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.