Not Being There.

It was 9:54 last evening when the phone rang.  I saw the unrecognizable name on the caller ID and chose to ignore it disturbed by the fact that someone unknown was calling so late.  Seconds later my cell phone rang.  That familiar feeling of panic set in.  I knew it wasn’t good.

“Kristy, it’s Becky from Camp Needlepoint,” she said in a hurried voice.  Immediately, I chill ran through me from head to toe.  Before she could say another word, I began to tear.  “Yes,” I said quietly fearing the worst.  “He’s okay, but we’re at the ER.  I’m here with the head Endocrinologist that’s staying with us this week.  We need you to talk to admitting so he can be seen.”

“What’s wrong,” I whimper.  “He’s got a really bad stomach ache.  He blood sugar is in range, so we’re hoping it’s nothing serious.” 

She handed the phone to the woman who had to speak with me about admitting Eli.  She had to ensure that I would allow my son to be treated.  After the formalities, she indicated that the Endocrinologist would call me as soon as they got word.

After I hung up the phone, pain ran through my veins.  Paralyzed with fear, the same fear and panic that struck me when he was first diagnosed with Type 1.  At that time, I was stranded on an airplane in Atlanta – not there with him.  This time, he was in Wisconsin and I at home – again not being there.  Not being there for him when he needed me most.  Needing his Mom.

Less than 15 minutes later, the Endo called and mentioned that Eli was being checked by the ER Doctor.  He brought Eli to the ER as his symptoms were not normal.  Eli was holding the side of his abdomen in severe pain.  He just didn’t seem like the kind of kid that would complain.  He wanted to ensure it wasn’t appendicitis.  He would call back when he knew more.

Waiting.  Fearing.  Sobbing for my son.  It was unbearable.  Not being there. 

An hour later, the call of relief came.  No serious issues, just a very bad tummy ache.  They gave him some meds and took him back to camp.  In true Eli style, he demanded to spend the night with his friends in the cabin – not the medical cabin.

So my littlest angel is better today.  A blessing.  A miracle. 

But, my fear of not being there for him burns in my soul.  I’m not sure how to recover.

Away at Camp. A Mother's Journey Continues.

One of the most gut wrenching pieces of writing I’ve ever created was A Mother’s Journey, written two years ago when we sent Eli off to Camp Needlepoint just one year after his diagnosis with Type 1 Diabetes.  It was a cathartic piece as it made me come to terms with the emotions I’d been ignoring for so long.  Yet, the pain flowed through my fingers as I took my sorrow and anger out on the small keyboard.  Even now, when I read the short story, I’m taken back to that dark time in my life.  As a mother, I’ve come along way since then yet the journey continues.

The weather Sunday afternoon was strange.  Gray clouds smothered the sky while the thick muggy air couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to be hot or cold.  The rain threatened to break like a fever but the stubborn atmosphere wouldn’t allow it.  The three of us sat quiet in the packed SUV.  It contained a week’s worth of camp goods and medical supplies.  This would be our third trip to Camp Needlepoint to drop off Eli.

I’m not sure if it was the stack of buttermilk pancakes that Eli insisted on consuming at IHOP before we made our way to Wisconsin, but he was unusually quiet.  I stared ahead gazing out of the window holding back the tears.  There was no reason to cry.  I’d been here before.  Camp means freedom.  A week away from checking blood sugars eight times a day, no insulin reservoir changes, not having to wake up in the middle of the night to check on him and no counting carbs.

Freedom also means letting go.  And that’s the hard part. 

Eli is still a child and not quite ready to take on the full range of responsibility to managing his disease.  This year he has come so far.  He made it through the first year of middle school, learning how to maneuver more than one primary teacher and navigating the lunchtime diabetic routine.  In true Eli fashion, he charmed his way into the hearts of the adults and students making sure to take full advantage of his ‘diabetic hall pass’.  

Just two weeks ago, he had his first overnight at a friend’s house.  Although he’d asked Mom dozens of times prior, this time Dad made me let him go. Thanks to technology, our diabetic routine happened virtually.  All went well.

So why do I sit here alone weeping?  Longing for the control to ensure my son’s okay.  He’s surrounded by dozens of other diabetics, doctors and nurses.  He’s having the time of his life.  The sun is shining bright today and although he is not with me, I can see it shining brightly in his blue eyes.

I weep because I know he will come back stronger and more independent.  A step closer to a more normal life.  I weep because there will be a day when he won’t need me as much, and I’ll have to let go.  I weep because I know the worry as a mother will never cease.