My sleep was full of holes last night. I kept waking up worried about Nick leaving for camp today. It’s a diabetes camp; all of the kids and over half the counselors have Type 1 diabetes. The camp has been around for 20 years or so, offering a safe and exciting camp experience in which diabetes is the norm. Sounded like a great idea – when I thought Bobby would be going down there with another dad and camping nearby. But his work schedule changed enough that going would be a problem, so Nick’s traveling the hundreds of miles and eight hours with the other dad and his kid. The other dad is a smart, cautious, responsible kind of guy; I am not worried about that.

But I can’t stop the horrible scenarios running through my mind. Perhaps an affliction brought on by too much news-reading, news-watching and an overactive imagination. Freeway accidents, earthquakes, fires, bears… Really, I’m being paranoid and know it. That doesn’t make letting him go any easier, though. I don’t know if I’m even doing the right thing any more. It sounded so good when the other parents talked about it, when I read the website. I’m crushed he decided to skip Lost Coast Camp this year, even though he says it’s not because of the diabetes. I thought this would be a great way to keep him doing the camp thing while knowing he’s surrounded by a full staff of capable people who know how to handle all the blood sugar concerns. He’d have a break from worrying. He still does everything anyway, and we make sure the people around know what to do, but ultimately the responsibility rests on him being aware of himself – and the trust in other people has a bit of a blind hope element to it. Will they really notice if he’s shaky and low? Will they be patient while he figures out the carbs and insulin? Would they pull the glucagon kit apart and give him that shot if needed?

At camp, the staff knows. There’s no questions. He can relax completely for once and just swim, hike, run around assured that other people are looking out for him. He doesn’t have to carry his supplies – they’re all provided. All the other kids’ll be having shots (the ones not on pumps), so he won’t be the last one to eat all the time. This is what I wanted for him.

It will be good. He’ll just be so far away – for days and days. I feel a physical pull on my body already, a painful tugging at my heart.

Now I’m telling myself, “Breathe, breathe.”

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