It’s 2 AM as I finally crawl into the hotel bed after sitting on the floor for almost 3 hours. Hugh’s blood sugar has plummeted after a long day at a school convention out of town. As hard as I try, his blood sugar stubbornly careens to levels that would put a grown man in the hospital. 

I give him 4 juice boxes to bring it up as I crouch next to the air mattress he is sleeping on. He wakes up on his second juice box, nauseated and disoriented from the crashing low. I bring a trash can over to his bedside. I wipe his forehead with my hands. I shove candy into the side of his mouth so it will absorb through his cheeks. 

He tells me he feels horrible, like his entire body is on fire. He groans and grits his teeth. I tell him he’s ok, that his blood sugar will be coming up soon. I don’t completely believe what I’m telling him. My hands are shaking, but I don’t want Hugh to see that, so I quickly tuck them under my legs. 

I google when I should administer the life-saving glucagon we carry with us at all times – the medicine I give him if his body loses the fight with his blood sugar. I know the answer, of course. I don’t need google to tell me it’s only when he is unconscious. But I do it anyway. Because I feel lost and scared and somehow, google knows all the answers. 

Slowly, painfully, Hugh’s blood sugar begins to rise. He is safe for now. Three hours of sitting on the floor has caused my joints to stiffen. I limp as I stand up. 

I feel his face one more time before I collapse into bed. I brush my hands over his forehead, his cheeks, his hair. He’s ok. We will sleep for a few hours before waking up at 7 for another full day of activities. We won’t tell anyone about the scare this night. Not because we don’t want to talk about it, but because no one will really understand. 

As I lay with my cheek on the pillow, facing Hugh in case he needs me again, I feel it once more. Anger. Hot, boiling, seething, red anger – and it settles around me like an old, heavy blanket. Cumbersome and oppressing, yet familiar and comfortable. 

I’ve worn this blanket before. And sometimes it feels good to wrap it around me. It feels deserving – even justified. 

I’m angry at myself, for missing the cues that Hugh was dropping low. Good heavens, Sally. You would think after 9 years of doing this you could get it right. You should be able to keep him safe. How could you have let this happen? 

I’m angry at you – all of you who don’t have to live this life. Everyone who sleeps soundly at night with no alarms and no blood sugar checks. All of you who have healthy children. My anger burns hot toward the naive and the un-tested. 

And I’m angry at the Man Upstairs, who could allow this to happen to an innocent child. A child who only deserves good and pure things in this world. What kind of God gives this burden to a boy?

I pull my blanket of anger tighter around my shoulders. I like the way it feels tonight. The blanket settles around me and keeps me warm. It gives me the excuse I need to spew flames into the world. 

As I grip my blanket tighter, as the justified anger seeps into my bones, as I begin to allow it to stick around, Hugh rolls over and looks at me. “Thanks, Mom” he says sleepily and then closes his eyes. 

“You’re welcome, baby” I whisper into the dark. 

And I slowly unwrap the blanket from my shoulders. I fold it neatly and smooth out the wrinkles. I give it one last squeeze, then I place it in the closet and close the door. I know it will always be there, but I also know there is only one thing that can free me from it. 

I’m sure you know what that one thing is too, but I’ll go ahead and tell you. It’s Love. 

Love wins every time. Love gently unwraps the heavy blanket of anger or fear or pride or hurt and replaces it with arms that embrace me instead. 

Love turns my head to see you – because you’re wearing a blanket too, sometimes. 

Love helps me notice that we all have blankets of anger. And while your’s may not be because of diabetes, it’s there just the same. Maybe it’s given to you after a divorce or a death or a failure or a betrayal. Maybe you try to hide it by hurting others or seeing the world as a dark and scary place. But Love shows me that what really is going on is that blanket – The one you can’t quite ever leave behind. 

And yet, Love whispers to me and to you again and again that when life is hard, when we hurt, when we are afraid, when our anger takes over, we can turn to Love. 

Love will hold our hand. Love will walk with us. Love won’t make us feel comfortable, but will give us joy beyond belief. And in this Love, we will want to share it with the whole world. 

So take off your blankets with me, dear friends, and join me in the One who Loves. I have been told that our lives will never be the same.