How I Became
My Daughter’s Pancreas

The day of our first session training session, Claire and I drove downtown to the hospital. Claire took her stuffed dog and played with it in the back seat on the ride down. I concentrated on driving. I didn’t want to think about the session, being overwhelmed with information, all the technical jargon. I especially didn’t want to look stupid. I didn’t want to ask dopey sounding questions.

I’m smart, I reminded myself, even intelligent. I could handle any amount of information they threw at me. I would do OK. When the pump had arrived in the mail, I’d reviewed the training book and tape that came with it. I had reviewed again last night. A college student preparing for a final exam couldn’t be more prepared. It would be OK. I didn’t have experience with this equipment, but I knew all the book material, how to set a basal rate and how to prime the thing. Everything would be fine.

“Mom,” Claire called from the back seat. “You just passed the hospital.”

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How I Became My Daughter’s Pancreas

How I Became
My Daughter’s Pancreas