Written by:  Paul Summers Jr.

Most every aspect of my life changed the afternoon my eight-year-old daughter was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. As a divorced parent just a few years into sole custody, regular patterns of how I slept, ate, interacted with other parents and teachers, even how I dated (which was rare anyway) were sharply altered. Whenever I felt I could barely go on, which became most days, I would remind myself: I have the easy part.

During our overnight hospital stay after diagnosis, she threw a curve-ball my way.

“What could I do right now that would make you happy, honey?” I asked.

“I wish I could have a little brother.” She answered.

Having diabetes meant a whole new regimen. It immediately descended like a wet blanket over my already trying schedule. Pile on top of working full-time quarterly doctor visits, daily drawing of life-saving insulin via syringe and hourly finger-pokes for blood checks via lancets and test strips—oh my!

Separating from our usual mediocre diet and light exercise lifestyle meant getting accustomed to workout misery and joyless mealtimes. Then, just as our routines were leveling somewhat; once her A1C was finally bouncing toward manageability, puberty hit. Riding out biological learning curves as a parent is natural. Add in pens and pumps and sensors.

When blood sugars still ran unimaginably high, I blamed myself.  A frequent caller to the advice nurse, which often did more for deflating than educating me, I made an appointment with the doctor.

“It’s like trying to get an arrow in a constantly moving target.” Her endocrinologist told us.

“Yeah, but with a blindfold on, sitting backwards on a rodeo bull.” I replied.

He could see the desperation in my demeanor. Not only was I running out of endurance, I was running out of bad dad puns. I needed help. He suggested a way to get in a rejuvenating break. Living in the Oregon/Washington area, parents of Type 1 kids are blessed to have Gales Creek Camp.

Tucked away in the lush forest of Oregon’s Cascade Range, G.C.C.’s attendees are split into separate weeks by age groups. Boys and girls get to spend six days among other diabetic warriors. The camp is fully staffed with a doctor, registered nurse assistants, and camp counselors – most of which are alumni campers. It truly is a miracle having a few days to rest assured, knowing your child is in a safe environment, surrounded by others whom they can relate to.

By my daughter’s fourth year at summer camp, the ‘Toxic Tween’ years had begun. The changeover from the elementary school years to middle school kids is noticeable. Each were beginning to look and dress to reflect their emerging personalities. And there was a plentitude of attitude. For the first time, my daughter Lola couldn’t wait to create some distance upon arrival; to go claim her independence in front of her peer group.

Picking her up later that week, I was informed she’d made a new friend. Zoe was like a different fingerprint from the same hand. They both loved creating art, embracing anime’ and dyed hair and emo music. Ick! Sorry, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. Where was I? Oh yeah. At the awards ceremony which wraps up the week, they were called up together by the counselors, who poked fun at how they were inseparable – like two sisters.

“Daddy, Zoe gave me her phone number. Can I hang out with her sometime? She lives in Vancouver.”

I looked at the phone number. It looked wrong. It had a Portland area code, then a Washington prefix. Neither ‘tween’ had a cell yet, so I figured it must’ve been a mistake. Maybe written down incorrectly? Not long afterward, Lola brought it up again. I showed her the piece of paper it was written on, then explained how it probably isn’t right. She had me call it anyway.

“Hi, this is Jennifer. Please leave me a message.”

I felt I would sound stupid if I left a voicemail. After all, a few weeks had passed since camp. Not feeling confident I’ve reached the mom of the kid I’m trying to, I hung up.

A year later, Lola and I return to Gales Creek Camp. For each age group there are two different weeks parents can choose from. As I walk up to the registration line, Zoe is there with her mom, Jennifer.

I’ve read somewhere that when a person finds you attractive, their pupils get small. Meeting Jennifer, I could barely see through mine. Hers were normal size.

I introduced myself, then tried to make small talk; uncomfortably forcing myself to be witty. At this point I had been companionless for nearly six years. I was out of practice, resolved to the notion I would wait until Lola was grown to pursue romantic interests if ever at all. Jennifer’s stoic response to my rhetoric—conversation skill better suited for a twelve-year-old, practically sealed the attraction door shut.

Fortunately, Lola and Zoe’s friendship picked up right where it left off. Which meant Jennifer and I would stand in close proximity for the next hour or so; however long it took to get the girls checked in and settled in for camp.

I felt like a fourteen year old as her and I walked side by side, even though I had nothing to say. My head was drowning in all sorts of giddiness. I told my inner romantic thoughts to simmer down or be shut down. If I was to be anything to Jennifer, it would have to be a friend.

I did notice, however, she wasn’t wearing a ring. How lame would I be, I asked myself, for coming on to a mom in front of my little girl, at a camp for kids with diabetes? Really man, get it together.

I lowered my shoulders and shook off all selfish want for attention. I secretly hoped having Jennifer see the kind of affection and close interaction I have with Lola would soften her. I hoped she would see how I’m a man with depth of feelings for my kid, evidenced by Lola’s affinity for me. None of this occurred.

After we said our goodbyes to our daughters, we walked to our cars. Again, silence. Maybe she’s just the quiet type. The mix of thoughts scouring my head was debilitating:  She’s out of my league. She probably can’t wait to get away from me.

The answer is always no until you ask.

“Well, have a good week.” I said, with a bend in my tone to indirectly inform her I want to keep talking.

“You too.” She answered, emotionless.

“See you on Friday.” I stated, this time flatly.

“No. I have to work. My mom is picking Zoe up.”

Ask. Do it now! But choose your words carefully.

“Hey. Would you be okay if we exchanged phone numbers? You know, like a support group for each other?” (awkward)

“Sure.” Jennifer answered, sounding more dutiful than desirous.

The following Friday, when I picked up Lola, I met Jennifer’s mom. Cathie was the opposite of Jennifer in the talkative department. As the awards ceremony ended, but before everyone headed home, Lola asked me if we could invite Zoe to her birthday party coming up.

Finally, I had a good, non-pick-up line reason to call Jennifer. So, I tried. She didn’t answer. It went to voicemail. Later, I got a text message back asking me to leave details. She would have her mom bring Zoe. This was no longer looking like Jennifer was playing hard-to-get. Friends it is.

Through talking with Cathie at Lola’s party, I was told Jennifer is divorced. She’s been on her own, raising her two kids for as long as I have. Both have T1d. Her son, Evan is two years younger than Zoe. Both were diagnosed before their third birthday.

About a month later, I got up the courage to call Jennifer. I wanted to ask her what she would do when her daughter’s numbers never seemed to come close to target. Again it went to voice mail. I left an open-ended message.

“Hi. I’m having some issues with Lola’s blood sugar highs. I’m not sure when is good to talk, so I’ll try back another time. Unless you could give me a call back.”

Having a T1d child has taught me a thing or two about perseverance. We learn to keep going through tough patches when it seems hopeless. As parents, we are constantly setting examples for them to live less complicated lives by. In my past, there surely wasn’t much to work with. I had to present for my kid what I hadn’t learned for myself: discipline, routine, maintenance, and determination.

I tried Jennifer again a week later. I felt the need to make sure she wasn’t worried I was some weirdo stalker. This time she answered. Our conversation was short and to the point. Not my preferred mode, but I knew how to adapt. T1d taught me this as well.

Over the next two months our phone interaction gradually ramped up. The ice in her veins was thawing. One night, with stealthy intention, I snuck in a few questions about dating experiences. Hers, like mine, were few and far between. She, like me, put her kids first. Both of us have firsthand experience of the barren pool of availability when it came to courting someone who understood diabetes care.

I wanted to break the ice once and for all by asking her out, but my gut told me to wait. Because of this, I was able to pay close attention to Jennifer. She seemed more enamored by complexity and abstinence than obviousness and blatancy. I chose to let whatever was going to happen between us happen naturally, spontaneously. By this point, I knew she’d be able to see through my forcing things to happen any other way.

Another six weeks passed. Our brief conversations ran longer and became more vulnerable, revealing, and transparent. Once it was made painfully clear neither of was looking for nor needed a partner, I asked her out. She said yes. We agreed to discuss details at another time, both anxiously embarrassed, hurrying to get off the phone. I let out a resounding “Yeah!” while looking upward and thanking God.

Shrouded in secrecy, we had our first date. Dinner, no kids. We went for a walk afterwards. On the sidewalk of a quite non-romantic residential neighborhood, I made my move. As far as a ‘last first kiss’ exchange was concerned, before any sparks could fly, a blinding porch light came on from the house we stood in front of. Overly concerned with making the homeowner suspicious, I grabbed her by the wrist, holding her hand as I walked her to her car.

“This is going a little too fast for me.” Jennifer said.

“I don’t know how to move any slower with you, but I can try.” I answered.

In that moment, I realized she was right. We both have so much to think about, to consider, to ponder, to weigh. Moving forward, I would no longer have two hearts to protect, I would have five. Every single action and emotion came under scrutiny of doing right for our kids’ well-being. Is this even possible? We would never know for sure unless we gave it a chance.

To our benefit, we weren’t in a hurry. On our own, both of us had resigned to accepting the daily handling of our parental duties as single parents. We valued what mattered most, our kids, above our own needs.

Yet it was impossible to ignore how undeniable it is that we were brought together. We had too many similarities and things in common to ignore the possibility our hearts were meant to intertwine. Even though we came from broken marriages. Even though our kids were diagnosed with a disease which has unfathomable ever-changing life-threatening attention-needing demands. Even though we lived some 31 miles apart. Everything about being together felt right.

We went through some of the ‘normal’ walls, barriers and traps adults go through. No amount of not seeing eye to eye, pushing away, or being distant kept us from coming back to the table to work things out. Doing what we could to allow our growth to occur naturally, we gradually progressed from one of us having the others’ daughter stay overnight, to pre-planned occasions such as going out to plays, cooking dinners together, and day hikes.

When the One Walk JDRF fundraising event came up, the kids started a team called the Anime Geeks. Jennifer and I took advantage of the opportunity. Not only would we invite our extended families so that they could get more educated about diabetes, but also have a chance for them to casually meet each other.

Eventually, we started staying over each other’s house. I would always sleep on the couch. Not because of any moral obligation. There was no false pretense. We both firmly believe that, as parents, we are setting an example of our values and the expectation we will have of our kids as the teen years come and go.

It was getting harder and harder to pretend we were just friends. Driving together one evening, both girls giggled in the back seat. When asked what was so funny, the girls confessed that they ‘shipped’ us. An innocent, pre-teen slang which meant they’d like to see us get hooked up. My heart nearly came out of my chest. Could this really happen? Could we fall in love, and do so with our kids’ blessing?

I’ll never forget meeting Jennifer to go for a walk at an overlook with a view. A place sort of halfway between our houses. With the romantic backdrop of city lights multiplying as the sun sank into an orange purple sky, I told Jennifer I could see us getting married. Not to sound insecure or dramatic, but I honestly had no idea how she would react.

“I could see that, too.” She answered, with a mix of apprehension and deliberation.

We spent our first holiday season together, as close to family as five people can be.

Certain of which direction I wanted the relationship to continue, I asked Jennifer’s mom (her dad passed) for her blessing. I needed to personally let her know how precious her daughter and grandkids are to me.

Next I took Zoe, then Evan on a short drive to let them know my plan. I told them how much I wanted to marry their mom, but I wasn’t going to unless I had their approval to do so.

Lastly, I had a long talk with Lola. For as far back as she could remember, her life—our universe together—centered around just us. This would mean having to share, something she’d always been good at. She accepted my proposal with the promise that she will always, always be the most important person in my life.

“I promise.” I said, tears welling.

Jennifer did the same. After the two of us got confirmation from all three kids I asked her to marry me. She agreed. Nearly two years after our first phone conversation, we exchanged vows during a modest, affordable ceremony.

Somehow, the worst day of my life – the terrible diagnosis of my baby having Type 1 diabetes  – set into motion the joining of two single parents who had all but given up on the dream of having a loving companion and co-parent for their kids.

Jennifer and I each sold our houses so we could relocate into one place we’d all call home. The Fam Five finally became official. Together, we’ve moving forward, navigating the grinds and gifts which define daily life with the family disease of diabetes.

 

Email:  psjauthor13@gmail.com

Website/blog:  paulsummersjr.com