Now I Can Tell You

This happened almost three weeks ago -- in the midst of all that eye business.

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Leaning over, I whisper:

"Honey, it's time for you to wake up."

A low sigh.

"C'mon, Sweetie-- you've got school today," I say while gently stroking a warm, slightly damp cheek.

That's when I smell it.

"Honey, Honey-- wake up."

Eyelids flutter, and then a very tired voice:

"I don't want to get up."

"Honey, did you have an accident?"

A confused look.

"Did you wet the bed?"

Her eyes widen.

"No, Mama-- I'm just sweaty," she says.

But the smell is unmistakable.

Minutes later, I'm a few feet outside the downstairs bathroom. The door is open, Stephanie Miller chuckles on the radio, while Ryan -- shirtless, his back to me -- washes his face.

For a while I just stand there.

Silent.

Damp underpants held loosely in my shaking right hand.

This is too much . . . it can't be happening.

Finally, in an unsteady voice I tell him.

"Evan had an accident."

"What?" Ryan says, turning his wet face toward mine.

"She wet the bed," I choke, "Ryan-- she's never done that before-- even when she was potty training -- no diapers, no pull-ups. Not since she turned two."

"Okay," he says in a cautious tone, "we'll just check her."

She's already eaten breakfast by the time I can convince her to let me check her blood sugar.

216.

I drop heavily into the chair next to hers.

"Would you like to watch something on TV?" I ask weakly-- deciding that today she can miss her cooking class at the Y.

Soon she's sitting happily in front of Sesame Street.

While -- for nearly an hour -- I pace nervously around the house, finally ending up seated on the edge of my bed, unable to do anything.

Until the bedroom door bangs open and in runs Evan, brown eyes shining.

"Mama, let's play ice cream shop!"

(To play this game we have to go outside where Evan can work in her "shop" behind our birch tree. She creates fabulous imaginary frozen treats -- like "cotton candy-sugar cookie ice cream" -- and serves them to her favorite customer-- me.)

"Sweetie, why don't we check your blood sugar again first?"

"I don't want to-- Mama, it hurts."

"Oh, Honey -- sometimes we have to check our blood sugars-- hey, do you want me to use that little meter?"

I pull out our new, unused OneTouch UltraMini.

"Awwww-- it's so cute. Mama, can that be mine?"

"No," I say sharply.

Then in a softer tone: "No, Honey-- we're just using it."

I twist the barrel of Joseph's lancing device so that a fresh needle is loaded, then dial down the lancet-- from the highest to the lowest setting.

Holding my breath, I take one tiny, four-year-old finger-- and poke.

Five. Long. Seconds.

85.

I blink back a sudden rush of tears.

And then, very quickly my mind reviews the data:

Before that first check, I only wiped her fingers with a damp paper towel-- and she'd eaten a banana just 20 minutes prior to the test.

She hasn't been excessively thirsty.

She hasn't lost any weight.

Nor has she been urinating frequently during the day.

"It's all right," I say-- still staring at the meter's display. "It's all right."

"Mama, I'll never have diabetes. Right?"

My head snaps up.

The question startles me. To hear her say it out loud like that.

"Oh, Honey-- I don't think you will."

And with those words -- and that test -- I feel myself slowly climbing out of a very deep, very dark hole.

For a long minute I just sit there, looking into my girl's beautiful, expectant face-- until finally I clear my throat.

"Hey, how 'bout we go play some ice cream shop?"

With a huge grin, my little monkey leaps out of her chair and makes for the door.



Post Script:

Three days later, Evan had a second overnight accident.

But, since I began insisting she go to the bathroom before bedtime, it hasn't happened again.

I also continue to do random bg checks: overnight, she's been in the 80s; two hours after meals-- 80s to 90s; and first thing in the morning-- 68-75.

And (knock every stick of wood in the house) we haven't seen another high.