We are coming off a crazy busy two weeks.
And my intent was to share more about the second of those weeks; the #iCansummit2015.
However, that can wait for another day.
Because sometimes in the world of T1D, things have to go in a different order than we had originally planned.
Tonight, after a second 'forgot to bolus' moment, our youngest daughter collapsed in a puddle of tears and told me that it was just too hard. I tried to reach in for a hug, but it wasn't what she needed. Rolling over on her side, she tearfully explained that she was tired of T1d and needed a break. She had spent the last week at a day camp with no trained adults and had worked very hard to count carbs, dose her blood sugar and stay in range. It had been a big step and while all of us felt like it was very successful, it had also been a bit stressful, especially for youngest daughter. Patiently, I rubbed her back and waited for the tears to calm. Then, I asked her what we should do.
"I don't know. I don't want to be a baby. I should be able to do this,"she explained. "I just wish that I had help sometimes. Like tonight, I just wanted to eat and then you guys were done and I thought I would just dose after. After came and I totally forgot. I am so dumb." More crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks. As a side note, nothing is harder to see than when your child has reached their limits with a chronic illness. It is absolutely heart-breaking.
Shaking my head and trying to squeeze in a mommy-comfort hug, I answered, "I understand exactly what you are saying. Everyone in the world gets tired of doing things that they do all of the time. Have you ever heard of a relief pitcher?"
"What's that?" She wiped away a few more tears.
Handing her a tissue, I continued on - even though I know very little about sports in general, I felt like I had caught her attention and didn't want to let go of the moment.
"Well, a relief pitcher is someone that the coach calls on when he sees his main pitcher looking kind of tired. The relief pitcher's entire job is just to help out and give his team-mate a break," I explained with a little smile. "I could be your relief pitcher."
Youngest daughter shook her head no and started to explain how that made her feel like she wasn't a big kid or that she wasn't able to do what she supposed to be able to do. I pushed aside her worries and suggested that we try it out for an entire day. After that, she could decide if she wanted to keep me in the game or bench me - her choice.
We made up the name 'Diabuddy' based on a term that she heard used at camp. For the rest of the night and all day tomorrow, I promised to be her Diabuddy and to just handle all things T1D without asking.
So far, she seems a little excited. A few hours after the above conversation, we headed out to our patio for a bonfire, music and marshmallows. Before she could say anything, I casually picked up her Animas Ping meter/remote and checked her bg and bolused her for one S'more and an extra marshmallow - a standard amount at our house.
Her older sister helped too by saying she wished that she had a Diabuddy and by giggling at her dad's antics, where he played the part that he was a terrible Diabuddy.
Still, I know that despite the smiles, our youngest is feeling the heavy weight of burden that chronic care brings. I know she needs respite from the care that it takes to stay healthy. It makes my article on burden clearly come to life.
I'll be there until she is ready to help step back in.