Emotions

It has been almost six months to the day that ivy was diagnosed. I keep putting off writing.... I have a lot to say, but always an excuse not to write it down. We have been to two jdrf seminars, countless support groups, every event that diabetes youth services can throw at us. We are now using an insulin pump instead of syringes. Our walk team for october is formed and we are having our first fundraiser at the end of the month. So much has changed, but one thing that really really hasn't? This emotional roller coaster we are on.


I read back through my telling of ivy's story, and a recurrent theme I see is strength. I was trying so hard to stay strong for ivy, for her to not see my tears. Want to hear a secret? I can't be strong all the time. That support system I found while in the hospital has grown since then... I have made so many great friends I never would have met without the diagnosis we had. But no matter how many people you have holding you up, you are bound to fall eventually.


I cry. Ivy has seen me. I want her to know it's okay to cry, this really does suck. I do most of my crying in the car and the shower, though, when I am on my own.


There was a day last week when I had to go to the babysitters to change ivy's site that had gone bad. The event itself was no more eventful than usual... She fought me, I played "tough mom" and got the job done. Nothing dramatic, nothing different. I cried the whole way back to work.


As a parent, you want your child to have a happy, healthy life. Whether you admit it or not, you want your child to be "normal", whatever that is. If you ask any diabetes educator, any endocrinologist, they will tell you diabetes doesn't stop a child from doing anything they want to. Ivy is still in cheerleading, she can still run and play and eat what she wants, she goes to girl scouts. She can still do anything her classmates can.


But her classmates? Her friends? They don't have to check their blood sugar countless times a day. The don't have to change their pump site every three days. They don't have to sleep attached to a machine so they stay healthy and alive. They don't have to limit their carb intake or get blood tests every year or worry about what their A1c is or go to the doctor every three months. It hurts when you know your child will never have a normal carefree life. It hurts when, as a mom, you can't fix it.


Logically, I know things could be worse. This isn't a death sentence, there are a million other diagnoses that would have been worse. But in my heart, I can't stop crying in the shower. I can't be strong all the time.

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