Support Me In My Ride for Rachel
I’m the mother of a diabetic.
I’ve watched my daughter prick her fingers until they were tender and sore. I’ve watched the girl who always hated needles learn to give herself hundreds of insulin injections. I’ve watched her interrupt whatever she’s doing to recover from the mental confusion of a sugar high, and I’ve watched her search for Skittles in every corner of the car to treat a sugar low. I’ve watched her be hurt by others’ insensitivity. I’ve watched her religiously protect her insulin from freezing when camping in the winter wilderness. I’ve watched fingers too cold to pierce, pumps too frozen to function, missed quarters of lacrosse games, academic tests delayed due to blood sugar brain fog. I’ve watched temporary but frustrating departures from remote mountain trails to rethink, to recalibrate, to consult with her medical team, or to secure needed supplies from a distant drugstore. I’ve watched her give a great deal of mental energy to understanding the ins and outs of the effects of diabetes on her body. While I’ve just been watching this for the past six years, Rachel has been living it. Every. Single. Day.
She does this because her life depends on it. She has no choice. Not to do so can mean blindness, nerve damage, kidney and/or heart disease down the road. Not to administer insulin regularly, and in the correct amounts, can mean death.
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