Thursday, August 23, 2012

The specter

Sometimes I think that, as a D-parent, I face the specter of my child's death every day.

While that's not entirely true, sometimes I am scared. When she has a crazy low blood sugar reading or a blood sugar high that just won't come down, I feel the cold grip of fear grab at my chest, my stomach, and my knees.

In the meantime, I have to act calm, as if I am merely a little tense, and not thinking that I might have to rush my daughter to the hospital to be revived. Or worse.

These moments are usually fleeting, but I hate them. And the expectation that I might have one of these moments is a daily occurrence.

But I still have my daughter. She is alive, and healthy, for the most part. She makes me laugh, and frustrates me nearly every day, just like an ordinary (or extraordinary) teenager. She makes bad choices. She makes good choices. She deals with her diabetes, sometimes with aplomb, sometimes not. But she is here, and I get the chance to see her grow, as long as we are fortunate enough to keep this disease in check.

I am fortunate that I have had three years already that I wouldn't have had with her if she had been born 100 years ago.

But I have seen enough of those God-awful youtube videos about diabetics to know that she could die young. Very young. Especially if we are not careful. Especially if she is not careful.

And I love her.

And it breaks my heart that early death is always an unspoken part of our conversations about diabetes. And sports. And travel. And overnight stays at her friends' houses.

And sometimes it doesn't seem fair.

But then again, neither does this: The other day, my cousin, whom I love very much, suffered the terrible and unthinkable loss.

She lost her son.

Her healthy, young son of whom she was very proud.

At 19 years old, he was killed in a car accident.

The funeral is this weekend.

This is a death that one cannot anticipate. A loss that cannot be predicted. He was not sick. He was not at war. He was driving a car.

And I am at a loss.

How do I comfort someone who is dealing with the very thing that is lingering in my heart every day? My grief for her and her family is overwhelming.

It seems so unfair that a young man with so much potential could simply be plucked from this world.

My cousin is coping with what I truly believe to be every parent's greatest fear. My greatest fear.

And I wish that I could do more for her than pray.

2 comments:

  1. Thank you for posting this, Ursula. The beauty of your writing makes even more palpable the sense of fear and loss you feel. You are in my heart today.
    Patricia

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  2. Sorry for your loss. I can't even imagine the pain and grief your cousin is going through. Praying for your family.

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