to share what worked for us. She listened, but ended each sentence with a new complaint. When I realized she didn't want answers, she wanted to vent, I stopped talking and just listened.
We circled back to the other mom, who'd stopped crying. But she froze up again when the leader came back to her--it was too much. The room was tense, fraught with emotion, and I just wanted to escape. I hoped Mark was faring better in the other room.
Finally, our time was up. I talked to the distraught mom, but she still had trouble connecting, even one on one. I listened a few minutes, and as she left, wished her well, telling her it does get better.
When I walked into the kid's room, Mark's eyes zeroed in on me like a laser. His jaw clenched, he shot me the stink eye, and I knew his group hadn't gone any better.
"I'm sorry!" I mouthed, before he stomped out of the room.
He exploded as soon as we hit the parking lot.
"I'm never going back to that group again, EVER!" he ranted. "I don't care what you say, NEVER!"
"Me neither," I said, surprising him. "Seriously..."
Mark told me how none of the other kids talked.
"Not at ALL!" he said. "I was the only one who answered, until the the leader stopped calling on me."
"What'd she ask you?"
"What my A1C was, how I take care of my diabetes, what I like to do," he said. "Those other kids--all they said was 'Nothing.' She asked what they liked to do--nothing. What sports do they play? What makes you angry? What makes you happy? What do you want your parents to help with? Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing."
"Yikes," I said. "Wait, what is that?" I motioned at something shiny in his hands.
"My thoughts," he said sarcastically. He held up a jar filled with water and glitter and violently swirled it around. "We made this in class. These are my thoughts when I'm worried, like before taking a test. Now I need to wait for my thoughts to all settle."
I giggled. "Is that..." I started. "Um, is that a urine sample jar?"
He stopped ranting, looked closely, and said, "It totally is!"
Mark held up a ball in his other hand. "They also gave me a stress ball," he said, squishing it tight. "Me, a kid. Do they think I'm stressed? What am I supposed to do with this?"
I thought he might throw it at me, which would definitely relieve his stress, so I warned him not to.
"I won't," he promised. "I only took it for Fernando," mimicking his playful cat.
I tried to find the positive note. "What else did she ask you?"
"Nothing," he said glumly, imitating the other kids. "She asked what's a good A1C. I said between 7 and 8 percent."
I was impressed, as was the group leader.
"She said good job," Mark told me. "Then she asked what I was even doing here. I said, 'I don't know.'"
I hugged him.
"I'm sorry, kiddo," I said. "And I'm proud of you. Super proud. You are a great kid, and you do a great job, at school, at home, and with your diabetes. I don't tell you enough, but you are an awesome kid, and I love you."
Mark softened a bit, then pulled away from me, embarrassed.
"I'm still not ever going back," he said.
"You don't have to," I said. "On to more important things--what do you want for dinner?"
"Nothing," he repeated in a flat voice. "I feel nothing. I eat nothing." It was his answer to every question that night, and we laughed just as hard every time he said it.
"That's really what we learned tonight," Mark told me at dinner. "NOTHING!"
I laughed again, but disagreed. I learned a lot. The class was an awesome (and timely) reminder that I have an amazing kid, a whip-smart kid, a kid who likes to argue with me but also wages a mighty battle against diabetes on a daily basis--and routinely kicks its butt.
I learned I have a resilient, funny kid who keeps his sense of humor even in the worst possible scenario. I learned how lucky I really am, that I hit the jackpot in the kid department, and that I am incredibly grateful for all of it.
So yeah, maybe the class itself was painful. But the lesson I took away was not. I learned that we aren't any better, smarter or different than those other families--we're just at different points in our journeys. We've been where they are now, and we'll probably be back again.
Which is fine. Because as of today we're still moving ahead, moving forward on our journey. We're moving together, in laughter and appreciation, and in gratitude.
And that, my friend, is not nothing.
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