What a difference a year makes.
This summer, he’s doing the same, starting Monday.
Last summer, all I had to worry about each morning was whether he had enough to drink to prevent dehydration.
If this summer were just like last summer, I’d be telling him that he’d be packing his own lunches this year.
But this summer everything is different. This summer there’s an insulin pen and a continuous glucose monitor to think about. This summer I have to pack enough food and Gatorade to keep his blood sugar stable during a very active day, and he has not had a day this active since his diagnosis in November.
For me, that’s scary.
I don’t want him to be scared. I’m trying to keep all of that emotion hidden from him. He’s 12. He should be excited and ready to have fun, meet other kids who love soccer as much as he does, and learn skills that will help him play his favorite sport better.
But he’s going to need to take care of himself this week, to check in with the nurses during breaks, to eat and drink enough to fuel the activity and the adrenalin. He’s going to have to be “different.” This camp has nurses, and I’ll meet them on Monday and hand them his care plan, and then I’ll walk away for 7 hours and spend the day wondering if his sugar is dropping.
I’m thankful that the camp is less than ten minutes away from home. But I’m terrified, and I don’t want to let that show.
Those easy camp dropoffs are a thing of the past, and I regret that I ever took them for granted. I feel like we have taken a huge step backward in terms of the independence Little Brother is developing and we are allowing him to have. I want him to be able to do things on his own, but at the same time I can’t help wanting to hover over my kid and the glucose monitor that helps us keep him on the right track–that helps us keep him alive.
I’m not writing this to ask for pity, but I’m not too proud to ask for prayers–for a safe week for Little Brother and for peace for this mother’s heart.