I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.
William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
As we rushed to pack the car and head to my in-laws yesterday slightly after noon, I realized that Lucy probably hadn’t eaten any lunch. I shouted over my shoulder to her, asking if she’d tested and eaten. When she replied that she hadn’t, I barked at her that she needed to test and that I would make her some lunch to eat in the car. As I slapped PB & J on some bread, I could hear her sniffling just a few feet away. I raised my head and could see her on the verge of tears.
As we’ve been saying throughout this first year of diabetes, Lucy has been handling this like a trooper. Better than anyone could possibly imagine, with far more poise and grace than your average eleven year-old. But there was my little girl, about to burst at the seams. I took her into my arms. She buried her head into my chest and began sobbing. There was nothing I could say. Bless her heart, this damned disease owed her a good cry. ”I’m just so frustrated,” was all I could hear through the crying.
I don’t blame her for being frustrated. How could she not be frustrated? She can’t skip a meal when she doesn’t feel like eating. She can’t just hop into the car and go without making sure she has a bag full of medication. Candy is something she eats to keep herself from passing out.
So I held her in my arms and told her to just let it all out. Just go ahead and cry until she was done. Mary and Allie joined us in the hug. All of a sudden, the crying stopped. She looked up at me and said “I love you, Dad.”
I’m thankful for so many things, especially my three girls. But this disease, and what it does to my little girl? No thanks there.
