End of the Honeymoon

Last week I went to diabetes class with Selah. It was surprisingly intense and detailed and its underlying theme was - the honeymoon's over.

When you're a new diabetic, your body slowly begins to stop making insulin until the only insulin in you is that which you have injected. It's called the honeymoon, and it's a slow fade of your own production, when you can be a little freer with measuring and injections and guessing carbs. If you have determined that your bread is 15 grams of carb and it turns out to be 17, no big whup.

Selah is at the end of her honeymoon, and there's a sobering change to how her carb intake is calculated and what insulin she is to take. The dietician recommends a scale just for precision's sake.

Honestly, at any other time in my life, just the thought of that loss - of permanent change - in my daughter's life would have floored me. But I'm forced into this newer perspective, one that recognizes that through God's providence and grace there are ways not just to keep Selah alive - but for her to flourish and live a happy life. Selah was the only person at her school from grades 1-5 to get the Presidential Fitness Award.

The honeymoon's over everywhere in our lives. This is the first month we've stared into the jaws of life without Jen's paycheck; considered the idea that we might have days, months, weeks...years? of a severely disabled daughter who might at some point pass away; the honeymoon's over with our church and our finances. Bill collectors have resumed calling. And it's a moment beyond energy or stamina - to sheer will - in terms of getting through the night.

I was explaining to a co-worker a few days ago that I was up with Zoe from 3-4:15 AM the night before. The co-worker nodded and smiled and asserted that they, too remember those days. True...with one big difference. Practically the only advice we've received recently from a physician is to keep Zoe calm, that her heart rate when upset is just too high and her body doesn't operate well then. So, we go through a kind of mania when Zoe cries. And when she stays upset, we get more determined, more concerned. More worried. More scared.

Last night Zoe was upset much of the night. Feeding, Tylenol, cooing, humming...every solution we could consider would not help her. And all I could think was please calm down. Please.

Life isn't a honeymoon. My parents are celebrating 50 years of marriage this weekend - dwarfing the length of their honeymoon. I bet they won't bring up one honeymoon memory at their celebration. It has been 50 years of work, recalling all the joy, all the lessons learned, all the grace and love God showered on them.

The doctors told us to go home and enjoy our days with our daughter. We will. But the honeymoon's over. There's work to be done, a real life to live, and a genuine hope that we'll experience God's blessing and guidance through these coming days.