To Those Who Prayed –

To those who prayed, I would like to say thank you. It seems like a silly thing to say now, 18 months after Hugh’s diagnosis. I should have said it months ago, during those first hard days.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t say thank you for your prayers because I was harboring a secret. I couldn’t say thank you because I knew that I was not praying myself.

I had no words to pray. I didn’t even try.

It’s something that is hard for me to confess. I should have been talking to God every minute, asking for strength and wisdom and a peace with this diagnosis. But I was not. I was silent.

I just did not know what to say to God. Please heal Hugh? I knew there was no cure for diabetes. And even if Hugh was miraculously cured, what about the other children out there suffering? Was it fair to ask for healing for my son and no one else’s child? Should I ask why God gave this to my son? Even in my darkest hours, I did not believe God gave Hugh diabetes. My heart understands that we live in a world where there is sickness and hurting and sometimes there is no reason for it. Give me back my son the way he was? I knew that life would never be the same.

So I said nothing to God. Every time someone told me they were praying for us or I got a card in the mail telling me the same, I thought, “What’s the point? Praying won’t change anything now.”

I’m sorry for taking your prayers and putting them on a shelf. I’m sorry for discounting the time you spent with our names on your lips. I’m sorry I did not see sooner your prayers for us were carrying us through.

But now I see. Now I see that when we were exhausted and heartbroken and grieving, you were praying. You prayed when I could not. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.

Our burden was heavy, our burden was sad, our burden was hard. And I stumbled under the weight of it all. God did not hear my prayers during that time, but he heard yours.

So to those of you who prayed when I could not, thank you. To the church members in our congregation, in our parents’ congregations, and many other churches – thank you. To the parents of children with T1D who prayed – thank you. To my Grandmother’s exercise class who prayed – thank you. To all of you who murmured Hugh’s name during bedtime prayers with your own children, who whispered his name while driving in your car, who thought of him when you did not even know who he was – thank you.

I like to think that this is how prayer works. That in our times of despair, when we have no words to say, others are taking our place – stepping into our line – taking over our words and our tears and bringing them to God. I like to think that these prayers are even stronger than if we said them ourselves, because they are given when they do not have to be.

I want you to know your prayers were heard. We are doing ok – we are doing more than ok, we are doing great. Life with Type 1 Diabetes will always be hard, but we have so much to be grateful for. Not the least of which is you – those who prayed.

Sally

When Hugh was first diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, among the many thoughts that ran through my mind, was “We can say good-bye to family vacations”. I’m not sure why I thought this. I thought a lot of things in those first few months that came out of an overwhelming sense of fear, loneliness, and loss. Simply put – I was scared to take Hugh out of the state. I was scared we would end up in the hospital where we knew no one and had no relationship with a doctor. I was scared we would forget his supplies and be left with no way to manage his diabetes. I was just scared.

But fear has a funny way of driving us forward. Wasn’t it Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “You must do the things you think you cannot do” ? That doesn’t leave us with much of an option, does it? WE MUST.

So last year, we packed our bags and many, many diabetic supplies, prepared as much as we could, and headed to the beach with some great friends. (As an aside, we Southerners can’t get enough of the beach. We live in places that are blazingly hot and humid, and we still flock to the beach like pilgrims every summer. We grow gills and become water bugs, lazily enjoying the humidity and salty sea air that seem to pulse along with our Southern hearts.)

And here is what happened:

It was wonderful! We had a great time! Yes, there was a lot more planning on my part, a lot of calculation and always packing snacks, but it was a good vacation! I felt like I was keeping an imaginary score card against diabetes in my head.

Our Life: 1

Diabetes: 0

So this year we again packed our bags and the many, many diabetic supplies and headed to the beach with just the four of us. (Our gills had grown back after a long, cold winter.) My score card had gained many more points on it throughout the year, and I had confidence.

But the thing about diabetes is – it is still hard. No matter how many times I prick Hugh’s finger, give him his insulin injection, and count carbs, it doesn’t get easier. When we stopped at a convenience store and Hugh asked for an ICEE, but there was no sugar free option – it was hard. When we checked his blood sugar in the parking lot because he said he felt funny, and it was 62 (a regular blood sugar is around 100) – it was hard. When I had to pull out the meter on the beach and wipe gritty sand off of everything just to get a reading – it was hard.

And I could have gotten lost in my own sad feelings and loneliness again, if it hadn’t been for one thing. I couldn’t see the first few days we were at the beach. I had torn my contacts and didn’t have a replacement pair with me, so for two days I wandered around blindly hoping no one would notice my confused looks and squinting eyes.

When you can’t see people very well, you pay a lot more attention to what they DO than what they look like. If we as moms are very honest, part of going to the beach is to look at the other moms and compare ourselves. We are all very aware of who has the best after-baby body and who is struggling with a new shape. We watch the moms who are thin and wish we could look like that. We see the moms who are shapelier than us, the moms who have better abs than us, the moms who never even looked like they had kids, and we constantly compare. Truthfully, it is the worst part about going to the beach.

But as I said, I couldn’t do that this time because all I saw were fuzzy shapes and colors. There was no comparing. And do you know what I saw?

I saw a mom play catch with her two year old son over and over again in the surf. He couldn’t catch and he couldn’t throw, but she patiently played with him and encouraged him. I saw a mom stand at the slide on the splash pad while her toddler went up and down it at least a hundred times. I saw a mom almost rip her arm out of socket while holding hands with her little girl who wanted to play in the waves. The waves would knock the little girl down each time and the mom never let go of her hand.

I saw a mom with a toddler on the beach, but she also had her adult brother with her who was blind. She managed to walk her toddler and her brother along the sandy shores with gentle, guiding arms and a smile on her face. When I saw this young mom, I thought of an older mom I had seen on the beach the year before. Her daughter was in a wheelchair and they had brought her in one that was specifically designed to roll along the beach.

I couldn’t help but be proud. I wanted to walk up to each of these moms and say, “We did it, didn’t we? We did what we thought we couldn’t do? Way to go, Mom! Where should we try next? Europe? Bahamas? Climbing Mt. Everest?”

I’m sure the moms who were playing with their children on the beach would have much rather been lying under an umbrella, reading a book and taking it easy. I know the mom who stood thirty minutes at the water slide would have much rather gone inside and taken a nap. And I’m almost positive the mom with the brother who was blind and the mom with the daughter in a wheelchair probably thought the same as I did – “We can say good-bye to our family vacations.”

But we didn’t let the fear and exhaustion lead us. We did the exact thing we thought we couldn’t do. And we are stronger and wiser and happier because of it.

Moms at the Beach: 1

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

― Eleanor Roosevelt, You Learn by Living: Eleven Keys for a More Fulfilling Life