life and puppies

Hey there. This thing on?

I’d been wanting to write, and then I watched something in which someone said blogs weren’t a thing anymore, which pushed me to come back. Hearing someone say, “Blogs aren’t really a thing now”—or whatever she said—weirdly made me feel better about wanting to return here. And what is here? Is it an amplified diary? A cry for attention? An attempt to mark that I exist? Just a banal way to connect? A super lame overshare? I don’t know. But I know that it sometimes makes me feel connected to others I love, and I like that I get to use it to use my voice. And that’s enough.

I’m already breathing a little easier.

But I’m also trying to steel myself for all the ways I’ll inevitably annoy her within the first hour of her return. Egads. Not for the faint of heart.

When we left Bear at sleepaway camp last week, I experienced the most emotional pain I’ve voluntarily subjected myself to. I’m on the fence about whether it was the most emotional pain I’ve felt because I’m nearly certain that her diagnosis was worse, but I felt like I was shouldering that pain with others so I think it felt somewhat more diluted than this current hardness. Either way, this has to be the worst gut punch of my choosing.

While I know Aaron was scared and trepidatious about this current journey, and I know he’s been here with me every step of the way, it feels like I’ve traveled this path more alone. I think that I’ve felt that way for a couple reasons.

First, because it was my idea to send her, and I pushed for it. I knew that Aaron could and would say to me, when I would express sadness or fear, “Well, this was your idea; I didn’t suggest it.” And would be right to say it. Overnight camp was my idea, and it’s kinda been my thing from forever. So, if this goes sideways, it’s on me. I will own that. (But ow.)

Second, holy omg I can’t even. T1D can be so lonely in itself. What the mother effing are we we thinking?! She’s T1D, 11 years old, and can’t change her sites or sensors alone. And this camp, while it said it could do it, CANNOT DO IT. They’ve made her so nervous that she doesn’t want to go back to the health center. She’s avoiding them! And I can’t get in touch with them directly—I have to keep leaving messages—and I don’t get calls back. And yes, everyone: I get it. It’s a big camp. Lots of campers. But I’m not talking about a kid with a splinter or a sprained ankle (super legitimate injuries, by the way). I’m asking for help for a kid with a chronic illness who needs help to live.

I just want everything for her.

I want her to see the world. And to be able to move safely in it.

I read an article recently in the NYT in which a woman described how she felt when she first saw her newborn, and I couldn’t feel that it was more apt to how I feel with my 11 yo at camp. She said, “She was a part of me, like if someone took my heart and it was now separated from me and I could see it over there.”