My name is Kelly.
I am 38 years old.
I am a mommy.
I am a pancreas.
Last year, our baby girl Mia was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes just after her 6th birthday. It was the week before Easter. Thankfully, the Easter Bunny adjusted his basket accordingly. (He got the memo.)
We all adjusted. What choice do we have? Accept it, live with it, deal with it, struggle with it, battle it.
In the last year, I have had to coerce blood sugar checks and adjust insulin to match every food imaginable, in every situation imaginable. On the beach, amidst a funeral, on a dusty softball field, even on the Magic Teacup ride. (Pixie dust not withstanding, we all know Diabetes does not rest; not even at the Magic Kingdom.)
Like every mommy, I strive to meet my child's needs. All of them. In the middle of the night, during play, at school, when she is hungry, when she is unhappy, and even when she thinks she doesn't need my help, I am there. Always.
So after all of these years posing as an adult, in just sixteen short months, I have become a grown-up. A real one.
I have become aware of my child's amazing strength and resilience.
I have become her champion, her true guardian.
I have become her pancreas.