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.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Battle Of The Juice

8pm last night, my eleven year old, gorgeous blue-eyed daughter Trinity is in the kitchen fixing herself a light snack before bed.  Innocently, she pulls a juice box out from the fridge, unwraps the straw and pokes it in.

I quickly scan the contents of the refrigerator.  There is two juice boxes total.

"Rowan" I call out to the other room "Do you have a juice box in your kit?"

A moment of pause.

"No, I used it already"

8pm and two juice boxes.  I quickly start factoring in the possibility of night time hypoglycemia (low blood sugars) or her waking up low.

"You can't drink that. You need to put it back" there was probably a level of snap in my voice. I apologized then, and I apologize again now.  I'm sorry for being snippy Trinity.

"But I already opened it"

"I don't care, put it back in the fridge"

"But why?"

Really..... we're going over THIS?  Really???

Because there isn't enough, and I need it just in case.

"Well *I'm* not a diabetes master mind. How was *I* to know???"  she spews my direction with a tone of injustice.  I suspect she's extra testy because, in her defense, it was the last of the orange juice boxes. A pack I had bought specifically with Trinity in mind.  She's an orange juice girl.  Rowan doesn't care for orange juice. She's more a grape juice fiend.

I felt, and came across as, such a bitch.  A cold hearted woman who wouldn't share a juice box with her eleven year old.  Might seem rather petty.

But in our house, juice boxes are life saving medicine.

I am the mother, than when at a picnic, and Rowan sips a juice box, if a friend asks for one, I have to politely decline their request, and explain that it's Rowan's "medicine".  That's a hard concept for a child outside the diabetic ring of fire to wrap their minds around. I'm grateful, at the very least, that I'm usually dealing with five year olds and up.  Not having to try to rationalize it to a two year old.  Thank heavens for small favours!

To some, it's just juice.  Around here, it's gold.  Life saving serum to help keep my youngest, brunette, brown eyed bodacious, slight framed L'il Bones alive.  So when the inventory of 'liquid gold' starts running low, I, in turn, become as defensive and protective of that juice. Much like a buck-eyed, toothless, tabacca-spittin' gold miner guards his loot.  You DON'T mess with the gold miner.  Or the bulging eyed, exhausted, slightly hormonal, nicotine craving Mama bear of a type 1 diabetic.  Because, I *WILL* eat you alive to defend the last juice box.

Just ask my eleven year old.

Once again, my apologies Trinity for my level of intensity. I love you both so much, and I wish I could make this world a more balanced and equitable place for the two of you. But sadly, life isn't fair.  No amount of standing on my head or juggling plates upon sticks with my toes will make it such.  It is what it is.  For you AND Rowan.  All I can do is LOVE YOU EQUALLY.  I do, and I will, until my last breath.


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