“Mom, I want to live on campus too,” Micah insists after I tell a friend that he is going to be part of NDSU’s TAP program and that 90 percent of these students live on its premises—away from their homes and caregivers. I admonish myself for divulging this information (once again) within earshot of my […]
The gray-haired man wearing a red and green plaid kilt, bagpipe slung over his shoulder, walked toward the front of the elevated platform, performing his mournful interpretation of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Another man, about twenty years younger, moved toward him, offering screeching and sizzling notes from his peach-colored electric guitar. An auditory feast
“Would you stop talking?” Micah asks, glaring at the tall thirty-something man in white coat and glasses standing beside his hospital bed. I don’t have to ask why Micah is irritated. The sticky tape keeping Micah’s IV in place was the first thing I noticed when I’d entered this small enclosure through the white curtain.
I’m tired. Tired of late nights waiting for Micah’s blood sugar to come down, tired of changing failed insulin pods (there’s been too many lately), tired of the tedious process of calling or going online for replacements, tired of anxiety, tired of the friction it causes in our family. So very tired of not being
Micah opens the passenger door to our light gray Bronco looking like he’s lost his only friend; his eyes are moist, his cheeks streaked with tears. It’s 12:30pm on the last day of high school. I had sensed melancholy in his voice over the phone. “Mom, they said I can go home early. You can
An organized mess lies atop the built-in credenza behind our long light wooden dining table. This is operation central for planning Micah’s graduation open house celebration. At full chaos, there were piles of graduation announcements and white envelopes, a large notebook filled with lists, post-it notes, my black calendar book, a couple packages of two-sided
“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m really grieving this year,” a good friend says to me as we stand in the grocery aisle holding cans of soup on a Tuesday afternoon. “I get it. I’ve been feeling that way for the last two or three years,” I tell her, my eyes
On Sunday morning, Micah and I sit across from each other at the white-topped island in our kitchen. We eat fluffy yellow scrambled eggs, oven-crisped bacon, and wheat toast with low-sugar apricot jam. I bring my flowered pink coffee mug to my lips and look at my son, still in his navy plaid flannel pajama
In six months, Micah will be eighteen. In six months, he will be able to make important life decisions without our supervision. In six months, he could leave home and try to live without our protection. In six months, he could decide he wants to manage his diabetes care by himself. In six months, he
rise of the guardians Read More »
Micah has always had a passion for movies. It’s a rare day when he doesn’t talk about some character or scene or song from a soundtrack. He especially enjoys talking about actors. Tom Holland, the latest SpiderMan, is a recent favorite, not to mention the late Chadwick Boseman, who played the main character in the
emotional rollercoaster Read More »