Injecting insulin into my youngest has NEVER been an easy experience.
When we returned home from the hospital after diagnosis, age six, she must have figured that the needles would have STAYED at the hospital. I mean really, I've never given her needles before, right? Oh sweet-pea, I wish it would be true.
The first week home, she found every imaginable hiding spot out of my reach. Behind the television, beneath the fireplace hearth, it was fun.
In time, I suppose she maybe began to accept this was her new reality. But she still wasn't going to give in without a fight. I suppose on some level, I have to give her fighting spirit some credit, though I would be inclined to give it MORE credit, if it wasn't being directed at me.
For sixteen months, she struggled, she flailed, she kicked, she hit, she screamed. I hated it. Absolutely hated every minute of it.
"I'm scared, I'm scared!" she would wail. Every morning injection had always been the same, so while I could appreciate she was stressed out about it, I didn't think she had much to be frightened of. It's not as if I ever leapt out of a closet in the dark, wielding a syringe to be plunged into her thigh. I never jabbed it into her eyeball. C'mon kiddo.... work with me here.
Two weeks ago, I had had enough. I have no one to co-parent with, so all of this came down to me.... everyday. I couldn't do it anymore. I don't thrive off of drama. I like peace. I like harmony. Insulin didn't work into my harmonious peaceful equation.
So one Saturday morning, I told her I wasn't doing it anymore. It was her diabetes, and as much as I wanted to help her stay healthy, she wasn't helping me, and I wasn't going to fight her anymore. "Go get your hospital bag.... you'll likely be needing it". It wasn't meant as a threat, it was meant as a reality-check. I can only do SO much to keep her healthy, if it's going to be a battle of wills... fine. She won! I surrendered to it, and was done.
She got her breakfast #, ate her breakfast..... no insulin.
"If you change your mind about taking your medicine, and your willing to help me and do this peacefully, I will help you. But I'm DONE fighting with you over it. SO DONE"
An hour later, she succumbed to reality... "I don't feel good Mama, it's time for insulin". The injection that would normally take up to ten minutes of drama and production took less than 30 seconds. No crying, no fighting, no flinging..... simply done.
Same thing the next morning. "Let me know when you're willing to be brave and do this, and we will do this. But if you aren't going to behave, I'm not coming near you". That day it was 37 minutes after breakfast that she finally came to me and said "it's time". Again, easy-breezy, simple no dramatics, and done. In and out. Done!
The next morning was 35 minutes.
A week later, and we still aren't fighting over it. She tells me she "needs to relax" pre-injection, and that's fine, I can work with that. She sits in her 'lotus' position, with her hands extended, fingers in yoga-mode, and she breaths "ommmmmm". I don't know WHERE she picked this up from, but hey.... I'll take it!
Sixteen months after diagnosis, and she's finally accepted insulin injections as her reality. They aren't being forced on her, she tells me when she's ready, and we do it: badda-bing badda-bang.
Thank heavens!!! It's about time. Sigh!