Just 178 days ago my little girl was diagnosed. I knew what the signs meant, but I have never in my life wanted so badly to be wrong, to be the ridiculous, hysterical overprotective mom. I wanted the doctors to tell me she had a virus and send me home with some strawberry Amoxicillin. I wanted them to roll their eyes and sigh at me.
But they didn't.
And I didn't at the time even know that much about it.
Diabetes = bad. No one in my family has type 1. Several type 2, but in a giant family how is that not kind of normal? I even thought that type 2 was their fault, I am ashamed to say. Those type 2 aren't exactly the lean jogging type. Neither am I.
But my baby. My precious dream come true, my little princess. The perfect completion to our family. The baby sister her handsome and brilliant brother had begged for. The child I so nearly lost to heterotopic pregnancy and later loss of fluid, the baby girl my husband gave his heart to on sight the moment she arrived. This child I fought so hard for. Really? It would have NOT been better had it been my love, my boy, my firstborn. Not at all. Not ever. Just why US. After all of that.
At almost four years old. A baby still. Protected, cherished, thoroughly enjoyed.
First the hospital. IVs and poking and prodding and tears. Meaningless words, stupid things like "new normal". Not for my baby, I wished. Be wrong. Fix her. FIX HER.
I hated them, even as I knew it was irrational. They represented the demon called diabetes. They wore its face, smiling at me while I died inside for my girl and her brother and father, who both begged to be the one instead.
Then home. Blood and tears and a house just falling apart. We were so happy. We felt like we were being punished for that. Why?
Our friends stepped in. Cleaned. Brought bribes and presents and showed the kids cheerful when we had none to give. Learned, asked, hugged us all.
I frantically searched for resources. Others. Help. Information. Hope. I cried when my daughter asked if she could go to Disney for being a good girl for her shots. We can't afford Disney, I told her. And I hated myself. I went so far as to ask her doctor if he would recommend her for Make A Wish. He was kind when he let me down. I tried to not be embarrassed for having asked. For her I had to.
Work was so kind to us. We will always be grateful for that.
I don't remember much else. Cry, hug, repeat. Time for shots. No, Mommy, no more please! Why do I have diavetes? Mom, will I get diabetes too? Is she going to die? Is she ok? I am so sorry, baby. I don't know. No, no, buddy, yes. We are going to take care of her. Don't cry. She's ok. All four of us crying on the living room floor.
We told the medical team we needed the technology, and they said yes. My baby became partly bionic. It got easier.
It didn't get easy.
A cure is on the way, it has to be. Yes. And then people chime in they have been waiting 25 years and I cry again.
She's tough. Thank god. Tougher than the rest of us. He is 9 and knows more about diabetes than most adults. Is that sweet or sad?
100 days, 1000 ripples, 10,000 obstacles and discoveries, 1 million prayers and wishes. Not just for my baby, my family. But for all of them.
Mom to Kira Cheney, Type 1 warrior princess, and Logan Cheney, best big brother ever