A few curses were smattering my thought feed as I was crawling through our mudroom and into our kitchen. I must have looked ridiculous and I was second guessing the amount of tri-tip and spicey pasta that I had consumed for supper. Hockey helmet and skates were donned. I was desperately trying to keep my blades from touching the slate and wood flooring. I was trying to protect my blade edges.
I was berating myself a bit. You would think I would always be prepared by now. It has been over five years since Joe's diagnosis. Five years of thinking and planning and anticipating lows. Five years of sugar stashing. Five years of being on a constant, slightly nagging state of alert. Five years of bullshit that is my shit because I am my son's pancreas. So, you would think I would have my "Joe~Skating~On~The~Backyard~Rink~While~I~Am~Skating~On~The~Backyard~Rink~Blood~Glucose~Chcking~System" initiated for the 2011/2012 skating season. Welp, I didn't. Hence the "double amputee...wounded soldier" crawl through my home, while helmeted accessorized by a cage nonetheless.
Blindly, my hands ferreted the kitchen island. Yep, there it was. The glucometer. I inched my way, on my belly, back through our home ... out the garage door ... and out to the rink. Joe skated over. The glucometer was readied. 5~4~3~2~1. A 247 was obtained.
"Your good to go Buddy ... not low ... let's get on with some one-on-one!"
A day-in-the-life of the behind the scenes in pancreating for my son Joe.