At 3am today, I waved off my husband and my 15 year old boy. He’s had a tough term with a broken arm, and a subsequent operation to fix it up but off he goes. He’s gone to Fiji on a rugby trip with the local team. My husband is his coach and there’s a doctor travelling with the team.
He has been prodded and poked in the last few weeks and has undoubtedly been in a lot of pain a few times but he has never once whinged or complained. He has avoided the clown doctors in the children’s ward, answered numerous questions about his diabetes, surfed the waves of bumpy BGLs and has accepted the 3am blood tests without complaint.
He told me yesterday that he was very nervous. When I asked why, thinking it might be about managing his type 1 diabetes, he confessed he was worried about getting hurt by the opposition. He’s 185cm tall and skinny as a rake: not the ideal build for rugby union!
I was secretly really chuffed that he wasn’t stressing about his diabetes. We try never to make it a stress. Yes, it’s a pain in the proverbial but it never stops him doing anything, except maybe the English homework that he hates so much. I reserve the right to be dubious about that one!
He has double the amounts of everything he needs, divided into two beautifully packaged bags. Every eventuality has been imagined by me and gone through with my poor husband. This lovely man was gracious enough not to roll his eyes in front of me.
Whilst my son runs the show, in the last month, my husband took over the day to day management. I wanted him to be the second in command, after my son. This was a role I took on automatically when my son was diagnosed with diabetes. No one made me. I remember the Diabetes Educator telling me that there is normally one parent who has the dominant role in the management or their child’s diabetes. Checking levels were in range and contacting the Diabetes Educator to work out adjustments in insulin ratios became my husband’s job as I hovered in the back ground watching as he and my son discussed BGLs and carb counted meals.
It has been liberating for me and I think my husband feels empowered. I’ve still helped out and I still know exactly what’s going on but I’ve not been the ‘go to gal’! Guess what? The world didn’t fall apart. My son probably didn’t notice the difference and now he’s gone off to Fiji.
He will pull on his boots, put on his helmet, chew on his mouth guard and have the time of his life.