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.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Oh That Wicked Arachnid Creature She Becomes

You would think that a child who is accustomed to getting two injections per day, could just roll with the punches when it came time for flu shots this afternoon.


Normally for an immunization, I wouldn't provide any head's up as to why we were going to the doctor's office. My ten year old beat me to the punch, filling in my seven year old daughter what lay in waiting.

Her meltdown began before we even left the house. We were all ready to go, and she'd bolt and run and hide. I love chasing down a child when the clock is ticking ever closer to appointment time.

I realize very quickly, that if I let go of her when we're outside, she'll be gone. There will be no finding her until she chooses to be found. Not an encouraging thought. So I very firmly hold her hand coming down the front steps, I manage to get the three of us out the front door, but she's putting up a fight as I fumble to try and lock the door. There I am, keys in one hand, my screaming child in the other hand, standing on ONE leg, as my left leg is wrapped around Rowan's waist to keep her in place as I lock the door. I must have been a flamingo in my previous incarnations.

I take her by the arm and lead her to the car. She is at this point, whipping me with her diabetic purse, screaming at me about how I lied last year when after we got sick I said we wouldn't do the flu-shots again.

"Stuff happens Rowan, life changes"

She is snarling at me, growling, slapping me, kicking me, screaming at me. I wonder what people walking by on the sidewalk must think I am doing to this poor unfortunate soul. Do they realize it is in fact, the exact opposite? Don't worry about her..... worry about me!

I don't know how I managed to get her in the car, walk around to my side and start the car without her escaping. Thank you to whatever heavenly figure was looking down at us for that act of mercy. Thank you.

We pull into the doctor's parking lot, my eldest daughter and I are out of the car. Everytime I unlock Rowan's car door, she quickly flips it locked again. I unlock the passenger side front door, reach my arm around to unlock the door, and guard the locking mechanism by being flipped by her again. Quickly I have the door open, and have her pulled out.

By this point she has morphed into that wicked arachnid type creature I have known her to be on ocassion. Limbs flailing with fury, she is screaming her protest. Another mother in the parking lot steps into her mini van to watch this spectacle, and I see a slight chuckle on her face. Bless her heart for not feeding attention to the wicked arachnid type creature, lest I likely would have lost all control.

I do not take my hand off this child at any point on the walk into the medical building.

I announce our arrival to the receptionist, who likely HEARD our arrival long before we were ever visible.

At this point I'm surprised this child isn't foaming at the mouth. The kicking, screaming, slapping, whipping continue. I look her straight in the eyes, and in the nicest tone possible tell her "I am the one who keeps you alive. I am the one who does your insulin EVERYDAY. You would think a little person who NEEDS me so badly, would not want to treat me like this. I DESERVE TO BE SPOKEN TO NICELY. If you continue to speak to me this way, YOU will be doing your own insulin tomorrow morning."

So she stops speaking to me. Doesn't stop her from snarling or growling, but at least she has stopped screaming about how evil I am, and how much she hates me. Sigh. Motherhood.

We are called to the examination room. I don't even bother taking her hand, my arms are wrapped around her chest, and I lift all sixty pounds of her and begin to walk to the other room. I don't know how I didn't loose an eyeball from her flailing hands. Somewhere along the journey, she comes to the brilliant idea of extending her legs outright against the doorjam to prevent me from enterring. Silly little girl, this isn't the first time I've played this game with you. I take a step backwards, turn around, and enter the room backwards.

I get my immunization done. My ten year old gets the immunization done. My seven year old is screeching like a banshee the entire time. I do not engage her. My experience of administering insulin has taught me some tricks as to how to pin this child single handed. Especially in our early days, when she thought or hoped that the insulin injections would remain at the hospital. She used to run and hide in every possible spot that I could NOT physically access. Here we are again, I'm thinking, but this time, I've GOT your number, and I've learned a few things.

I scoop her up, stagger to the exam table, sit down, plunk her on her side over my lap, my legs firmly securing her kicking legs from making contact with the doctor, the other arm keeping her upper body still. The screaming is now at a feverish intensity.

When all is said and done, but she is of course not yet calm, we leave, our family physician is standing in the hallway, laughing.

"I knew it was you Rowan, I remember that from LAST year".

Good to know, that the doctor's in their office draw straws as to who is lucky enough to give Rowan her annual flu shot.

Alright..... bring on the viruses!!!!

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