...and the story continues...if you haven't read the first part, click here
We arrive at the hospital and check in through the ER.
Bean has gotten over, mostly, the fact that we are not going to be going to the birthday party and since she's feeling fine, she's eager to start watching a movie on her little DVD player. She tolerated them putting in an IV to start fluids and insisted on a bandaid for her finger when they poked it. (She was in the 300s on their meter. Don't remember the exact number and honestly don't care because it was less than what we had seen at home.)
Ubergeek and I start the process of explaining to person after person after person "what brought us in today" and try to wrap our heads around what is going on. After being in the ER for about four hours, we're told that Bean will be headed up to a Children's Hospital room for the night and that a Nurse Practitioner would be there in the morning to go over all the information we needed. Um, OK...we had already figured out what was going on, but none of the nurses or doctors had actually said the words. So, Ubergeek asked point blank, "so this is diabetes?" and the reply was "there's nothing else it could be." And there you have it.
So, up a few floors and into a room and the calm before the storm settles over us for a few minutes.
A lot of the first few hours in the room are a blur...I know they gave Been insulin, I know they brought her food, I know she had a bandaid on several fingers.
What I do remember is our night-shift nurse. He was a short, solid Russian fellow (think gymnast) who had the most amazing bedside manner with Bean and with us. He was quiet when he came in, as gentle as possible with finger pokes, and closed the door quietly when he left. He talked to Bean to let her know what he was doing; talked to us to help us process a bit of what was going on; and said something to us in the wee hours of the morning that echoes in my head often. He told us that we were beginning a life long journey with diabetes and the sooner we made friends with it, the easier it would be because is much easier to carry a friend than an enemy.
Then and there, that's what I did. I knew I didn't like it, in fact I hated it, but I couldn't go into this journey like that. It wouldn't do me any good, surely wouldn't do Bean any good. I could fight it, but wouldn't win; I could curse it, but it wouldn't go away; I could scream and yell and ask 'why' a thousand times, but D can't hear and the 'why' will never be answered.
Sunday was insane. The Nurse Practitioner came in just after 8am....hello?!?! we haven't slept all night and you think we're up for some serious learning that early in the morning? We had barely started eating breakfast. But, in she came with her wagon full of D stuff.
Almost three hours later, we take a break. Seriously, three hours.
Bean got to ride around on some of the bikes they had available on the floor and hung out in the craft room for a while. It being Sunday, and there only being one or two other patients that were toddlers, she had the run of the place.
Back came the wagon and NP for more. We practiced shots, heard about Glucagon, went over how much insulin to give for what amount of carbs and blood sugar range. It was mind-numbing, but we listened and did our best to take it all in.
Bean was so not happy about the shots. She pulled her 'I'm not ready. I need a break' crap that she does when she has to take any medication. It just about broke me when I had to explain to her that it makes no difference if she's 'ready' and there's no time for 'breaks' with this. If she wants to eat, she has to have the shot. Ugh!
The NP scheduled an appointment for later in the week at her clinic and went on her merry way. She would have one of the hospital nutritionist come in and then we would be free to go.
So, the waiting began. I curled up on the 'bed' in the room and tried to dose for a bit while Ubergeek took Bean back to the craft room. He came back in, by himself, a little while later, looking broken. He told me that Bean had asked him if she had diabetes. Hello?! She had been in the room with us the whole time, hearing what the NP had to say; she had had finger pokes to test her blood sugar and insulin shots. But somehow it hadn't registered to her almost six and a half year old brain what was going on. He explained to her that yes, she did and she cried. Not a lot, but she cried. Then she moved on.
Armed with a backpack full of D stuff and a chart of insulin doses, we headed home.
Brains foggy, eyes blurry, emotions all over the place starting on this lifelong journey with our new 'friend.'