Janet Lynn Mitchell

Numbly, I left my husband, Marty, at the hospital where I had been visiting two of my children and headed for the grocery store. Since it was eleven p.m., I drove to the only store I knew was open twenty-four hours a day. I turned my car motor off and rested my head against the seat. What a day, I thought to myself.

With two of my young children in the hospital, and a third waiting at Grandma’s, I was truly spread thin. Today I had actually passed the infant CPR exam required before I could take eight-week-old Joel home from the hospital.

Would I remember how to perform CPR in a moment of crisis? A cold chill ran down my spine as I debated my answer. Exhausted, I reached for my grocery list that resembled more of a scientific equation than the food for the week.

For the past several days, I’d been learning the facts about juvenile diabetes and trying to accept Jenna, my six-year-old daughter’s, diagnosis. In addition to the CPR exam I’d spent the day reviewing how to test Jenna’s blood and give her insulin shots. Now I was buying the needed food to balance the insulin that would sustain Jenna’s life.

“Let’s go, Janet,” I mumbled to myself while sliding out of the car. It didn’t take long before my mumbling turned into a prayer.

What if I make a mistake and give Jenna too much insulin, or what if I measure her food wrong? And God what about Joel’s apnea monitor? What if it goes off?