Needles, needles, needles

There is a special way to give an insulin shot. Who knew? First, you pick a meaty chunk of the body: back of the arm, butt, thigh, or belly. Then you pinch about an inch or so of the chunk you picked. Insert syringe, plunge insulin into body, then stop pinching. Only after all that can you remove the needle.

It seems that insulin, unlike many other medicines, absorbs best in the fatty layer of tissue, not in the muscles, as is the case with most immunizations. We practiced on an orange. Then we were ready to try it out on M.

B went first. I would have to wait for my turn in a couple of hours. I was glad to see him do it first. I am pretty sure that this was his way of dealing with a situation that was beyond his control: control the things you can. Like giving your daughter a shot in the belly.

He administered the injection perfectly. Never was I so proud of my mate-selection skills. He was brave, practical, intelligent and competent. Not once did he lose his temper or his sense of purpose. I glowed with admiration for the father of my children.

After the first parental injection was given, we needed to make follow-up appointments for M. One with her new diabetes doctor, one with a diabetes nurse educator, one with the social worker, and one with a dietician.

Appointments made. CHECK.

We were asked if we would like to have a visiting nurse come to our house during the first week we would be home. We decided that it might be a good idea to have a professional make sure that we were doing things correctly before we made a habit of doing them incorrectly. An appointment was made for the following Tuesday. Considering that it was Friday afternoon, this gave me hope.

"Do you think we will be home by then?" I asked the next doctor who came in.

"We won't discharge you until you feel ready," she replied, "but you guys are doing great. If things keep going the way they are, we could get you out of here as soon as tonight."

I looked at our check list. The only thing left was for another person to correctly administer injections, so that at least two people in the household could be responsible for M's diabetes management. That would be me. I wasn't afraid, I just didn't want to do it.

"Mom, it barely hurts at all!" M told me, "The needle is so tiny, I practically can't even feel it!"

Thank you, God.

M was very excited at the prospect of going home sooner rather than later. I knew this because she said, "I'm ready to go home."

I gave her the shot. I forgot to pinch, but the nurse was encouraged by my willingness to do it, and the fact that I noticed my mistake without any reminders. "You guys are awesome!" she declared.

It made me wonder who wasn't awesome. B and I decided that Children's Hospital must see all kinds of train wrecks come through here. B listed the reasons we were awesome:

1) We were still married and still liked each other.
2) We were focused on our kids.
3) We understood directions and followed them.
4) We did not curl up on the floor and cry for three days.
5) We had health insurance.
6) We expressed a willingness to do whatever it takes for M to get well.

"What do not awesome families do in situations like this?" I asked B.

"They get divorced."

"Oh. I guess you're right. That sucks."

The nurse asked if we wanted to go home after M ate her 65-70 carbs worth of dinner.

"Don't we have to wait until morning?" I asked.

"Oh, no. If you want, we can probably have you out of here by 8:00 pm."

This sounded crazy to me, to be allowed to go home at night. On "House" they always discharged patients in the daylight hours. There was always dappled sunshine on patients and their loved ones as they exited through the main door.

B said, "Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd like to go home."

We all agreed. Phone calls were made, papers were signed, clothes were put on, and we walked out into the cold night to the pick-up truck that drove me to the hospital less than 48 hours ago.

We were going home to test out our new life.