Feigning Control

I've been a mom to Type 1s for more than 2 years, a partner to a Type 1 for nearly 17 years, and a niece to a Type 1 for 40 years.  Until 2 years ago I thought I understood diabetes.  I didn't realize what I didn't know until I was the one responsible for the day-to-day care of the kids.  

I understood the mechanics of diabetes.  I could tell you what the pancreas did and how the liver plays a part in blood sugar too.  I could draw up a syringe and even administer a shot if need be.  I knew that a person with low blood sugar might act confused and belligerent, and I also knew to give a wide berth to someone with high blood sugar (and never, ever, enter into an argument with this person.  Reason is stacked against you!).  I knew what to do if things got bad, and I knew just how bad things could get.

But when Walker was diagnosed, I lost all sense of control.  With Marshall I was a bystander, willing to step in and retrieve a soda or be a support at doctors appointments.  This was his battle, one I wanted to help with but felt very little impact on.  As one person once put it, "I am the step-parent to their diabetes.  I am an important part in its life, but ultimately it's their baby." (or something along those lines).   I had a part in it, but in no way did I fully understand it.  Now all of a sudden all this "understanding" would be put to the test.  My 5 year old daughter seemed so fragile and helpless, and now I (and Marshall) was responsible for keeping her alive.   This was a very different role for me.  I was no longer knocking on the door, I was full-on sitting at the dining room table.

I approached it as many parents in my position would, especially any left-brained parents such as myself: I planned to crunch the numbers and math the crap out of the situation.  This was an algebra problem after all, and I was on the math team in high school so I pretty much figured I had this in the bag (PiCone Math League of Maine. No joke.).  "If a banana = 15g, and Susie's carb ratio is 1:15, then how many units of Humalog should Susie dose?"  

So for a while I tackled the care of Walker in the only way I knew how, with my left brain and an iron fist.  It was my first stage of acceptance (well, after an emotional break down of denial and mourning).  The math was the only thing I thought I had control of.  I remember one night Marshall and I disagreed over whether we should dose a .5u correction for an elevated blood sugar or let it play out over an hour.  In his frustration he accused me of being stubborn and blind to the nuances of it all, that Type 1 is a balance of math equations and body mechanics with an added dose of WTF.  I crumbled and told him I needed time to catch up, and that the math equation gave me peace of mind; one day I would hopefully be at the level of his understanding, but in the meantime allow me this minuscule sense of control.  He has patiently watched me stumble through this, and for that I am grateful.

Because that's ultimately what we have: a feigned sense of control.  We do the math and estimate the trend of where the blood sugars have been and are going, calculate the protein and fat along with carb and fiber and even take into account the level of physical activity we think we might do within the next 3 hours.  But this fickle beast is on its own path.  The math is only a starting point, and then the real art of care takes over in time.  Even then we're lucky if we get it right half the time.  I've had to resign myself to the idea that I need to be flexible, something that has eluded me the better part of my life.  I can't think of a better reason to finally learn this lesson.