Trust. Believe. Achieve. Also, pep talk #543

Too often I worry.

What if.

Have I done enough?

No.  I’ve never done enough.

Too often I question my abilities.  I wonder if I’ll be able to achieve the future that my mind and body desires so.

Too often I hope without having faith.  I put my head down, move forward and forget to trust in the future ahead of me.

Will I make it?  Will I succeed?

Spoiler: YES.

 Those questions in my mind do me no good.  Questioning my abilities only turns my eyes towards my weakness instead of my strength.  If I concentrate on the struggle, I will struggle.  If I concentrate on overcoming, I will overcome.

I will go in the direction of my thoughts.  Why don’t I set myself up for success for keeping my thoughts positive?

 What harm would believing in myself do?

What harm would it be to believe in something I don’t know how to achieve?  Seeing the impossible in front of me shouldn’t stop me from wanting it.  Who says it is impossible?  And why is that person right?

Because if I’ve learned anything in life it is this:  Things work out.

Trusting in a beautiful future doesn’t have to be naïve.  In fact, it can be genius.

Trusting that tomorrow will be better soothes the soul and relaxes me into a state that only CAN make tomorrow better.

I am what I think.

I need to stop doubting my abilities.  I need to find confidence in a tomorrow that is waiting for me with open arms.

Why not run to that tomorrow rather than tripping over myself to get there?

Why not allow myself to dream?  Why not allow myself to believe?

I may not be perfect, but I am capable.  And everything I lack can be made up tenfold by trusting in goodness.  Trusting in love.  Trusting in the positives.  Trusting in myself.

Why limit myself with self-doubt?

I can do anything if only I believe.

Tonight, I believe.

Tonight, I trust.

If it is true that one reaps what one sows, I’ll be harvesting a future of amazing…grown under the nourishment of hard work and perseverance.

Do you stop yourself from hoping because you can’t see how the endpoint will be achieved?  Maybe we need to stop worrying about that and trust in the dream.

If we put the energy into that dream, then we’ll move towards it…and even if we aren’t there today, we’ll be closer to it than we were yesterday.

And isn’t that progress?

Ryan used to always say, “Every day a bit better.”  Tonight I concur, and add…”Every day a bit closer to the dream.”

I can do it.

I am doing it.

I will do it.

I’m on my way.

Come with me.

Dear 97.

Dear 97,

The world would have me think that you’re all that.  I know better.

You are reckless and unpredictable, in fact I’d venture a guess that your middle name is Danger…I think it’s time the truth got out there.

Last night you came to visit just as my son was going to bed at 9:23pm.  Admittedly, a visit from 54 or 398 would have been a bit more disconcerting, but the pinnacle intention of this letter is this: you are just as dangerous.  You lull us into a feeling of comfortability and then, without warning, drop.

And drop hard.

It’s a cruel cruel joke.

I know that the possibility of you staying 97 is slim to none.  And even though I know that the possibility of you growing into a larger number exists also…I know the odds are not favorable to do so.

So I feed you.  You know I’m going to feed you.  That is why you come.

Pig.

And then you give me the virtual finger by jumping to a 248.

Even if I give just a couple bites of something, you put all of your effort into jumping as high as you can.  We all can see you are doing it on purpose.

97.  You are a selfish number.

97.  You hide under the guise of security, of “normality.”  You make us feel like you are a successful place to be, and then you take advantage of that vulnerability and cause frustration.

All I can do is shake my head at you and ask you to leave for now.

One day your impact on this family will be one of Styrofoam…neither here nor there. 

Until that day, I bid you adieu!

Ever so Sincerely,  

P.S. If you want to drop by for lunch on Saturday, I guess it'd be ok.

Their Diabetes.

We’ve arrived in new territory.

I started this blog just over five years ago.  Five years ago my oldest was 14 years old.  J was 11.  B was 7.  L was 5.

Today, our lives are not what they were five years ago.  Not even close.

As I look down the dusty road behind us, I see an enormous amount of progress.  We’ve covered a lot of ground…five years ago isn’t even visible in the rear view mirror anymore. It’s more of a memory than a point of reference.

Things were harder for me then.  Diabetes-wise anyway.

Going from doing everything, all the time…to where I am now, blows my mind.

Case and point: This morning I woke up before the boys and checked their blood sugars as they lay asleep in their beds.  I grabbed one of the boy’s pumps to correct and couldn’t remember the last time I had it in my hands.  It had to be at least a few days before. 

Can you grasp the enormity of that?

Five years ago my hands were on those pumps upwards of ten times a day, each.  Easily.  Now, even though it’s like riding a bike, it felt a bit awkward to give him insulin.

It didn’t feel like my pump.  It felt like his pump.

As I sit here and collect my thoughts, and try to collect my emotions too, I realize that it doesn’t feel like my diabetes anymore either.

It feels like theirs.

Sure, I'm aware it was always theirs.  But for a season, I held the stewardship in my hands.  I stripped their burden bare and wore it on my chest.  Piece by piece they've taken that burden back from me.  They are heavy with responsibility now.

All the boys are doing their own set changes.  J has been doing the midnight checks for the past month.  The two youngest confirm carb counts with me, but when I’m at school, they count/SWAG on their own…and they’re doing a pretty amazing job at it.  The scale has tipped.  They are doing more of the work than me.

In fact, they are doing most of it.

It gives me pause to think where this blog will go in the next five years.  It’s been easy to blog about my diabetes…but now that it is theirs, things get a bit more complicated.

I can blog about my mistakes.  I can’t blog about theirs.  That isn’t my story to tell.

I can blog about my feelings about diabetes.  I can’t blog about theirs.  That isn’t my story to tell.

I can blog about my journey, but now that my boys are taking the lead…its time for them to climb their own mountains and tell their own tales.

No, I’m not going to stop blogging.  I have too much to say.

But my authority on teens and tweens with diabetes will be flimsy at best, as authority infers the power to make choices and enforce obedience.  My boys are old enough to make their own choices now, and we all know how easy it is to force teens into obedience…

I won’t go as far as to say I’ll be a spectator…but I’m a supporting player now. 

My job will be to encourage. 

To lift up. 

To rally. 

To enhearten. 

To praise. 

To buoy. 

To console. 

To applaud. 

And to fortify what’s been taught.

The road is bending and the scenery has become uncharted territory, but my boys fearlessly blaze their trails anyway.

Honestly, I’ve never been so proud of them as I am in this moment.

Becoming comfortable with the unknown.

I’ve been marinating in new experiences.  (Meri-nating?) My life is full of the unknown, which in and of itself isn't anything new...but for the first time in a long time, the unknown  has become a thrilling prospect.

I’m not unsure anymore.

I think part of that has to do with finally making decisions, and another part is the fact that the unknown isn’t new anymore.  Each day I’m stepping further into it, gleaning familiarity with the landscape.

It stands to reason that the unknown isn’t unknown when it is more known.

(I’m good writer.)

Humor me?

Take out a pencil/pen/crayon/charcoal briquette…and write your full name...with your left hand.  (Or with your right hand if your dominate hand is the left.)

I’ll wait. 

Try it.

Ok, I know most of you didn’t do it.  I'm super sad about it, but you can keep reading...just imagine that you did.  What did it feel like?  Can you describe what the writing process felt like with your non-dominate hand?

Shaky?

Uncomfortable?

Awkward?

Hard?

Slow?

Painful?

Silly?

Different?

Regressed?

Frustrating?

Forced?

Clumsy?

Now think of yourself when you were faced with a new diagnosis.  Do these words fit?  How about starting a new job?  Maybe you were just divorced?  How about meeting someone important for the first time? A job interview?

All of those words are typical of the unknown.  Thankfully, as time passes, the unknown goes from shaky to stable.  From uncomfortable to comfortable.  From awkward to ease.  From harder to easier.  From slow to a steadier pace.  From painful to enjoyable.  From silly to amusing. From Different to normal. From regressed to progress.  From frustrating to encouraging.  From forced to natural. We don't feel so clumsy after time...in fact we begin to feel sure footed.

The combined components of time and the journey find us relaxing despite our fears and worries.  We look back and see how far we come, and confidence creeps in.  “If I made it so far, certainly I can make it so far more.”

I’m thankful the hardest is behind me.  I’m thankful I can stop looking at my feet, concentrating on every step and begin moving forward with my eyes on the future.

I feel like I’ve written my name with my left hand a million times since I lost Ryan.  It has taken time, but I’ve finally become accustomed to the new way.

Moving forward into the unknown feels natural to me now.  Any anxiety I have is melting away, revealing a core of sureness.  The unknown used to be a bed of nails, and now it seems to be more of a comfy couch.

I’m excited about my future.

Every step into it has reaffirmed that everything will in fact, be ok.

I’ve been saying it’s all going to be ok for so long, it’s been my mantra repeated over and over and over again...

I don’t have to convince myself anymore.  

I don't have to fake it 'till I make it...

I've made it. 

The movement has begun.

My whole mind and soul is still reeling on the heels of MasterLab at FFL.

The MasterLab agenda was filled with informative and motivational speakers, the most compelling being Michael Mangianello.  He was a key disturber of the AIDS movement, and played a pivotal role in putting a face on AIDS and getting policy and moneys allocated for the cause.

At the Children with Diabetes Friends for Life conference you are given a bracelet at registration.  A green bracelet means you have Type 1, a Orange bracelet means you love someone with Type 1.

Michael said so many things that socked me in the chest. Completely paraphrasing: "I walk down the hall and see these little tiny children with Green bracelets.  It makes me angry.  There are too many green bracelets. You are too comfortable with the status quo.  You have the numbers, you have the leaders, you have the means and the social networks....it's time to start a movement."

Which begs the question, is our community passionate enough to start a movement?

Are we angry enough to start a movement?

I'm afraid we might not have it in us.  Yet.

I say that because I know that JDRF, the ADA and others have asked us to do simple things for our cause, and for the most part, we don't do them.

They, on occasion, have asked us to call our congressman.  Did we do that?  Very very few of us do.  One phone call, and most of us can't even make it.

We are asked to write.  We are asked to comment.  Are we?

If we can't do the little things, how can we rise up and do the big?  How can we shut down the White House switch board when we can't even get a handful to make the calls?  What is stopping us?

I think I have a small inkling of what it may be.

During the MasterLab event there was a presentation on the Spare a Rose Campaign.  It highlighted the good the DOC can do when we put our collective forces together.  Spare a Rose raised money for children all around the world in developing countries who don't have access to insulin.  It saved lives.  Literally.

But the comment was made: "What about the children in the US?  Why aren't we helping them."

And another comment, "How can $5 save a child for an entire month?  It just doesn't make sense."

I think sometimes we realize that our helping is only a drop in the bucket, or in our case, a drop in the silo.  We see clearly there is so much that needs to be done...surely my $5, my call, my letter won't make any real difference at all.

Which brings us back to the starfish principle.  The little girl that was throwing starfishes back into the ocean after the tide went out?  A gentleman, after looking down the beach at the thousands and thousands of starfish questioned why she was even bothering when she barely would make a dent...she wasn't really making a difference, right?

"Well, I just made a difference to this one." She said as she threw another starfish back in the ocean.

Small things done collectively can make giant changes in the world.

Until we start believing that nothing will change.

Don't depend on others to tell your story.  Your story is unique and important.  One of my favorite quotes from MasterLab is, "You know how the saying goes, if you've spoken to one diabetic, you've spoken to one diabetic."

Our uniqueness is powerful. We are letting it divide us, when really it should be used to unite us. The fact that everyone's diabetes is different is one of the reasons we need to make a fuss.  The world is making blanket assumptions about Diabetes, and we're letting them.

Your voice is needed in the din.  It could be yours that finally brings our voices to the surface, just like that little Who down in Whoville that made all the difference to his community.

Is there something moving in your chest yet?

Is there fire there?

If yes.  Good.

If no.  Find that match.

Start HERE.

This is our time.

The movement has begun.