Finding the sweet in the sorrow

It's 4:30 in the morning. Elise woke up crying; not the out-and-out screaming like she does when her BG is low, but my gut told me I needed to get up and check her. She's at 74, an obnoxious number. It's close to being okay, but with 3 1/2 hours to go until wake-up time, it's not a number I'm comfortable leaving her at. Plus I have no idea if her BG is in the process of going up or down.

So I pick her up and take her downstairs with me. It's a drill we've done a few times before because as soon as I walk into the kitchen, she starts squealing, "Na-na? Na-na! Na-na!" Elise-speak for banana. I hold her and try to chop up the banana, fretting over how much to give her. I don't want to overshoot and have her sky high when she wakes up, but I want to make sure it's enough to get her BG to a safer number.

Evidently, I am weighing the banana and doing my calculations much too slow because Elise starts to scream and grabs the banana before I can cut it up into bite-sized pieces for her. I had settled on 6g of carbs, but she cries and demands more. At this point she starts shaking, so I worry that her BG is crashing and I end up giving her the rest, 10g of carbs in all.

Back upstairs, with a wailing Elise in my arms. She is tired and she doesn't feel good. I sit in the rocking chair in her room and silently count the seconds as I rock. We are enveloped in a cocoon of darkness. Elise lays with her head on my shoulder, her cheeks wet with tears. Sobs turn into whimpers, whimpers into shuddery breaths, and then nothing. The squeak of the chair is the only noise in our world right now. I sit and I rock.

When I'm sure the 15 minutes have passed, I check her BG once more. It's 160, a good safe number. My work here is done, time for me to place her in her crib and steal softly back to my room. But I don't. Instead I sit and I rock.

Her warm breath tickles my arm and I breath in her soothing scent of lavender. Her hair is soft and silky against my cheek. I listen to her breathing and hug her closer. I ask God to protect her. To hold her in His hands the rest of the night and for all her nights to come. I ask for wisdom in taking care of her, patience and endurance. More than anything, I ask Him to help me when I am weak. I pray as I sit and I rock.

I know I should be going back to bed. I am tired and daylight is coming soon. But instead I hold her, kiss her head and pray for her. She feels good in my arms and so few are the moments like these, so I sit. And I rock.