No words, really.

So, here goes.  This is probably a bit whiny in parts, but I feel the need to get this off my chest. What better place than the internet, right?  Once it gets put on here, it's forever.  Like herpes.

I have no words to express how sad I am right now.  Yes, I know it's kind of stupid for me to say that, since I'm putting words in this little draft box as we speak/read.  I also have a huge bundle of other emotions fighting for supremacy in the intricate workings of my inner psyche...proud, overjoyed, happy, nervous, terrified, paralyzed with fear...but I am overwhelmingly sad, so that particular part of my emotions must be kicking total butt right now in the whole "I'm King of the hill" pile o' feelings.

My youngest is moving to college next week.  But that's great, you say.  And it is.  I am SO PROUD of this young man.  He is killing it.  Junior college honor graduate, Who's Who Among American Junior Colleges, Associate of Arts, Phi Theta Kappa, computer science major.  But at the same time, I am sad.

I totally understand that this is typical Empty Nest and that it's the whole circle of life thing (cue the Lion King music).  Every parent that ever cared about their children has gone through this particular stage in development, the stage where your children are all of a sudden grown overnight and out doing their own things and you're left with a mini-van and a pantry full of juice boxes wondering what the heck just happened.

Things are a little bit different in my situation than they are for a lot of parents.  And no, I don't think I'm special and therefore it must be hitting me harder than it does everyone else.  They really are different from the norm.

Okay, I'm rambling now.  Time to get to the point.

My youngest was diagnosed with Addison's disease when he was 12 years old. (Learn about Addison's Disease Here)  He had been ill two years before that, and by the time he was diagnosed, he was VERY sick.  We almost lost him twice during what we know now was Addisonian Crisis.  It was a scary time.  It took years for him to get regulated on steroids.  He did part of his junior high and all of his high-school education homebound and online, all while having sick days and hospital visits. Gradually, the sick days became fewer and the hospital visits became less.  He wound up graduating a year early, and by the time he entered junior college, he was able to go back to campus.  Luckily, the junior college is not far from our home, so he still lived here during that time.

I remember how it was in the early days of Addison's.  He was so sick.  He tried to stay in school at first, but it didn't last long.  He collapsed one morning and had to be rushed to the hospital.  He was at home after that.  If it had not taken so long to get him diagnosed, things would probably have been different.  But primary Addison's in children is rare.  Yes, JFK had it, and, yes, he became president. (Read about how sick JFK REALLY was Here.)

All that is water under the bridge now.  He is regulated fairly well for the most part with his Addison's and is able to live pretty much a normal life as long as he takes his steroids and has safeguards in place for any setbacks.  All is right in the world, eh?  Well, it was until the latest autoimmune monster reared it's ugly head.

In November, Youngest was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes.  Holy crapbaskets.  In the last seven years, we had mastered Addison's, kicked it's arse, and now here was T1D to remind us that no, we are not in control, and no, we have not truly mastered anything.

It's like starting from square one all over again.  Like getting to the other side of the checker board and waiting to be king-ed but instead the opponent slamming all the pieces off the board, picking it up, and smacking you in the head with it.

Now he's moving to a new college, with a new monster to dominate at the same time.  And he will dominate it.  Of that I have no doubt.

Why couldn't all this have happened to me instead?  Why does he have to deal with this while also trying to deal with everything else becoming an adult entails at the same time?  My Faith says there is a reason, though we may not see it yet.

Since November, we have begun to learn this new normal.  Insulin injections, finger sticks, continuous glucose monitors, carb counting, and coming soon an insulin pump of his very own.  It's overwhelming, to say the least.  This is where the problem comes in, for me, anyway.

I'm the type of person who does her best to fully educate herself when something new comes along.  I scour the Internet, join every Facebook group I think could be helpful, talk to every person in the know that I can.  I look for books (usually something ending with "for Dummies").  I've tried to learn something new about Type I Diabetes every day over the last several months.  The problem is, it's not really my job anymore.  It's his job now.

I don't really like that it's not my job.

See, in my mind, I still see that 12 year old boy.  I was such an important part of keeping him healthy back then.  We were together 24/7.  When he was sick, I was there.  When he was afraid, I was there. When he wanted a whole bag of Doritos and that was the only thing in the Northern Hemisphere I could get him to eat, I was there.  It was my job to be there whenever he needed me, and I did the best I could to always do that.  I oriented my entire life around his health.

He doesn't need me to do that anymore.

He is 19 now, and perfectly capable of establishing his own new normal and dealing with his own issues.  Do I always agree with how he does things?  No, of course not.  We moms always think we can do things better and more efficiently, and we have a habit of trying to tell them how to do everything.  They aren't always happy with us when we try to help them.  Nagging, they call it.

Things can get downright ugly sometimes when you are trying too hard to be helpful.

I do try too hard to help, I know that.  Guys trying to transition into adults don't like that.  I know the best thing for me to do is to fade into the background and just be there when needed, but, man, is that difficult.  I became a mother 28 years ago, and you don't cut those apron strings easily.  Well, if it's a 28 year old apron string, it's probably rotten and will just rip in two.  Okay, that was a bad analogy. The point is, it's hard to let go.  Letting go makes me sad.

Letting go makes me sad.

He's moving to college next week.  Hopefully he has space in his trunk for his piece of my heart, because he's taking it with him.