I nod. It's my fault. My face betrays nothing of what I'm thinking.
"It's nothing you did," she smiles reassuringly.
It's something I did, I think. Or didn't do. It must be.
I think of the repositioning tactics I tried but how he still insisted on sleeping on his right side. I think of how many times I failed to notice him preferring turning to his right. How I didn't have torticollis on my radar because he seemed to have full range of motion in his neck.
 |
| Dibbs getting his DSI (imaging) for his helmet. He licked the stocking on his face. And drooled a lot. |
"No, it's just that he was a big baby and he didn't have a lot of space in utero. It happens."
Aaaaaaand...there it is. The kicker. This woman doesn't know that I have type 1 diabetes. Doesn't know that "big baby" is one of the many phrases we tire of blaming ourselves for. And it's all the ammunition I need to metaphorically shoot myself with the guilt gun.
