One day not that long ago, I got a note from a friend which read, “You are brave and strong and talented and an awesome momma bear, and I wish I had more time or words to express how grateful I am that I get to know you… your Ada girl is BEYOND amazing, and it’s because she sees a fighter in you and a strong supporter of her best life, and I tear up when I read about her and this new normal, but man, oh man, did God know to give her the best mom in her corner and in her world to equip her and encourage her and bless her by example. You are amazing my friend.”
I have been fortunate to have several friends speak life-giving words to me in my darkest of times. This was not the first message of encouragement meant to assure me that I’m doing a good job; I have several messages with similar sentiments, but something made this one stick out. The message is beautiful, and I will treasure it forever, but even more than the words, what I will likely always remember so vividly is the way I felt reading it. I teared up, and realized almost instantly the reason why. What made this message so different was that I actually believed her. I didn’t just believe she meant what she said, but for the first time in a long time, I believed those things about myself too.
Mom guilt is a real thing. I feel guilty that my husband comes home to a messy house, but when the house is clean, I feel guilty that Miles was ignored so much. I feel guilty when my kids watch too much TV, when I yell, or, heaven forbid, when I need a break. All these things we feel guilty for as mothers have little to no effect on our kids, but our deep desire for them to have the best life and the best of us make mothers ridiculously hard on themselves.
I have spent so much of the last six months beating myself up for how I failed my daughter in the days leading up to her diagnosis. Unlike routine “mom guilt,” this guilt is actually warranted. I made mistakes, huge mistakes that could have had dire consequences.
The first mistake was at Ada’s eight year well-visit appointment. If I had just pointed out to the doctor that I believed she’d weighed more and ask for him to evaluate why, Ada could have been diagnosed before she was even really sick. It would have still been a shock, but she could have stayed healthy. Realistically, most parents would have thought the same as me and figured a two pound difference was due to different scales. I can pretty much let this mistake go even though I would love to be able to redo that appointment!
Between that appointment and when Ada was diagnosed, there were dozens of times that Aaron and I questioned what was going on with her. I still wonder why I didn’t act sooner and take her to the doctor. I think that was largely due to her history of anxiety, and knowing that she’d always snapped out of it within a few weeks; thinking that she was exhibiting signs of depression, we thought and hoped she’d snap out of that in a similar time frame. Perhaps I was in denial; I wanted to think she’d turn a corner and be back to her normal self. Several times we thought she had, though they were fleeting. When push comes to shove, you do the best you can with the information you have at the time, and after all, nothing hurt which is why you usually take your kids to the doctor. We weren’t neglectful; we were watching her like a hawk. We were just mystified by her symptoms; we didn’t understand it. We poured ourselves into her, showering her with attention, fun activities, anything we could think of to bring a smile to her face. Obviously, I wish I had brought her to the doctor sooner, but knowing the intentions behind the actions (or lack thereof) is comforting.
What I have a harder time forgiving myself for is not bringing her to the ER when we realized that she had lost a ton of weight and was actually very ill. If I could go back, I wouldn’t wait, despite the nurse’s insistence that she would be fine for two more days. Those two days were torture. They haunt me because now I know how very blessed we are to have survived them. Not taking her to the ER then was the single biggest mistake I’ve ever made. It is a mistake that thankfully didn’t lead to any long term consequences, but it could have which is why it’s still hard to forgive myself.
I’ve questioned these actions so much because it is so uncharacteristic of me. Usually I’m the overprotective parent, the one that’s fine paying a twenty five dollar copay just to rule out an ear infection. But this time Aaron pushed to go to the doctor first, and wanted to go to the ER right before diagnosis. The only thing I can say is that fear is a funny thing. It’s terrifying to see your 8 year old struggle to find joy, losing interest in virtually all of her favorite activities. It was even more terrifying to realize that she was the sickest we had ever seen her. In that moment I wanted so badly to believe the nurse, to think it wasn’t that bad, that of course she would be fine until the appointment…
Despite my failures, she’s doing just fine. In fact, she’s healthier now than she has been in years. Yet I have still had a hard time forgiving myself, though I’ve never doubted God’s forgiveness or Ada’s. I have been plagued with guilt, especially when I focus on the “what ifs,” but I realized that if I judged myself on my motivation, intention or love, I wouldn’t be so hard on myself. And something else has helped me forgive myself… caring for my daughter. In the first few months after diagnosis, my world revolved around her so much that it left room for little else, even sleep. Like any good mom, I’m willing to put my kids’ needs ahead of my own. This school year, Ada is at a different school in a different city than where we live, and there’s no school nurse. That meant that for the first few weeks of school, I was making the forty minute round trip three times a day, twice for drop off and pick up, and usually once more at lunch time until I trusted the nurse to do his job. I have sacrificed a lot to make sure she was able to go to a school that has been so good for her. And I have sacrificed a lot to make sure diabetes has as little negative impact on her as possible. I don’t say that to toot my own horn, but my point is that taking care of her, comforting her, advocating for her… all of that was healing for me. If I live in the present and focus on all that I’m doing right now, I know in my heart that I’m doing a good job. I needed that time of pouring my time and energy into her well being to realize that despite my mistakes, I’m a good mom, not a perfect mom, but a good one. It took time, but I believe it now.