Noah's diagnosis day is a blur. Sure, I can go back through loads of paperwork to find the exact day, but off the top of my head I don't know the exact date of diagnosis. I think it's better that way. It's not a happy occasion, like a birthday or wedding anniversary. It's a day I'd love to bury in the back of my mind. Impossible. It's the day I thought my child would be taken from me. It's the day that a cloud of despair fell dark and heavy over our lives. Yes, most details of that day are fuzzy- but a few stand out clearly in my memory and if I close my eyes, it's like watching it replay on a movie screen...
In the morning Noah is crying. He comes into my room and tells me he's wet the bed again. It's the third time this week.
More, water please mom? I'm so thirsty.
Our good friend mentions the word diabetes, after we told him that Noah's been having accidents. I call the doctor the next day and we go in for tests.
The pediatrician calls us early in the morning, telling us to go directly to Boston, and that Noah will be in good hands.
Sitting in the cafeteria, all I could do was stare at Noah's hospital bracelet.
I bought a notebook at the gift shop, and filled it that day. I still have it.
The realization of what we were up against when they tested Noah's blood sugar the first time. He didn't just cry. He flipped out. It was too much for a little kid. It was too much for us. I wanted to scoop him up and run away.
I didn't cry.
That's what I remember most about that time. I was too busy learning and doing what would keep Noah alive and well and healthy.
I remember another day, too. A better day. The day when I realized that we are doing all right by our son. It was in the summer. Mere months after his diagnosis, and I overheard him explaining diabetes to one of his cousins. "I wish I didn't have it, but it's no big deal", he said.
The tears finally came, and with them came a kind of peace - a knowledge that everything would be ok. That diabetes is strong and stubborn, but it is no match for what we can dish out.