It turns out that mothers of children with diabetes can experience the sensations of fight and flight. At the same time. Those primal responses embedded so deeply within each of us that, when triggered, take over any rational part of our brains in order to protect oneself, or ones offspring I might add. I've been told that that response was needed when human beings needed to say, run away from a saber toothed tiger. I am here to testify that they serve a purpose in our modern day as well.
Picture yourself in that eerie place located somewhere between sleep and complete wakefulness. That time where you have laid you have laid your head on your pillow, run through the events of the day as well as the ones you expect to happen the next day and when you slowly let your mind and body relax and you are about to surrender yourself completely into dreamland when you hear through the intercom, "Mom, I feel low."
Those are never welcome words. Never. But they are especially offensive when you are in that state when your subconscious mind is about to take you into your dreams. It is especially so when you know that not minutes ago the sayer of those words was fully awake and functional and you had reminded him to check his blood and you know that he did because he reported it to you and it was 84, not low for a daytime reading, but too low to go to bed with and you say to the empty air because the ears who needed to hear them walked away too quickly, "Are you going to have something?" and you hope that he remembers that a bg of 84 is too low to go to bed with but you chose not to follow up because you are in bed ready to begin the falling asleep ritual and he is, after all, 13 1/2 and has had diabetes for nearly 4 1/2 years and 84 has always been to low to go to bed with.
Now, with your heart pounding, because that is what happens when you hear the words, "Mom, I feel low" when you were in that place between sleep and wakefulness and you stumble into the kitchen trying not to wake anyone else up and fumble through the pantry to open a new box of capri suns and wish that you could curse the person that thought it was a good idea to shrink wrap 4 boxes together because it is so hard to open them when you are in a hurry and have just been jolted out of that near dreamlike state. Then you stumble to the drawer and hope that the pdm, test strips and poker are all there. They are. Thank you. By now you are practically running down the stairs and into the room with the closed door and the light on and toss the blood checking supplies to your child while you try to find something sharp enough to push through the corrugated box that is supposed to be easy to open, but isn't. You tell the child that you know full well had not been even near the dreamlike state you were in and ask why, he wasn't able to walk up the stairs to check his blood himself. He says, "Wouldn't you feel bad if my bg was 30 or something and then you'd be glad I didn't." 33. He was right.
I throw him one capri sun and open a second to shove into his hand when the first one gets down. He jokes about it being another "brown sugar" night and says that he feels like he can't stop smiling and that that is probably not a good sign. It isn't. (By "brown sugar night" he was referring to a night not long ago when after two capri suns his blood sugar was dropping still and his belly was so full he couldn't get any more down and felt like throwing up. Throwing up would be very bad. The two things I could think of with the most carbs. and least volume were honey and brown sugar. He chose the later and I fed it to him by the spoonsful until his bg came back up again.) 5 minutes later he tells me he feels really hungry. He looks pail. I hand him another capri sun to chug down. He wants to check his blood again. Fine, but drink first. He tells me to check while he drinks. Fine. 26.
FIGHT AND FLIGHT.
Flight first. That part of a mother's heart that upon seeing her child slipping away and feeling like there is nothing she can do wants to surface, wants to completely break down and not necessarily run away, but just hold him and cry and cry and ask why do we have to do this? Again? Will it be worse this time? Where is the glucagon?
Fight wins! Drink this. Capri sun #4. At least he can get them down tonight. The "mama bear" who would do anything to protect her cub kicks into gear and runs over the mom who wants to run away. She runs upstairs to get the glucagon, brown sugar, a bowl, spoon and sees the bowl of frosting sitting on the counter next to the cookies waiting to be frosted and grabs that too. He chooses the brown sugar again.
After he reluctantly gagged down 3-4 tablespoons of brown sugar he started to pink up and he, thankfully, told me he was feeling better, not so hungry. We waited 10 minutes then checked his blood. 114. Hooray. I left all his blood checking supplies and the rest of the box of juice on his desk and told him if he got up to pee that he should check his blood. All those lifesaving carbs may catch up to him later. After I put the bowl and spoon in the sink and the brown sugar canister away and covered the frosting I sat down, now fully awake, and wondered about the emotions that were coursing through my veins.
That is when I determined that as the mother of a child with diabetes I could experience both the fight and flight response at the same time. The mom with the broken heart is the flight response and the one who almost instinctively (instinctively because she has done it so many times before) knows what to do and does it is the fighter. They both exist within the same mom at the same time. It is now nearly 1:00 a.m. I want to go to bed, but I want to check his blood again too. The fact that this same scenario has played out many times before does not make the current moment any easier. I know with 100% certainty that we will do this again. I will continue to be grateful for the medicine that keeps my son alive even though too much of it can be deadly. It is a tightrope that we walk, trying ever so hard with our doctor, nurses, dietitians, friends, teachers and most of all God keeping us in balance.
Picture yourself in that eerie place located somewhere between sleep and complete wakefulness. That time where you have laid you have laid your head on your pillow, run through the events of the day as well as the ones you expect to happen the next day and when you slowly let your mind and body relax and you are about to surrender yourself completely into dreamland when you hear through the intercom, "Mom, I feel low."
Those are never welcome words. Never. But they are especially offensive when you are in that state when your subconscious mind is about to take you into your dreams. It is especially so when you know that not minutes ago the sayer of those words was fully awake and functional and you had reminded him to check his blood and you know that he did because he reported it to you and it was 84, not low for a daytime reading, but too low to go to bed with and you say to the empty air because the ears who needed to hear them walked away too quickly, "Are you going to have something?" and you hope that he remembers that a bg of 84 is too low to go to bed with but you chose not to follow up because you are in bed ready to begin the falling asleep ritual and he is, after all, 13 1/2 and has had diabetes for nearly 4 1/2 years and 84 has always been to low to go to bed with.
Now, with your heart pounding, because that is what happens when you hear the words, "Mom, I feel low" when you were in that place between sleep and wakefulness and you stumble into the kitchen trying not to wake anyone else up and fumble through the pantry to open a new box of capri suns and wish that you could curse the person that thought it was a good idea to shrink wrap 4 boxes together because it is so hard to open them when you are in a hurry and have just been jolted out of that near dreamlike state. Then you stumble to the drawer and hope that the pdm, test strips and poker are all there. They are. Thank you. By now you are practically running down the stairs and into the room with the closed door and the light on and toss the blood checking supplies to your child while you try to find something sharp enough to push through the corrugated box that is supposed to be easy to open, but isn't. You tell the child that you know full well had not been even near the dreamlike state you were in and ask why, he wasn't able to walk up the stairs to check his blood himself. He says, "Wouldn't you feel bad if my bg was 30 or something and then you'd be glad I didn't." 33. He was right.
I throw him one capri sun and open a second to shove into his hand when the first one gets down. He jokes about it being another "brown sugar" night and says that he feels like he can't stop smiling and that that is probably not a good sign. It isn't. (By "brown sugar night" he was referring to a night not long ago when after two capri suns his blood sugar was dropping still and his belly was so full he couldn't get any more down and felt like throwing up. Throwing up would be very bad. The two things I could think of with the most carbs. and least volume were honey and brown sugar. He chose the later and I fed it to him by the spoonsful until his bg came back up again.) 5 minutes later he tells me he feels really hungry. He looks pail. I hand him another capri sun to chug down. He wants to check his blood again. Fine, but drink first. He tells me to check while he drinks. Fine. 26.
FIGHT AND FLIGHT.
Flight first. That part of a mother's heart that upon seeing her child slipping away and feeling like there is nothing she can do wants to surface, wants to completely break down and not necessarily run away, but just hold him and cry and cry and ask why do we have to do this? Again? Will it be worse this time? Where is the glucagon?
Fight wins! Drink this. Capri sun #4. At least he can get them down tonight. The "mama bear" who would do anything to protect her cub kicks into gear and runs over the mom who wants to run away. She runs upstairs to get the glucagon, brown sugar, a bowl, spoon and sees the bowl of frosting sitting on the counter next to the cookies waiting to be frosted and grabs that too. He chooses the brown sugar again.
After he reluctantly gagged down 3-4 tablespoons of brown sugar he started to pink up and he, thankfully, told me he was feeling better, not so hungry. We waited 10 minutes then checked his blood. 114. Hooray. I left all his blood checking supplies and the rest of the box of juice on his desk and told him if he got up to pee that he should check his blood. All those lifesaving carbs may catch up to him later. After I put the bowl and spoon in the sink and the brown sugar canister away and covered the frosting I sat down, now fully awake, and wondered about the emotions that were coursing through my veins.
That is when I determined that as the mother of a child with diabetes I could experience both the fight and flight response at the same time. The mom with the broken heart is the flight response and the one who almost instinctively (instinctively because she has done it so many times before) knows what to do and does it is the fighter. They both exist within the same mom at the same time. It is now nearly 1:00 a.m. I want to go to bed, but I want to check his blood again too. The fact that this same scenario has played out many times before does not make the current moment any easier. I know with 100% certainty that we will do this again. I will continue to be grateful for the medicine that keeps my son alive even though too much of it can be deadly. It is a tightrope that we walk, trying ever so hard with our doctor, nurses, dietitians, friends, teachers and most of all God keeping us in balance.
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