Alarm bells greeted me as the elevator doors opened.
The waiting area was the typical hospital scene. Aging copies of Home & Garden and Popular Mechanic were strewn about over tired coffee tables. Those were surrounded by haphazard chairs and one sad television playing the local weather on an endless loop.
Added to the mix were my brother and father. They were both milling about anxiously and looked like they had been crying, or were about to.
I instantly knew what was going on.
“That’s her,” my brother confirmed.
After decades as a Type 1 Diabetic, my mother’s health had been steadily deteriorating due to issues with her heart and kidneys. She had been in and out of the hospital for months, but this time had felt different.
She’d begun to collect fluid in her legs and eventually her lungs as a result of the heart and kidneys struggling to function properly. This made breathing a challenge, but options were limited as any solutions would tax her already overburdened systems.
About 10 minutes before I walked through those elevator doors she had gone into cardiac arrest.
After a few numb minutes as the latest member of our strange family gathering, the doctor came out with a forlorn look on his face. He explained that they were still working on her, but that they hadn’t had any success to that point.
I knew they needed to stop and said something to that effect out loud. My Dad tearfully agreed. The doctor attempted to console us as best he could. I remember he hugged us both. I think my brother had snuck off towards the room.
This is an outcome that I would imagine many in this community don’t care to think about. I don’t blame anyone for that. I also know that it’s important to confront the realities of the potential negative outcomes of this disease, both for patients and caregivers alike.
Seeing the things I’ve witnessed has only heightened my previous concerns with respect to caring for my fiancé. It adds some strain to keeping the balance between being a concerned partner and not being overbearing.
I always worry, but I also know Megan is a brilliant, fully formed adult who has been living successfully with T1D for nearly 30 years.
I’ll always remember my final conversation with my mother. She was struggling to speak but when she found out that Megan had come to the hospital and was out in the same waiting area we’d be in the next night, she gasped between breaths that I needed to take care of her and get her home.
She was more concerned with Megan’s oft-embattled immune system than her own.
Finding the right blend of concern and trust is a difficult thing, and something I’ll probably write about in the future. It’s an ongoing battle, but one that’s unquestionably worth fighting.
The Friendly Neighborhood Diabetics 