A few days ago, one of the boys in our neighborhood came over to play with my six-year old son, Sacha, and our black lab, Molly.
Unfortunately, the boy was allergic to dogs, and by the next day, he’d developed an uncomfortable rash around his mouth. He’s even more allergic to cats, so his parents are going to have to give away their long-time pet. It’s breaking their kids’ hearts.
A few days later, as I was doing a particularly painful insertion of his pump set, Sacha began to cry, saying he hated his diabetes.
Knowing how much Sacha loves our dog Molly, I asked him, “if you had to decide, would you rather have diabetes, or would you rather have an allergy to Molly?”
Sacha didn’t hesitate for a moment: “Diabetes,” he said firmly.
Hmm. Does that help?
If it helps for now, that’s good. But it probably not always. My grandson and my daughter-in-law have a standing joke between them. Jen will say to Jack “well, at least it’s not diabetes” and Jack will say back to her “not hemophilia either.” I don’t know what in that gallows humor comforts them, but it does.