A Generation or Two
- Editorial Staff
- 7 hours ago
- 4 min read
by Ethan Jones
For Brent
He began to lose weight. A slightly paunched pre-teen with a sense of humor like old cartoons, he started to change. It was curious. Worrisome. So we buried it.
We noticed he would drink and pee like others would breathe. His thirst was untamable.
She and I knew what it was, though neither of us was ready to admit it. Silence was our only language.
I had to make my normal trip to San Antonio. She asked if the family could come along. It was an easy answer.
Our year pass to the McDonald Observatory was about to expire. We love space. At night, where we live so far from the city, we can see the glittered sky with ease; the telescope is our friend.
We were a bit euphoric. The timing meant we’d take in not just stars, but six planets. I had thought the Observatory would be our memory of the trip, but I’m not often right.
In the hotel, he would shuffle back and forth from his bed. Sleep then pee. Pee then sleep. We told ourselves—aloud this time—we have to check.
Once home, we took his blood sugar. His number was high; too high. And we knew at that moment what it meant.
Anger was my mode. Sadness crept behind. Soon, a flood of inarticulable emotions came, and their waves pushed me under. I had no breath. Not knowing what to do, I did the only thing I could. I went outside and planted trees. No human contact; my company was only slender bark and root balls.
He really didn’t feel so bad. We explained to him our thoughts on what his body was doing and what that might mean. Given his habits and the height of his blood sugar, we told him he likely has some serious form of diabetes. We would have to take him to the doctor to confirm, but we offered our parental wisdom.
He was cool and unflappable. “Umm, okay,” was something like his response. Unbothered by these adult concerns, he went about his business of childhood. Something like acceptance and something like ignorance, he graced the world with his pre-pubescent confidence.
At the doctor, he listened like an attentive student. He put questions to the doctor and nurse: “Can I check my own blood sugar?” “Can I give myself the shot?” Who is this pre-pubescent protagonist?
Pride dried up the emotions from earlier. The destructive waters subsided. The trees were verdant.
At home, we didn’t hide our praise.
His younger brother, also quite sick at that moment, had gone to bed. Timing has never been our strong suit. This newly declared type-1 diabetic climbed up and into her lap, like he was a much younger child. He collapsed there. With a sadness that cut deep, he confessed, “I just want to stay here.” Her arms were safe. Her lap was a fortress for a brave and frightened boy.
He cried. We cried.
He started to understand. Every day. Every meal. Everything had changed. He would never be done with this. He would never age out. This is not something to get rid of.
Since then, life has been up and down. But his mirth maintains. With confidence and comedic timing, he told her, “Mom, now we’re the Diabeters.” They became a team that day. They now have an intuitive, almost secretive, understanding.
I struggle to find the good in my son’s new life. At times, though, there are glimmers.
She took it hard. Wondering if it was all her fault. Her life-altering illness was now his. Her child will walk the path she has walked. The impulse of wanting to protect your child is a good one. It gets complicated when you can’t.
She can teach him, guide him, and model how it is to live like this. She’s been doing so his whole life. But now she sees it differently. Everything will be harder for him. Everything will be harder for her, too. She knows that.
These days are spent in measurements and calculations. We assess how his body is doing. We respond with the appropriate food. On-demand chef and waiter in this season of learning. It’s not so irritating that daily rhythms are interrupted. It’s just that he has to experience it.
Prick. Shot. Dinner.
Medical health overwhelms. The cost, the appointments, the drugs: they take over our lives. It’s a helpless dependence on some amorphous provider, “the insurance company” we call it.
Questions are unanswered. Will he blame God for this? Will he reject God because of this? Will he become bitter?
This was unexpected and unwanted.
It took a while to notice, but over the last five years or so, I have lived in the Psalms. These potent little poems have had a lasting importance in the life of the church. I didn’t read them to be a good Christian, though. I read them because I had to. My life demanded it.
My bouts with depression, my mourning our stillborn daughter, my ever-present thoughts of losing someone I love. These put my nose to the Bible’s poems. I’ve wanted to feel their breath.
Nights have become days. Sleep is a luxury. Worry is my native tongue. These psalms have led me to trust. A pained trust, to be sure. But I’m learning, slowly, how to put the pain where it belongs, to give it to the One who can bear it.
Days are still not pleasant. The younger one is still sick. Even when we can fall asleep, we have to rise to check the older one’s blood sugar—small, uninteresting, but completely necessary moments in our days.
Ethan is a Visiting Fellow at Magdalene College (University of Cambridge), where he is writing on poetry, prayer, joy, and the Psalms.