Pondering the Blog

Today marks the beginning of my fourth year as a diabetes blogger.

In my very first post, I said that it was "liberating to think that I could write something here that might help someone out."

Three years later, and I still feel exactly the same.

And more.

Because soon after writing that first entry, I learned that blogging could open the door to both giving and receiving a tremendous amount of support.

I also wrote that blogging would "allow me to unload some of the vast amounts of frustration, information and heartache" that had piled up "since my [then] 9-year old son's diagnosis."

While this site has indeed allowed me to do just that-- I have to say, the unloading part has become a lot more complicated of late.

Think about it.

My son is now 12-years old-- an age when many of his peers have access to the web.

What would happen if any of them found this site?

Now, don't misunderstand. Joseph is still supportive of me doing this-- is still fond of saying, "Mom, you should put this on your blog."

Even so, I can feel myself holding back.

And I hate it.

Because rather than letting loose -- unloading -- I find myself "knapsacking."

Hauling around stories until the weight of them almost makes me scream.

(Perhaps if I'd started this site anonymously, it would be different.)

Is there a way to balance what I post here with a respect for my son's privacy?

Any thoughts?

Anyone else grappling with this issue?

"Don't Be Afraid"

She's smiling.

Which seems a little surprising-- given the number handwritten in black ink on that sheet of paper sitting on her desk.

"Joseph, you've gotten so big!" she says enthusiastically, "I wonder if you can you see over my head now?"

Immediately, my son leaps out of his chair.

Standing directly in front of her, it's clear that Joseph is now several inches taller than his endocrinologist.

"Oh my!" she says, red-faced and laughing. "I think we can safely say you've begun the adolescent growth spurt."

With these words, Joseph throws his arms around his endo -- giving her a huge bear hug -- then, grinning, returns to the seat next to mine.

He's growing. That's the most important thing.

I tell myself this over and over while smiling at the two of them.

But then my eyes wander back to that sheet of paper.

To that number.

"Yes," she says with a nod, "we did see an increase in the A1c."

Joseph's head snaps up.

"From 8 to 8.5."

And now the only one smiling is Joseph's doctor.

"I'm not worried about this," she says, noting our somber expressions.

"A number of things are going on here. First, it's obvious that Joseph saw periods of rapid growth since his last appointment. This is probably the most significant factor."

She pauses a moment, thumbs through Joseph logbook, and then continues.

"Now, according to the log, you had a problem several weeks ago with a leaking cartridge..."

"That's right," I say, remembering that awful night.

Blood sugars in the 400s, followed by corrections that had no effect-- injections, a site change...

And finally, the anger and shock at finding his meal and corrective insulin clinging to the sides of a soaking wet, almost empty pump cartridge.

Our son hit a diabetes milestone that night-- moderate ketones.

"Keep in mind," the doctor continues, "blood glucose over the last month will have a greater impact on the A1c-- so this 8.5 is partly due to that incident."

Joseph says nothing, but listens intently.

"So what can we do?" I ask.

"You increased Joseph's basal rates three weeks ago-- and those new rates worked well for a while, but the highs are returning. So I've raised them again-- overnight and early in the morning. That should help."

She hands me the sheet of paper with Joseph's new rates-- and his A1c.

"Understand," the endo goes on, "you're probably going to need to increase his basals every two weeks."

And now my head snaps up.

"Don't be afraid. You need to do this, Sandra."

"But every two weeks- "

"He's going to need a lot more insulin now that it's clear he's entered puberty in earnest. And the amount he'll need is going to keep changing as he grows."

I know she's right.

The ridiculously frequent, insulin-resistant highs we've seen over the last three months made that perfectly clear.

Walking out of the clinic an hour later, carrying his new basal rates -- and the weight of that number -- I can still hear her voice.

"Don't be afraid."

But, I am afraid.

Not of making changes, nor of working harder.

No.

I'm afraid of that damn number.

I'm afraid of what it means might be happening inside my son's body.

I'm afraid that -- no matter how hard we try -- it won't be enough.

Middle-School Popular

My favorite table in any restaurant is one by a window.

So I'm glad when Joseph nabs the lone window seat in our favorite bakery.

Minutes after settling in, I glance outside at the snow and ice-covered parking lot -- through glass streaked with condensation -- and then immediately take another long sip of my very hot tea.

Meanwhile, Joseph -- hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate -- continues telling me about school.

"... so yeah, the popular kids can be ridiculous sometimes."

I look at him a second before responding-- to see if he's trying to be funny.

"Wait a minute, Bud. I thought you were pretty popular-- at least that's what your teachers tell me."

"No," he says firmly, "I'm not popular-- I just know everyone."

I flash him an amused grin.

"Hmmm... I see."

He shoots me a more-than-slightly irritated look.

"Seriously, Mom-- I really don't want to be popular."

"How come?"

"Well... " he says, thinking a moment before going on, "because then everything just gets so complicated."

"In what way?"

"Like my friend K-- he's really popular. And so is D... "

"Yeah-- so?"

"Well, today they wore the same jeans to school, and they got all freaked out about it. And some girls started talking about it-- like it was this big deal. I don't want to have to worry about stuff like that. It's just stupid."

"Sounds kind of stupid to me too."

"And the popular kids don't talk to everyone. Like this kid, M-- they all ignore him. Sure, about sixty percent of the time he can be annoying, but the rest of the time he's really a nice kid."

Joseph pauses a second, takes a long drink of hot chocolate, and then continues:

"I mean, yeah, I slugged M that one time on the sled hill when he was picking on P, but he doesn't usually do stuff like that."

"Oh, well that's good."

"So, no-- I don't want to be popular."

"All right, Bud," I say with a respectful nod.

"I'm sorry I suggested you were."

A Mystery

My daughter is not a closed kid.

On the contrary, Evan is pretty darn good at sharing her emotions, her ideas-- often in amazing detail.

But.

There are these times -- for about an hour on most days -- when she wants to be by herself.

"To do a story," as she puts it.

Sometimes these stories involve costume changes, elaborate sets and many props.

But more often she'll just sit, still and quiet -- as though in a trance -- behind the couch, or on the far side of her bedroom.

"What are you thinking about?" I'll ask her.

And nine times out of ten -- in a tone of quiet determination -- she'll give the same response.

"I'm not telling you."

I remember the first time I found her "doing a story."

She was only a year and a half.

It was late in the day. We'd just finished reading a stack of Dr. Seuss books when I realized I had to start working on dinner. So I left her sitting in the middle of the living room floor, looking intently at "Oh, the Places You'll Go!"-- while I went into the kitchen to chop vegetables.

Several minutes later, I found my little girl lying on the floor behind the couch.

Not making a sound.

At first I thought it was kind of weird that she'd gone back there and fallen asleep.

Until -- with a start -- I saw that her eyes were wide open.

"Sweetie, what are you doing?

And in her tiny toddler voice, she said:

"I'm not telling you."

Staring down at my girl -- flat on her back, looking serious as all get out -- I didn't quite know what to make of her.

It just seemed so strange.

After shaking off this initial reaction, I came to the conclusion that my daughter simply has one powerful imagination.

Sure, it sometimes bothers me-- that she keeps secrets this early.

But since she's not a secretive kid in general, I'm thinking it's okay for her to keep these stories -- this inner world -- to herself.

And then too, it makes me appreciate the rare glimpse into that inner world all the more.

Ice

It's everywhere.

Slick and black under snow-covered streets. Dangling precariously from countless eves.

Glittering on every branch, on every trunk of every tree.

Like jewels.





And the sound.

With each gust -- each movement of those ice-covered limbs -- comes an unexpected, vaguely familiar sound.



"Snap, crackle, pop..."

That's right.

Exactly like Rice Krispies.

(A very big bowl of Rice Krispies.)

The storm that brought all of this ice hit early Sunday morning-- hard sleet for many hours, before changing over to snow.

We lost power for 12 of those hours.

Doesn't sound like much fun, now does it?

Well, for a while there-- it wasn't.

Until I found a neighbor with a working refrigerator.

A place for Joseph's insulin.

After that, the whole thing was as an adventure.

We read by candlelight-- and listened to Barack Obama's voice coming from a tiny yellow radio.

We sat by the fire and watched logs burn a bit faster than we'd like.


Using every blanket in the house, we camped out in the living room-- and hoped the power would return before morning.

Thankfully, it did.

But the ice that brought down power lines across our city never left.

Because -- despite a glorious amount of sunshine and blue skies -- there's been no melting.

Yesterday, I walked into the kitchen and found Evan sitting Indian-style in the middle of the floor-- staring wide-eyed and silent at the window over the sink.

I crouched down beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"What are you doing, Honey?"

"Mama," she said dreamily -- eyes never leaving that window --
"the tree... it's so sparkly... it's beautiful... "


I sat down next to her, held her hand-- and looked, too.

"It sure is, Honey."

Our Tells

I'm sitting at the counter, entering Joseph's bg in his log book-- his sugar is just flying down.

No surprise-- it was a gym day.

As I stare at the curve -- the 100-point drop that took place during our short ride home from school -- Joseph plops down on the seat next to mine. I look up from the log.

Nope, not yet-- he's still low.

He has a look.

A "tell."

It's the way he smiles when he's low-- it's not quite right.

It's not him.

"Mom," he says suddenly, "I told this kid at school that if he pulled out my insulin pump I could die."

"What?!"

"Well, he was buggin' me. And he started asking me about it-- he's this big kid named "A" who likes to push people around."

"But Honey, I really don't want you telling anyone something like that."

"No-- but Mom, it was funny-- 'cause then later this other kid was messin' with me- "

"Hold on-- what do you mean messin' with you?

"It was no big deal-- but then A got all freaked out-- because of what I told him about my pump... "

And now Joseph is giggling and shaking his head.

Still smiling in that way.

".... and he grabbed the other kid and said, 'You could kill him! Leave him alone!' Then my friend, G was like 'Wait a minute, he couldn't kill- ' and I went 'shhhh!' and then G said 'Yeah, yeah-- you could kill him."

"Joseph, I really don't want you telling kids things like that-- someone might think it's funny, doing something to your pump."

"Oh yeah-- like all of a sudden they're gonna learn how to unlock my pump, and figure out how to push the buttons and do a bolus."

"Joseph, don't even say that. Please."

He laughs-- then shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"Mom, they can't really hurt me."

But then he notices the look on my face.

My "tell."

"Really, Mom, " he says quietly-- without a trace of that smile.

"No one can hurt me."

Then he reaches across the counter and picks up his meter.

"I'm gonna check again, to see if I'm back up."

"Sounds good," I tell him-- though I can already see that he is.

Last Week

Evan was sick.

Again.

She had the awful, fever-inducing, hacking-cough virus that's been spreading amongst the pre-school set like wildfire.

Poor kid stayed home all week.

Thus, so did I.

Yeah.

I must say it was a bit too quiet around here (except for all the coughing and nose-blowing, that is) until Wednesday -- when a blizzard pounded our city, dropping an ungodly amount of snow:


Mid-afternoon Wednesday-- the view looking up the street from my front window.


Late in the day, my next door neighbor shovels while the snow keeps coming...

Now, along with all that blowing and drifting snow came something else.

Something quite wonderful.

"It's a SNOW DAY!" Joseph shouted, leaping in the air upon hearing the news at 6 AM Wednesday morning.

"AWESOME!!"

A momentary pause.

A tilt of the head.

A smile.

And then:

"I'm goin' back to bed."

Funny how priorities change when you're in middle school.

But then, it's also funny how some things haven't changed at all:


My well-rested son puts the finishing touches on the fort's interior.


Joseph and his trusty assistant enjoying the fruits of their labor.


Even Tim couldn't resist the lure of a snow-day fort.

The four of us spent the rest of that morning and a good part of the afternoon lying inside the fort reading books by the likes of Patricia Polacco and Dick King-Smith.

Later, making up some stories of our own.