I am writing this on behalf of all diabetics,and anyone related to, or even an acquaintance of a diabetic.
I do not know what it is like to be a diabetic. Don’t stop reading, I am not done.
I do not have to watch what I eat, calculate how many carbs vs. exercise or inject myself with animal or human made insulin.
I do not have to prick my finger several times a day to check my blood sugar.
I have never had a seizure due to low blood sugar.
Or have the military tell me I am unworthy because of my medical condition.
I have though, seen as a very close bystander to the horrors.
November 22 2007 was the first Thanksgiving that fell on my fathers death anniversary. It was also the first time my husband openly tried to take his life using his insulin.
Let that sink in.
Here I am , in the worst excuse for an apartment I have ever entered ,almost willingly. When you entered my apartment all you saw was my living room and my kitchen. The only way to get to the bathroom( which leaked on my downstairs neighbor) was through my bedroom. It had dollar store linoleum squares on the entry way and kitchen that we had to keep re-glueing. And one whole wall was painted brick. Not painted like”Busy City Loft” or even cute rustic look painted, but solid white. Our ceiling was caving in ,in so many sporadic areas we had to keep moving our precious television so it didn’t get rained on during the wet season(year) of Washington.
I had one area of countertop in my kitchen;a whole whopping two feet of area. Ari and I danced around our tiny kitchen prepping thanksgiving dinner while Tim slept. Tim sleeping in until noon was nothing for us to be concerned with at the time. Newly blind his depression was crippling. He went from a man who was on his way to making 100 grand in a year, to a guy scraping by on social security. He was horridly depressed. his depression kept him in bed all day for almost two years.
When I finally ventured in to see if he wanted to join us all I saw was a blur of sheets as his body quaked. Then I saw it. The needle and vial next to his pillow. He had purposely overdosed. I quickly ran to the living room and got some cartoons on for Ariana, and snatched his glucagon kit.
Since he was seizing I had to wait it out a bit or else the needle would break. His body is so thin and boney I need the muscles to be relaxed. While I waited I wiped down his sweat with towels and ensured his head was protected. Quite honestly I know I am supposed to watch all limbs, but to me the head is a bit more important than an arm. Take his arm, he needs his head , at least that I my logic. After a few minutes he slowed his rapid movements enough that I could finally administer the shot.
When he came to he started to cry. Why did I care? Why did I give him the glucagon? Why wouldn’t I just let him die? Why?
I felt so selfish. Yet I cannot take back, nor do I want to take back ,giving him the shot. He is my husband.
When he goes low I am attacked. Normally I know it is going to happen so I send the kids to their room until it is over. Ariana has seen the seizures, but ever the viciousness prior to. He has bitten me on my face, pulled my hair, scratched me, punched me, thrown objects at me, spit on me, and he also says horrid things. Every name under the sun that you can think of .Even with some entertaining adverbs prior too. This is also his favorite time to tell me how he wants a divorce,or how he never loved me, and his most favorite “you are nothing more to me then a little ‘b!tch that gets me coffee” I am not allowed to be offended. He doesn’t recall doing anything like that. So I have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
I think he tried it again. He denies it, but after that episode I have lost my trust with this ‘go low’ business. He keep talking about how this is the year he will die. He also has the handy dandy (massively annoying,time consuming ) insulin pump now. All he needs to give himself insulin is push a button.
Last night he was irritated that our children acted like children at the grocery store. Plus the added stress of going out to eat with our lovely louder then life Ryker,and our “sir throws a lot”Lincoln, he was frazzled. He didn’t see the half of it thankfully! How do you approach a man and tell him “sir, I am sorry but my son threw his macaroni in a fit of joy and one landed in your hair”. You don’t normally, you just pay, tip way to much and run for the door. Which we did. I know, I let this guy who was probably on his first date, sit there with my son’s macaroni in his hair,I am a horrid person.
After the absolute joy of spending time with the family Tim was done. He said he never wants to go out of the house ever again with the boys.( yes Ariana was there but she is a seemingly good child most of the time,no food of hers flew anywhere) I never want to take them anywhere either. I do get a lot of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ over there unmissable cuteness, their personalities together are too much for the public eye.
Tim was silent the whole way home. The only sound was the beeping of his insulin pump. I thought it was odd but nothing worth stopping the car and fraking out over. When we arrived home his blood sugar was 53 ( low) and he said he wanted a shower. He didn’t want any juice or anything so I thought I better give him a minute to shower and get over the fact that kids are tiresome. About ten minutes into his shower I hear some thumping.I thought he was just being a jerk and throwing a fit. This is where I failed as a wife. I dismissed it and kept picking up my house. It was pretty rhythmic after a few minutes, and a panic set in. I dashed over to his pump and it said he had 12 active units. 12! When you are low you need 0 active units and sugar. 12 will kill you if you are already dropping.
His bathroom door was locked so as I picked it( a talent I got from my con artist bio dad) I had Ari grab the shot and tester. At this point I could hear him moaning. I knew it was bad. Finally after the longest thirty seconds of my life I burst in door to see my naked husband wrapped up in the shower curtain seizing in the tub. Ari grabbed the two boys and headed to their room. I unwrapped him and then I saw the blood. He was covered in blood. Still seizing I tried to get him out of the tub and I couldnt do it. I rewrapped his lower half and had Ari try to help me. It didn’t work. We ended up just filling the tub with a few blankets to ease the pounding. After the shot was given he took an hour to finally communicate. He swears it wasn’t suicide. Or an attempt. If I had ignored him like he wanted ,who knows what would have happened. He could have died naked wrapped up in a shower curtain.
Dear diabetics, although I do not feel your pain, or know exactly what it is that you go through. I have seen the anguish. I have seen the highs and lows. I have seen a man’s body go from vibrant and mobile to a blind amputated sedentary shell. Listening in envy as the other men we know play with their kids and strike home runs on their church baseball team. I have held that hand.
Just do one thing, think of this as a plead from all your friends and family members. Insulin suicide is not the answer. I won’t bring God into this,even though He is everything to me. If you die due to diabetic complication you leave at least one person in utter and complete guilt. If you choose this method , whoever cares for you( and I do not mean strictly just in the caregiver sense) will forever feel as if they should have found you sooner. Life gets better. I know this. I used to live in a cockroach infested , crackhouse apartment and now live in a messy home that maybe someday I will own. The doctors do get what you are going through. Only those you love and love you can even get the slightest hint as to the horror of this silent disease. I am not going to go over this and re-read this in fear that my message to you will be tainted. I think I have said what I need to say, and hope you heard me.
Kidney in waiting 