A Quiet Talk

I didn't expect it to happen this soon-- I just thought that when the opportunity came along again, we'd have that talk.

So much has been written here and elsewhere -- so many sleepless nights spent thinking and worrying about it -- that I'd become more and more convinced that he needed to know.

To really understand.

I didn't want him hurt down the road.

But damn.

I didn't want to hurt him now.

On Sunday, Joseph planned to go to a neighborhood park to skateboard with his friend, Sam. Katherine (Sam's mom) visited for a few minutes, before leaving her son at our house. She sat on the couch next to Sam, and opposite Joseph.

"So I think we're all set," I said, walking into the room. "The boys'll head over to the park (4 blocks away) in about half an hour. Joseph will have his supplies and my cell phone."

"You know, Sandra, that Joseph is just soooo responsible-- he really knows how to take care of himself," Katherine says, all the time smiling and looking at Joseph.

He doesn't say anything-- just sits, head down. I know he wants to go skate, and really doesn't want to talk about this stuff now.

"I'm a nurse," Katherine continues, "and I see a lot of people with diabetes. And there are two kinds. Someday, Joseph," she says, with a knowing look, "I'll tell you about them."

"What do you mean?" Joseph asks, suddenly looking a bit interested.

"Well," she begins, "there are those like you-- who take care of themselves -- and then there are the other ones."

And now my stomach is beginning to feel a little sick, and before I can say anything, Katherine continues:

"The noncompliant ones -- ughhhh -- we don't ever want you to become one of those-- do we, Sam?"

"No, Mom," her son replies, shaking his head and looking slightly scared-- like maybe his mom had already given him the low-down on "the noncompliant ones."

Joseph looks down again.

"I think I'd better get these guys ready to go," I quickly say.

After Katherine leaves, Joseph asks me to walk to the park with him and Sam, saying:

"You can take Evan to the playground, while Sam and I skate."

"Sure, bud."

Then he goes out in the backyard and sits alone on our big, old wooden swing-- while Sam plays with Evan inside, and I run around gathering what I'll need for the outing.

When I'm finally ready to go, I look out the back window and see Joseph still out there, looking like he's deep in thought. I walk outside and take a seat next to him on the swing.

It's sunny and quiet-- with the exception of a lawn mower humming from a distant neighbor's yard.

"Are you okay, bud?"

"Yeah," he says, while looking down at the ground.

"Listen, I don't want you to get all worried about what Katherine said-- and look, I don't want you to think there's just two kinds of people with diabetes. It's a lot more complicated than that."

"Well, I won't have to worry about that when I'm cured," he says, half-heartedly.

I take a deep breath.

"Honey, I know we've talked about this. And yes, I do still believe that a cure for diabetes will happen-- it's just that . . . well, it may be a while."

I pause, to look at his face -- to see how he's doing -- then, go on:

"If we spend time assuming that you'll be cured soon -- always waiting for it to happen -- we might miss out on just living, ya' know what I mean?"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," he says, laughing a little and plugging his ears.

I put my arm around him.

"Joseph, I'm serious."

He stops laughing.

"But Mom, I really want to be cured while I'm still a kid."

"I know-- I want that too. But we don't know when it's gonna happen . . . it might be a very long time.

And honey, I don't want to promise you it will happen soon, because" -- and this was really, really hard to tell my son -- "I can't control it."

"Yeah, I know that."

"You have diabetes, but you're also this incredible kid who can do so many things-- who is gonna do even more amazing things."

He's looking down, but still listening.

"Yes, diabetes is a part of you-- but a small part of who you are. I'm not giving up hope for a cure, but I don't want you to think: 'Once I'm cured, I can do this or that thing.' Let's just figure out how you can do "this or that thing" right now."

"Mom, I still want to eat all those glucose tabs-- even if I"m old," he says, sounding a little sad.

"Me, too."

For a moment I look away, trying to stop the tears-- to hold it together for just a few more minutes.

When I turn toward him again, Joseph's head snaps up, as if he just remembered something-- "Hey- can I go skate, now?"

Minutes later, we're walking to a park on a beautiful, sunny day-- talking the whole way about the park's "awesome ramps" and how Joseph is going to jump them.