Deciding to get pregnant was one of the hardest things I've ever had done. Big Nan had utterly convinced me that a healthy pregnancy was an impossibility, that I would be irresponsible and cruel to try to bring a child into this world through my toxic wasteland of a body. Clearly, Big Nan was big-time wrong about that.
I still worried, though, throughout the entire pregnancy. (Actually, I was kind of a mess.) It's hard to trust your body when it's already failed you once, y'know? So I worried and worked at BGs and visited doctors and did everything in my power to ensure my daughter would be healthy when she was born. And she was healthy. Happy ending, right? Yes and no. Yes, because - other than being a little skinny - she's the absolute picture of baby health. No, because I am forever worried about what sort of genetic hand she was dealt.
Last Sunday - after she'd had a week or two of fussiness, sobbing instead of napping, guzzling nearly double her usual amount of milk, waking twice a night to inhale a bottle, and utterly soaking her diapers - this worry reached a crippling extreme. I could not stop thinking about all the signs and what they could portend. I could not stop feeling sick to my stomach, certain that something awful was going on but not quite brave enough to face it.
I knew, though, that I'd never forgive myself for going through with a party when L should be taken to an emergency room. So I took a deep breath and made the worry tangible by saying it out loud: I asked B if he thought I was crazy to want to test L's blood sugar.
B was, as always, himself - calm and rational and supportive. He did not think I was crazy. He, too, agreed she wasn't behaving like she usually does. More to the point, he knew I was not going to be able to think of anything else until I saw proof that I was wrong. And so we decided to test. I took my Delica and lanced her teeny tiny heel, feeling like a monster all the while - my girl didn't so much as bat an eyelash. I put blood to strip and held my breath while it counted down to a 112. 112. I was crushed by the relief I felt - completely overwhelmed - and promptly burst into tears.
I don't want to be the T1 mom who can't let her kid be a kid, who's overprotective and always thinking the worst. But it happened to me, and it's happened to so many people I know in the DOC. Why not L?
I'm working on being positive, on reminding myself that I have no control over this and that all I can do is be vigilant without being crazy. And, honestly, deep down I know that diabetes is not the end of the world. I have an amazing life, and I've lived with this disease for 18 years. I know countless tremendous people who also have diabetes and are happy and live well with it. I wouldn't wish this disease on anyone, but I do know that - even if my worst fears were realized - L would be just fine.