They say lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. I don’t believe it. Saturday our family was struck for the second time…with Juvenile Diabetes.
On our recent trip to California, I noticed my eleven-year-old son, Riley, kept asking to stop for the restroom. Once. Again. And again. A bit of fear shot down my back. It all felt so familiar… it had been a road trip eight years ago when my oldest son showed his first symptoms. Often times, it takes a long drive to really see how often your child is using the bathroom. I mean, once they’re potty trained, who really counts?
And here we were, pulled over at some dried out gas station in nowhere land, and the tiny hint of a thought crossed my mind. Shudder. Could Riley have diabetes, too? Naahhhh. I was paranoid, right? Aren’t moms just paranoid about illnesses? When he got back in the van I said, “You’ve been going to the bathroom a lot. Is this happening at home?”
He knew exactly what I was getting at. “I don’t have diabetes, Mom,” he huffed.
We spent a week visiting our favorite tourist attractions in California. Amidst all our sight-seeing, Riley’s bathroom stops didn’t seem so frequent. Things were good. See? I had been paranoid for nothing. With our vacation over, we dropped off our boys to be with their father for their summer visitation, and our girls to be with their mother for theirs. We returned home with our littlest daughter, our only child who isn’t doomed to the game of musical houses. There was a mixture of sadness and relief to lose six of our brood.
Two weeks later, when I was just getting used to the new stillness in the house, my former husband called. He said that Riley had been using the bathroom so often at night, they stopped counting after nine flushes. They made him fast for eight hours, then tested his blood sugar on his older brother’s glucometer. A reading higher than 125 means you’re a diabetic. The glucometer counted down. 5, 4, 3… they gathered around the meter nervously.
2…1… Beep! 233. Riley had Juvenile Diabetes Type I, and would be insulin-dependent for life.
“Oh R.J. (his nickname),” I said over the phone, my voice breaking, “I’m so sorry.” I heard the familiar sound of his cry. “You can do this. You’ll be fine. Look at your older brother.”
That night I found myself in a plane flying to Las Vegas, where I would then drive six hours to San Diego to be with Riley in the hospital. The plane rocked gently in the storm clouds as I pondered this strange, maddening reality. Why? Two boys with diabetes? Another with autism? Our daughters with ADHD? Didn’t we have enough helpings of medical anomalies for one family? The lightning flickered in my window, and I braced myself. I braced myself for thunder, turbulence, and the dreadful reality of returning to the same hospital of eight years ago, to re-experience the heartache of being unable to take away my child’s distress. Again. Why was this happening? I wanted answers.
Lightning flashed in the window. That was twice. I pulled down the shade, and tightened my lap belt.
Kristyn Crow is the author of this blog. Visit her website by clicking here.