There was not supposed to be anything particularly auspicious about Saturday, November 5th, 2016. It was going to be an ordinary Saturday. In my Saturday uniform of yoga pants, hoodie, and flip flops, I willed it to be a normal Saturday, as I performed my typical weekend grocery run. Shortly after arriving home and feeding my son lunch, he walked over to his toy mat, threw himself down on the ground, and began to cry out in a way that sounded eerily sad and almost as if he were in pain.

Moments prior I was talking to a friend and colleague, a pediatric neurologist, about my son’s strangely disrupted sleep and my concern he might be diabetic (based almost solely on a two day history of increased urination). She must have somehow sensed I needed that extra push to get beyond the fear that I was merely being neurotic, and she said “you know you are going to have to bite the bullet and test him, or else you are going to drive yourself crazy.” I knew she was right, and upon hearing his cry, I packed him up into the car and drove him to urgent care. 

Our pediatric urgent care was just closing, so I drove him to one closer to my own office that I knew had extended hours. When I arrived, I told the medical assistant (MA) that my son had polyuria (excessive urination) and polydipsia (excessive thirst), and I was here to test him for diabetes. So he cleaned him and placed a urine bag on him to test for glucose (sugar) and ketones (indicative of acid build up, a known complication of diabetes) in his urine. When the attending physician entered the room, I explained that my son had been having polyuria and polydipsia, words which she must have thought I googled, because she responded to say it “is probably just post-viral.” My gut reaction was that she had made that up and was using it to reassure me without unilaterally dismissing my concerns. 

But I paused for a moment. As someone who spends much of her day telling parents that what their child has is likely viral, I considered how much I hate being doubted by parents. So, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, but asked if we could just test him anyway. Afterall, the urine bag was already on him. I also hate when parents try to insist on tests, as I do not like to order tests when they are not necessary, but I was not asking for anything expensive or invasive. She acquiesced and stepped out of the room. 

I admit I felt a little silly, as if maybe I was overreacting. Mildly content with her explanation, likely only because that would have been a much better outcome, I settled, momentarily, into the notion that everything was fine. I was more than willing to believe that there are many medical entities about which I am completely unaware. So I decided to do the one thing that drives myself and most doctors crazy. I googled it. I found nothing. Not a scholarly article or even a “fluff” non-evidence-based article on the topic. Any slight validation I might have felt was massively overpowered by concern for the alternate explanation. This all transpired quickly, although it felt like hours, and at this point my son had peed into the urine bag, so I had the MA take it off in order to test the urine.

In reality the time spent awaiting the results was probably not more than twenty minutes, but it felt like a long time before the doctor returned to the room. At first she did not say a word. She merely let a small but audible sigh escape her lips. I immediately began crying. Before she could say anything beyond, “I was surprised,” I burst in with the words, “it’s OK. I already knew.” I am still not sure why I did that. I think it was a combination of having been in her place as a doctor and being charged with the task of delivering bad news, plus my own past experiences of receiving (or not receiving in a timely fashion) a difficult medical diagnosis. Then of course there is also the fear that once the words are uttered, it becomes real. But I distinctly remember sensing the awkwardness of her having to tell me that she had been a bit quick to attribute his symptoms to a virus, and that I wanted to make her feel more comfortable because, as physicians we all make hasty assumptions at times. 

She asked how I knew, and I told her “I am a pediatrician.” Understandably, she then asked why I hadn’t led with that particular tidbit of information. It was a bit of a blur, but I think I said something less than insightful such as “I don’t know.” However, the truth is twofold. 1. When I teach residents, I often tell them that when a parent (especially when it is not their first child) tells you something is wrong, you owe it to them to listen. If a parent is significantly concerned, my senses go on high alert, because they are often right. Thankfully she did listen to me and agreed to test him. 2. I did not flaunt the pediatrician card, because I did not want to be a pediatrician that day. I wanted to be his mom. That was the role I needed to fill that day, in that moment. Perhaps that role allowed me those extra moments I needed to bask in denial. Maybe I just needed an objective party to be the one to confirm my fears

So it was there, on what was to be an ordinary Saturday, that the last moments of prior normalcy slipped from my grasp. Three years later I can only vaguely remember what “ordinary” even looked like, as it was eclipsed by our new normal. But three years later, one extraordinary four-and-a-half year old kid is celebrating his 3rd Diaversary! November is diabetes awareness month, a time to celebrate all the kids and adults who, like my son, are extraordinary heroes.