When I was diagnosed, it was fine. But this time, it’s my daughter

It was a long night. The darkness stretched like an endless, unspooling black ribbon. But I didn’t cry because I wasn’t grieving. Also, the tears were hiding somewhere inside, and I didn’t know how to find them. I had this sensation that I was teetering at the edge of a jagged cliff, and I held on tightly to the edge of my bed all night. I would not fall.

In my mind’s eye, I saw a memory of another night many years ago, when I teetered at the edge of a very different kind of cliff. I was in my teens then, and I knew that if I could just make it through without falling, I would be all right.

The memory of that far-off night merged with the chasm I was in now like clasped fingers in a handshake, two unique, far-apart worlds touching each other, intertwining to transmit a quiet understanding.

Shira is four years old. She’s my youngest, my sweetheart, born in my fifth decade of life.

She’s in the bath, and I notice that I can see the shape of her ribs. Wait, what? Shira is my little pudge. I don’t think I ever noticed she had ribs. Come to think of it, her skin is a paler shade of white than usual. A little wisp of worry tickles my gut, but disappears before I can attend to it.

A few days later, Shira is in the bathroom, crying. She has wet herself, for the third time that day.

“Mommy,” she whimpers. “I want to sleep in the bathroom! I have to! Every time I finish going, I have to go again!”

This last part, she hiccups out indignantly. My husband is in the hallway, shepherding the older kids to bed, and he overhears the comment. We look at each other, startled.

Shira comes into the kitchen and asks for a drink. And another. And then another. It takes five full glasses of water to quiet her thirst. I lead her off to bed and tuck her in gently.

It’s late evening, the kids are asleep, and my husband says, “Something is wrong with Shira.”

I agree. But I’m afraid to look at him. I know what comes next.

“I’m going to check her blood sugar while she’s sleeping,” he says.

“Okay,” I answer.

“Just on a whim, just to rule it out.”

I nod. Of course. Just to rule it out. I stay outside her bedroom, leaning on the doorframe, as my husband goes in with the blood glucose meter. You see, the further away I’m, well, the further away I’m, right?