Woman, Independent Parent, Artist, Advocate, Artifical Pancreas.... and EVERYTHING in between.

I am blessed to be parenting two beautiful girls, ages eight and eleven. My youngest nearly lost her life at age six (August 2010) to diabetic ketoacidosis: an often fatal consequences of undiagnosed type 1 diabetes. This is OUR journey: raw and sometimes, uncensored.

Thank you for visiting wishing good health and a cooperative pancreas to you and yours.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Insulin Rituals

Rowan has committed to memory the numbers under which she does NOT require insulin. Her reaction is always immediate, either beaming with glee, or an instant scowl. Then we "debate" what site we are going to use: arm, leg, buttock, or stomach. This part is always an argument. She prefers the back of the arms, so we've reserved those for school day mornings, when I frankly don't have time for the big production. Tonight, we did leg. She did not want to do leg. My next option is always the stomach. I hate the stomach. She hates it more.

"Stomach or leg Ojo, that's the deal" I stand firm. I have to. Not rotating injection sites is dangerous for her. My line is the sand is always firmly etched when harm is involved.

"Leg" she mutters angrily. She's angry alot. I don't blame her. So for the most part, I let her be angry. But to an extent.

You'd think she'd realize, one day, that kicking the person holding the syringe isn't the best of ideas.

"It's only going to hurt more going in when you're kicking me and struggling. Just lay back, and try to relax."

She finally lays back, after much more guffaws.

The needle talk is always the same: "Take a deep breath, there it is. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. Release the pinch, and out it comes"

I didn't realize how much I stuck to that script, until I overheard her do it verbatim when she was giving insulin to Ruby the diabetic teddybear (pictured)

Now of course, I have to kiss it better. Always without fail. But then comes my best part. Her smelling my lips. Insulin has a very strong metalic smell, and if there is a small drop on the surface, my lips have a medicinal stink. She calls it "your insulin lips" and my favourite part of this entire debacle, is her sniffing my face for insulin lips. She always makes me laugh, sniffing like a bloodhound, and I'm always grateful to know she still loves me, even though I'm the bearer of syringes. It's almost like after the struggle, she knows how to make it all right again.

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