coyotes

A tall skinny Christmas tree stands in front of black-trimmed floor to ceiling windows in our sunroom. I stand in front of it removing ornaments from the artificial branches. The windows, which cover three of the room’s four walls, separate me from the sea of snow that covers last summer’s lush green grass, long bluish-green pond, and well-manicured golf course. The white continues upward onto a dike then stops where ice-frosted trees with black veiny branches begin…woods that hide the river below.

Last winter coyotes boldly ventured out of those trees, coming over the dike and onto the golf course in broad daylight. One day I’d been next to our living room windows when I sensed movement in my peripheral vision. A sight out of the ordinary: two animals on the dike just outside of the trees. They were quite far apart from one another, the smaller one scampering away, looking back at the slightly larger animal who was in slow pursuit.

“Definitely a coyote chasing a fox,” was Todd’s conclusion after watching my video.

Later that week, while helping Micah settle into bed, our ears perked up to the sound of a pack of coyotes howling far down the river. Their lonesome yaps and cries were thrilling to hear but also evoked a sense of eeriness.

Walking along the Red River had always brought me peace, a way to enjoy nature in every season. I’d regularly taken Boomer, our beagle, for walks alongside it for almost fifteen years. Not once had I seen anything bigger than a squirrel. But now, seeing the coyotes on the dike, I was hesitant to continue.

“They’d be more afraid of you than you of them,” Todd assured me. I didn’t share his level of confidence, so I stuck to walking on the streets for the rest of winter and spring. But when June arrived, I couldn’t help but resume my treks along that wooded path. I pushed thoughts of coyotes to the back of my mind.

Then, around mid-October, my walks came to a halt. It was around the same time we were being trained on a new insulin pump for Micah. I was anxious and impatient for this technology to work perfectly from the get-go. But several times we’d had connection issues or trouble with insulin pods. Initially, we were slow to know what to do. I was thankful for the diabetes nurses at our children’s clinic who answered my many questions, helping to quell my anxiety. I knew that if we ever wanted tighter blood sugar control for Micah, we’d have to keep at it; we’d have to adjust to using the pump.

I felt compelled to write about the whole stressful experience. Then, in November, during a virtual writing retreat, the instructor encouraged my fellow writers and me to go outdoors and look carefully at our surroundings; could there be something in nature we might use in a particular piece we were working on, something that might inspire us in our writing?

I scribbled notes as I walked around our backyard: the clusters of black-hilled spruce laden with pinecones, crunchy frost-covered grass. Then, looking toward the river, I remembered the coyotes. It seemed I always looked out the window at the right time catching them in their sneaky audacity. Why had they come out into the open? Perhaps they were the inspiration I needed.

Back inside, I did some research. I discovered that the coyote is the species of least concern for extinction because they’re so good at adapting to human-modified environments. Although they are considered pests to some, and consequently are subject to poaching and other methods of removal, their numbers were at an all-time high in North America at the turn of this century.

Despite my feelings of wariness toward them, I had to admire their scrappiness, their sheer endurance. This was an animal that was used to change, one that did what it needed to do to survive.

Living with type 1 diabetes is an exercise in perseverance for all who endure it. When Micah was first diagnosed, the doctor told us that diabetes care would eventually become our family’s new normal. Of course, someone who has t1d has no choice but to adapt, but those in the family who provide care for this person must as well. There is so much to adjust to, so much interruption to lives lived much differently before. Testing blood sugar before every meal by poking a finger to draw blood, giving insulin injections, dealing with emotions gone awry due to high or low blood sugar, getting used to the alerts and beeps from the CGM (continuous glucose monitor) and the insulin pump, the constant routine of changing sensors and insulin pods. It takes time, and I imagine every person—every family–responds differently. We are not all made the same. It has taken me longer to adapt than I’d like to admit.

But then, one day, you realize that you don’t give it a second thought–all this poking, injecting, monitoring, responding. It has become second nature—the new normal you were once told to expect. You have adapted to this new way of life.

The other day I asked Todd if he thought we’d see the coyotes this winter. “Oh, they’ll be back,” he said.

In a way, I hope he’s right. If I happen to catch a glimpse, I’ll now look on them (albeit through the safety of our windows) with more appreciation and respect. Somehow, they’ve reminded me that those of us with t1d or who care for someone with this medical condition are much stronger than we often feel. All we must do is look back and see how far we’ve come and know that we have what it takes to persevere.

I know Micah is depending on it.