Anxiety is a Bunny Rabbit

 

Illustration by Andrew Gillespie

Anxiety is: A bunny rabbit.

Anxiety is: Fight or flight that doesn’t discern between a kid who can’t find their shoes before school and a ruptured appendix. The adrenaline floodgates open full and wide for ALL types of pressure.  No discrimination happening with these chemicals!

Anxiety is: A guardian angel with unrelenting work ethic.

Anxiety is: A half-written text to a kid. Deleted. Re-composed. Deleted. Re-composed. Send? Send! Definitely should NOT have sent.

Anxiety is: “Did you finish all your homework? Are you sure? I mean… I know you’re tracking it. I’ll leave you alone. You’re great at this! But let me know if you need help with anything. I don’t actually care about your grades, you know. You’re just PERFECT, no matter what your grades are. Grades are completely stupid. But… let me know if it’s… confusing. I think I still know how to do your math for like… one more year? You should take advantage of this! I mean if you need help. Ok, I’m leaving! I’m leaving!”  

Anxiety is: Having a rooster that lives inside your head. The guardian angel is a rooster.

Anxiety is: Setting your alarm for 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning so you can read your book for an hour and a half before the rooster wakes up… even though you haven’t needed an alarm since 1983.

Anxiety is: “... You know you shouldn’t use oil-based lubricant on a condom, right? Because it will BREAK the condom. Yes, I understand you don’t think that this is currently relevant, and that makes sense. But please try to imagine the moment when it IS relevant. Do you want to hear my voice at that time? Because you can call me. No? Ok. Cool. So, what I’m telling you is that you can only use WATER based lubricants if you are using a condom which you SHOULD BE DOING because you really can’t trust MOST people with safe sex decisions. Humans are weird. It’s nothing personal against any of your friends or partners… it’s just that everyone makes mistakes, and some mistakes are very high risk. Ok, Ok… I’m leaving!

Anxiety is: A blood sugar alarm that goes off inside your brain (your guardian rooster!) at 1:24 a.m. and 3:15 a.m. and 4:53 a.m… so you can check that your kid isn’t crashing. Just in case the real alarm might have gone off and somehow you slept through it.

Anxiety is: Deciding you should probably get out of bed to pee every single time you wake up in the night, so you don’t wake up another time specifically because you have to pee. 

Anxiety is: Abstaining from alcohol and marijuana in order to regulate your nervous system. 

Anxiety is: Drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana in order to ignore your nervous system. 

Anxiety is: Kissing your kids goodnight and hearing them say, “I love you too mom, but do you think we need to be tucked in THREE times?” 

Anxiety is: Moving as hard and as fast as you can for as long as you can, because you might be able to get your blood to pump hard enough to wash out the adrenaline… for just a little while.

Anxiety is: Making your kids binge watch Only Murders in the Building with you because the only thing better than running on an elliptical for an hour is watching Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Selena Gomez create multi-generational humor, while your teenagers suffocate you with snuggling.

Anxiety is: Engaging with the world as though you are a panther instead of a bunny rabbit so that the people around you will imbibe your smoothness, and not your jolts. Not because you are selfless, but because calming the troops keeps the bunny safe. Wouldn’t we all prefer a jungle full of panthers instead of a jungle full of bunnies? This metaphor has utterly deteriorated. 

Anxiety is: Wanting the sound of rain to last forever. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

Thoughts on Fall and Boundaries

Illustration by Andrew Gillespie

Today is unusually warm for two days after Halloween. The leaves are red and orange, and still clinging to the trees, so everything is particularly glamorous. It rained yesterday, so the grass is also brilliantly green. If you stand still and feel the dampness in the air, you can almost hear the Jack O’ Lanterns molding all around you. 

With my surprise day off, I walked to the Eugene Masonic Cemetery. It’s one of my favorite spots in Eugene and I especially like to go there in the fall. 

I do a lot of psychic processing at this time of year. Or I try to. It’s difficult when life is coming at me so hard that I can’t do anything but multitask and handle each impending necessity. 

I like autumn because it’s gorgeous, it’s homey, and it can be made into a metaphor for literally anything. 

My kids are reaching some peak flamboyance, right now, in terms of their parental requirement. But soon, they are going to be gone. Just like these leaves. See? See what I did there?? You should try it with your own life. You can process anything in the fall.

It feels like the kids need a lot. But really, the main problem is that the needs are occurring at like 11:00 at night! Always the emotional turmoil, or the nearly forgotten logistical necessity is remembered during the jet-black midnight hours. 

I get up every day at 6:00 a.m., and I am not exaggerating when I say that I do-not-stop until I go to bed. I told my children, years ago, that I time-out at 9:00. I can give hugs after 9:00. I can listen to stories or jokes. But I cannot help with math, or compose a letter of advocation for them, or orchestrate a feat of logistical gymnastics involving transporting people to opposing locations across town while also watching a ukulele performance that suddenly emerged, tomorrow. 

The universe doesn’t care about my time-out boundary. Asthma and diabetes have no regard for a “reasonable hour.” And… whatever. That is what it is, and I’ve come to accept it.

But when my kids have been watching YouTube shorts for 2 ½ hours, and then, as I’m practically crawling from room to room through the sludge of post 9:00 pm to say “goodnight” and they accost me with the news that they cannot find items that are instrumental to their success at life. Items like… phones… computers... math textbooks… appropriate footwear. I go into a sort of a panic. But I’m too tired for a full panic. So, it’s kind of like… muddy panic. It’s like coming out of anesthesia and getting put on a roller coaster. I feel like a turtle on my back getting passed from one verklempt kid to the next like a hockey puck.

I try to find some way to help that’s manageable for me. Talking, I’ve learned, is not a good choice. I tend to bring up very concrete concerns that no one actually wants to think about. And then they get mad at me and behave as though they never asked for my involvement, and I just imposed myself upon their rock-solid independence.

“Then why have I been informed of your problem?” I want to ask. “I was going about my merry way, plodding to bed like a donkey who just plowed a field of quicksand. I don’t remember asking whether you had lost your 19th and final inhaler on the day before your class was going to take a 7 mile hike up a mountain. Until you came flying at me in a tizzy, I thought we were just schlepping through the sludge that is daily life. I thought we were fine. I was considering eating a piece of pumpkin pie and reading ½ a page of my novel before falling asleep.

Nope. Talking is not the answer. Neither is flinging every item out from under the bed up into the air while giving speeches on the importance of cleaning one’s room a little every day, rather than saving it all up for one free weekend that never actually occurs. 

Usually, they just want you to sit quietly in the vicinity while they solve their own problem, or while they come slowly, in waves, to the realization that… they are really just kind of fucked. Maybe they won’t ever find the math notebook. Maybe they either have to redo five entire assignments, or get 5 zeros and fail for a stint of time. Or maybe they just won’t have the correct footwear, and they will be uncomfortable. 

Whatever it is… at 11:00 at night. I’m trying a new practice, which is to sit almost silently, cross legged on the floor of their bedroom while they freak out. Practice my own breathing. And tell myself… “It’s good they are having this problem. I need to let them solve it”. Maybe I will fold some clothing off the floor while I sit there. I can organize pants with pants, shirts with shirts. I can make things slightly better. And I can be there. But I don’t have to think too much. Because people who are old enough to avoid their problems with YouTube until 11:00 at night, are old enough to solve their problems themselves. 

I am only now coming to grips with the idea that I can actually go to bed before my kids. It’s hard. I REALLY want them to go to bed before me. I like going to bed with a feeling of completion. Like I have facilitated my children through their day, fed them, solved their problems, and tucked them away ‘till tomorrow. But I have to change that way of thinking. Because they don’t want to go to bed, and their problems are not easily solved.

I am trying to move through the “resentful” phase. This phase comes with the feeling that if they don’t go to bed before me, I NEVER get a break. 

The only way for me to stop feeling resentful, is for me to have solid boundaries. And, I think, the boundary is - unless the problem is health related and just emerged (this excludes your splinter that occurred at 11:00 in the afternoon and you blissfully forgot until now), don’t ask me for help after 9:00. 

If you just want me to listen and rub your back, I’m here for it. But I can’t find the lost item. I can’t contact the teacher. I can’t buy something on Amazon. I can’t move obtrusive furniture into the garage, and I can’t call a meeting of siblings to discuss toxic communication styles.  

Maintaining this boundary is hard. I have not yet been successful. But when I sit in this cemetery in the fall, and look at this headstone for a 24-year-old, decorated with his baseball cap, and prayer beads, and a notebook that was full of writing but is now soggy from rain… I think about how full every person’s life is. Every single person is just bursting at the seams with… their own experience. And the older my kids get, the less those experiences have to do with me. 

The reason this gets hard is because I’m still trying to be there for ALL of it.  And I literally can’t be anymore. I’m just too tired, and they need to do stuff without me.

But that’s not bad. That’s good. 

It’s a life lesson for me that, occasionally, less is more. I have never been good at “less is more.” I wear stripes under plaid with paisley leggings.

In the realm of teenagers… sometimes… less is more. It’s just a trick of knowing when? 

I probably won’t ever get the hang of when. But I know that my main job now is just to keep admiring them. And letting them know how brilliant I think they are, before they’re gone. 

Kicked Outta the Kid Section

Illustration by Andrew Gillespie

I am writing this blog from the second floor of the Eugene Public Library. For those who don’t frequent this library I will clarify: I'm in the ADULT section. 

I am having an identity crisis. 

The library has been my “other home” since I moved to Eugene. We have spent over a decade of autumns collecting buckeyes along 10th avenue on our way from our parking spot to the front doors.

We get free lunches and a free book every summer. My kids have done hundreds of crafts sitting in the little frog and heron chairs. They have built about 549 different castles with the magnetic tiles on the light table, and they’ve attended numerous presentations where they practiced skills such as break dancing and making a sound on a tuba. 

When they learned they could play Minecraft on the public computers, that was… well… annoying for lack of a better word. But, whatever, it kept them interested in the library through early adolescence. 

Covid REALLY threw off our library game. We never really recovered our library vigor. After the library reopened from it's excruciatingly long Covid hiatus, my kids didn't want to go anymore. And when I do take them, they head for the teen section, grab their Manga Romance, and are ready to be on their way. They have no desire to linger. It doesn’t help that the coffee shop where I always bribed them with bagels is currently inactive.

The teen section is not inviting to adults. Maggie notified me that I really shouldn’t be in there at all. She directed my attention to the signs that say, “Tables and chairs are for teens ages 13 - 19.” 

“Fine” I told her defiantly. “I’ll stand.” 

I meandered obstinately through the isles while receiving “Seriously mom???” glares from Maggie. And a couple “How long are you planning to stay here?” glances from a staff member, as well as a few teens who were adorably gothed-out and painting birdhouses. 

Okay, Okay, I acquiesced, and left. 

I’d rather be here anyway, I thought, as I entered my true home: the kid section. I chose a pile of novels and sat down to decide which I might actually manage to read. Reading has been hard for me lately with all the transitions in my life. But even normally my brain does not enjoy navigating the adult novel. Occasionally I choose literature from the teen section. But mostly I'm a juvenile junkie, all the way. Give me some Christopher Paul Curtis, Cynthia Voigt, Lois Lowry… that’s where I want to be.

Surrounded by the books I admire, I started to relax. I opened my computer to write, inviting-in the inspiration of my favorite authors. “Beverly Cleary… c’mon in and help a girl out!”

Suddenly a woman appeared. A real woman. Not the spirit of Beverly Cleary.  She was hovering over me weirdly, so I looked up. 

“Excuse me,” She said. “This area is only for families. You can’t be here unless you have a family.” 

“Uhhhhh, that’s a weird discrimination to make.” I said. “But I do have a family.” 

“I mean kids,” she said. “You have to have kids to be in here.” 

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I have been coming to this library. To this exact table, in fact, for FIFTEEN YEARS. And no one has EVER told me I can’t be here. So I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you actually work here? Because I don’t even recognize you.” I spoke to her like I had more right to be here than she did.

“Yes. I work here.” She said politely. “And I’m just doing my job. I’m supposed to tell people without kids that they have to go to the adult section.” 

I was too confused to speak. All I could think to do was stare her down. I whipped out the most dominating expression in my facial repertoire. And even though I was seated on a tiny chair, and she was standing above me, I stared her down like only a mom can do. Like What the actual fuck is this nonsense leaving your mouth right now???

 

My stare down worked. She walked away. Possibly to go find a more important librarian. Probably someone I actually would recognize. And that would be embarrassing, after 15 years of juvenile-section librarian comradery. 

Her absence afforded me the time I needed to process this turn of events. 

It took me about three minutes and then I had a revelation. It was the revelation that I’m certain you’ve already had while reading this. And I know it’s ridiculous that it took me so long. But finally, I was like… OH. The reason no one has kicked me out for the last 15 years was because I had KIDS all that time. I don’t have kids now. I DON’T HAVE KIDS!!!

Holy shit. My invitation to the kid section of the library has been revoked?

I never realized this relationship had a time stamp. An expiration date. I have been disowned! 

I left my pile of juvenile fiction on the table. I guess I’m not supposed to be reading that stuff anymore. Now that I’m like… kidless and all. I got Maggie and we went home. 

I stayed away for a couple of months. But I can’t break up with the library. So here I am. Trying to accept yet another transition in a sea of transitions.  On a shelf to the right of me there is a book called “The Oregon Nonprofit Corporation.” To the left of me, “The Franchise Bible.” I shudder to think of it. What am I doing here? 

A couple months ago when my girlfriend, Kate, and I got in a little squabble about how to re-decorate the living room she aggressively described my aesthetic as “5-year-old-with-a-box-of-crayolas.” She 100% meant that as an insult. But, much to her dismay, I was not insulted because, “HELL YEAH!”

When I used to hang my kids’ drawings on the wall, it was not because I was trying to promote their self-esteem. It was because I actually thought the room looked better that way. 

I don’t belong in the mother fucking adult section. OK?????

Don’t worry, people. My days in juvenile are not over. I’m just sitting here in the adult section temporarily. Formulating a plan.

****

It’s two days later, I am now editing this blog in a coffee shop since I’ve decided that my library relationship has become too confusing to nurture quality writing.  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure that all these emotions have less to do with my truly missing a place. And more to do with some random person, who knows nothing about me, telling me that my whole life has changed. Like I didn’t already know. And then forcing me to accept it by ripping my home base out from under me. 

My kids are learning how to drive. This is the last year any of my kids will go to the school we’ve attended since they were five. And next year they will all four be attending a giant traditional high school. Ash just got Type 1. Benjah and Kate just started a new business. Literally NOTHING is the same. And now this lady is telling me I’m not invited to the library. So I’m feeling dramatic. 

But I will be ok. Because I can still read. And I can still write. And I can still walk up hills all over town while talking to myself. At nighttime I can watch Abbott Elementary with Andrew, or Never Have I Ever with Kate while eating ice cream. And that’s how I’m gonna get through all this. 

And I’m probably still gonna go hang out in the kid section anyway. So there!

Meditating With Bunnies

Illustration by Andrew Gillespie

About three months ago, we got bunnies. I’m not big on pet ownership. That may come as a surprise as we have 4 chickens, a cat, some fish, 19 pigeons, and now 2 bunnies. But I don’t like keeping critters in cages. All of our animals (with the exception of the fish) are ushered out into the yonder regularly and they come back of their own volition. 

The bunnies were a spontaneous choice for Aubree’s birthday. Aubree prefers animals to people, and she always wants more animals. She wanted a new baby chick for her birthday which, incidentally this year, fell on Easter. 

We’ve done the new-baby-chick-for-Aubree’s-birthday several times now. And we’ve logged some bad experiences with it. 

It starts out great. The chicks are adorable. Everyone loves them. The chicks grow to be teenagers (everyone still loves them), and then one pops off with an awkward, broken voiced, teenage crow. I know I’ve written at least one blog depicting this tragedy, as it has occurred many times over.

We can’t keep a rooster here in the Friendly Street Neighborhood. While most of our neighbors are in fact “friendly”, there are at least one or two neighbors who are just WAITING for us to do something illegal that they can report. Something like having an obnoxious rooster that wakes them up at 4:00 every morning. 

This pubescent cock-a-doodling immediately results in the hard work of finding someone who will appreciate our adored rooster (even though roosters are assholes). If this search does not result in success, we are faced with the moral dilemma of having to eat him ourselves or give him to a friend to eat. If we give him to a friend, it can’t be a good friend, or it will ruin their relationship with both Maggie and Aubree for at least a year. It would need to be someone we hardly know. Or we’ve considered dropping him off in the woods for a mountain lion or a hawk to enjoy. But somehow that feels irresponsible. Like joining the ranks of those who drop bags of kittens on the highway. The whole experience is traumatic for all of us.

So… one evening, around 11:00 at night, we were perusing Craigslist in desperation. We were seeking out an adult clearly sexed hen who might be cute enough for Aubree to appreciate as a birthday present, despite the downside of its pre-achieved adulthood. That’s when we stumbled upon some mini lop-eared bunnies. They were being bred and sold by an 11-year-old who participated in 4H.  In a moment of weakness, I agreed to this new pet plan, and less than 24 hours later, we had one male baby bunny with the promise of another coming in 2 weeks (once she could be weaned). 

I am not a spontaneous person. I’m a realist. And I’m rarely surprised by the results of my choices. When making a decision, my brain projects forward like a catapult and lands in the future, and then I work my way backward to decide whether I wish to endure the fall-out of that choice. I don’t drunk dial. I barely even make plans with friends due to the fear that later I will regret the plan.

These bunnies though, they took me by surprise. Who knew a Lagomorph could be so much work!

I feel sheepish. I’ve been telling my family “NO DOGS” for a solid decade. I think these bunnies might be more work than dogs. 

Part of it is my revulsion at keeping pets in cages. 

We have a hutch for them outside, but they don’t live in it. They spend about 24 hours a week in their hutch, when we decide that we need “A bunny break.” 

The rest of the time they live inside a little fence in the living room. They are legitimately part of the family. They are about 95% litter box trained, and they rarely have accidents with pee. Their poops are just hard, dry marbles of dry, digested hay. Yes, the idea of bunny poo scattering like marbles across the living room is kind of gross. But in reality, you just sort of… kick it… and it rolls out of the way until you come around with the shop vac and suck it up. No biggie… right? 

Occasionally it looks as if they aren’t potty trained, even though I swear they are. It’s because they occasionally feel inspired to dig. And the only place where they can really experience a good dig is in their litter box. So even though they have been such good bunnies, they might suddenly fling their litter all over the floor in a vexed flurry of digging. If you weren’t there to watch it happen, you might think that they are very bad, non-potty-trained bunnies. But as I tend to spend a good portion of the day just watching “the bunny show” I know exactly what’s going on. 

You see… the problem is… I sort of love them. 

Ash was diagnosed with Type 1 about two weeks after getting the bunnies. Often my brain thinks… If I had known, would I have gotten bunnies? 

I absolutely would not have. But I didn’t know. And I think that’s probably for the best. My innocent-at-the-time catapult brain projected forward into a non-diabetes reality that no longer exists. So here I am in an alternate dimension, with bunnies. Surprise!

It reminds me of this made-for-TV movie I watched in the 80’s where the kids made a time machine out of household materials in their basement, and when they stepped out into medieval England, they suddenly noticed that their puppy had snuck behind the boxy control panel, and now he was going to learn about feudalism along with them. 

Last week I was talking on the phone with a smart lady in my life (yes, Peggy, I’m talking about you). We were discussing my over-controlling nature, with a diabetes diagnosis that belongs to my kid. Not to me. And she asked me about my spirituality. 

I am a spiritual person, in the sense that I contemplate spirituality many times a day. But I do not have a defined spirituality. She told me that spirituality is whatever you are doing when you feel “calm” or “like everything is going to be ok.” 

In all honesty, I don’t experience that feeling often right now. 

But yesterday I was cleaning out the bunny area (as I do about every other day) and I was remembering this expansive Buddhist shrine that I encountered at a festival many years ago. There was a woman maintaining it. She had a tiny broom and she was brushing away all the festival dust that was blurring the sharp contrast of the plants and stones and other objects placed mandala-style throughout the altar. She picked off dead flowers and rearranged little statues.

I said something like, “Oh man, you must be maintaining this thing all day, with these dirty hippies all over the place, dancing and stirring up dust on your altar.”  

And she said, “Yes. I take shifts with other people, but we do maintain the altar around-the-clock. It is a joy for us. It’s our meditation.” 

At the time I remember thinking, “I wish my life was chill enough that I could ‘meditate’ while I cleaned my house. It’s a little hard to connect with the universe when I’m managing fights as I scour the mac-n-cheese pot. Having to spray Benadryl on a bee sting really interrupts my spiritual towel folding. I guess if you don’t have any kids and you just focus on being a Buddhist you get the luxury of breathing at regular intervals and arranging flowers.” 

But I was jaded back then, and I was managing two 4-year-olds and two 6-year-olds at a festival. 

So, yesterday, as I was chasing little bunny poops with my hand broom, and contemplating my spirituality, as Peggy told me to do. I thought about that Buddhist shrine. I realized that I actually enjoy cleaning the bunny area. The reason I enjoy it is because it looks notably better when I’m done. Our living room stops feeling like a litter box. The Bunnies look happier. And it's something I can do that displays clear progress. Before I clean, the living room is a sketchy place to be. After I clean, it’s just a living room with cute bunnies in it. 

The rest of the time, my work is not notable. I teach people things. And help them regulate their teenage angst. I drive them where they need to go, make sure they eat balanced meals and drink water, get exercise, and inject themselves with insulin. I attempt to keep people healthy and happy. But aside from the kids still inhaling and exhaling at the end of the day (which is a pretty low bar) there isn’t any obvious progress to be seen. So, frankly, parenthood is not a calming pursuit. I find purpose and fulfillment, even joy and humor in parenting. But not really “peace”. Peace is a tall order! 

I find a tiny bit of peace in putting fresh hay in the manger. Making the water clean, and sucking up the little poops with the shop vac. That’s where it’s at!

If bunnies are my spirituality, would that make me a Lagomorphist?

Pie and Diabetes

For those who love Andrew's art. Never fear This photo is just a placeholder. Andrew is slow.

It seems like, for the first time in 6 years, I’m going to let my neighbor’s pie cherries go to the birds. 

My neighbor, George, told me he planted that cherry tree by accident. He thought they would be table cherries. But I was glad they weren’t. I prefer pie cherries. Pie cherries are special. I want to pick them, badly, but I’m tired. I’ve got emotions about those cherries. And picking that tree takes three days. 

I want to pick them because George is 85 and he loves to garden. My family eats as much of his garden food as we can. Not just because it’s delicious. But because how can I let George watch his food rot? I can’t. That’s inhumane.

After you pick the cherries, you have to pit them. And then you have to freeze them into quart bags. To process the whole tree takes about 20 hours, maybe more. It’s a labor of love. I save the cherries for special occasions. Like birthdays and Pie Day.

Pie is my love language. But now my kid has diabetes, and I have no clue how much insulin to give for cherry pie. Nor do I know  what sort of timing to use.  And whether we will be up all night dealing with the repercussions of that learning curve. I'm almost certain we would be.

Someday we'll know how to eat cherry pie. Three weeks ago I was terrified for Ash to eat an apple, but we figured that out. Last week I had trepidation over fish sticks. But it turns out fish sticks are a breeze. 

Eventually we can practice cherry pie. 

We learned Ash had Type 1 on May 2nd at urgent care during a visit which we imagined was for a skin infection, but turned out to be about diabetes. They made it sound like “probably” he had diabetes. But he should figure it out for sure at an appointment with his regular doctor. When I called his pediatrician, the receptionist tried to schedule us for May 10th.

“Excuse me… did you understand that I said DIABETES? I feel pretty certain that folks don’t wait for a week to get an appointment about diabetes. We don’t have insulin. We don’t know what he’s supposed to eat. Are you kidding me?” 

We ended up with an appointment for the next day at 4:00. 

When we went to that appointment, we met with a doctor who had a really unusual speech impediment and odd social skills. I’m not criticizing him. I’m just doing my best to describe the scene accurately. Due to the way he spoke, I honestly thought he was deaf at first. So I took off my mask to make sure he could read my lips. Even though there were signs posted everywhere stating that we all had to wear masks, only about 50% of the people were wearing masks, Including the nurses and doctors.

This doctor was socially very askew. Incredibly indirect for a doctor. In retrospect, I think he didn’t want to tell a 15-year-old and his mom that they now have diabetes. He was asking tons of questions. The usual diabetes questions. Are you thirsty all the time? Do you have to pee constantly? Can I smell your breath to see if it’s fruity? 

He was talking in circles. It seemed like he was genuinely struggling with the diagnosis. Even though now I know that all the numbers in ash’s labs were flashing DIABETES at us in neon lights. 

I wish that doctor would have just said, “Yes. You have type 1. You need to go to the hospital now.” 

But instead, he hemmed and hawed and spoke with I’m really flummoxed and mystified intonation.  Ash answered “no” to all his questions. No… he wasn’t wetting the bed. No he wasn’t constantly thirsty. And when the Dr. asked to smell his breath, he agreed. Ash’s breath smelled like mouth. Not fruit. 

The doctor kept making “well… I’m thinking…” sounds. And walking out of the room. And checking in with other people. And then finally, after making Ash and I both think that maybe there had been some giant mistake. That maybe this was going to be the-time-we-spent-24-hours-thinking-we-had-diabetes-but-didn’t-really. The Dr. was like “I’ve called the hospital. They are getting a room ready for you right now. You’ll stay there for 3 or 4 days.” 

“So we definitely have diabetes?” I ask. 

“Oh yeah. I can’t believe they let you go home from Urgent Care. You should have been in the hospital last night.” 

Even though we got admitted on May 3rd, I will always keep May 4th in my brain as diabetes day. Because, you know… “May the Fourth be With You.”

There was a giant Chewbacca in the hospital room waiting for us. And a BB8 hospital gown which Ash never touched, and even though we politely brought it home from the hospital at their encouragement, we threw it away before we even walked in the front door of our house. 

He kept Chewbacca. 

The diabetes educator was on maternity leave, so there was very little verbal instruction. Mostly they gave us a binder and told me to read it. The second night in the hospital was, without a doubt, the worst night of my life.

Now our life is completely different from how it was.

We both spend a lot of time practicing new skills. Every few days I call the diabetes educators at OHSU. They are wonderful. Diabetes takes up a lot of time. Much of it is spent on hold. I have not yet figured out how to go back to work.

Also, now we go to the gym.

I had a pretty serious mental block about the gym. I blew random stuff way out of proportion, and had lots of emotions, because really I just didn’t want to go to the gym. But that’s the way Ash prefers to exercise. So that’s what we do. And I’m used to it now. 

Just like now I’m used to writing the carb count with a sharpie when we put away the leftovers. And I’m used to spending an extra half hour whenever we make a stew or soup, calculating all the carbs that have been added to the pot, and estimating Ash’s portion and dividing.

I’m learning to wrap my brain around how important it is to embrace both precision and guesswork at the same time. That’s hard for me. 

I don’t drink or smoke pot anymore. Because I can’t afford to have a cloudy brain. Ever. I used to partake in one or both of those activities, daily… so that’s a pretty big change. Now my primary vice is Yerba Maté. 

Ash has gotten used to having to choose in advance exactly how much he’s going to eat at each meal. Because seconds are a pain in the ass. 

All 9 of us are getting used to eating our food lukewarm instead of hot. Because it’s best to shoot your insulin 20 minutes before you eat. And it's hard to know how much you are going to eat before you see all the food. Sometimes that means cold noodles.

I’m getting used to waking up multiple times a night to decide if he should drink juice or eat a bar. And if his graph and numbers are in the bar zone, I glance through my apothecary of bars. Nature Valley, Special K, Kind Bars, and all the weird bougie ones I bought before I realized they have what I need way cheaper at Rite Aid.

I scrutinize his blood sugar graph. The slant of it. Which ratio of carbs to protein might get us through the night without having to wake up again?

I choose one and it takes me 7 minutes to get him to eat it, pretty much in his sleep. And then I spend the next 30 minutes laying next to him. Staring at the graph… wondering if I chose correctly. And wondering what I’m going to do about his teeth. I can’t make him get up and brush his teeth two times in the middle of the night. 

I spend so much time making phone calls, filling out forms, scheduling appointments… sometimes I honestly forget that it’s his diabetes and not mine.

Two days ago at the gym, on the elliptical, I was watching his blood sugar on my phone. Seeing it higher than I wanted it to  be, I moved my body faster, thinking for 5 seconds that if I pushed harder I could knock the blood sugar down. And then I remembered… I can't take his diabetes and put it in my body. 

I can read and study and plan and count and weigh and measure. I can record and calculate. I can wake up 14 times a night and buy 8 different kinds of protein bars. But none of that will take that diabetes out of him and put it into me.

I can’t do this for him. 

That’s the hardest part.