I spent a brief part of this morning wiping tears from my eyes. Initially, the tears fell because of a sweet story I read. Then, the tears fell because of a sad story I read. Ultimately, the tears fell as I thought about my mother and everything she has done for me in this life, but especially for the things she’s suffered through during the last 17 years – the time I’ve been a diabetic.
The first story I read was sent through an e-mail. As I was trying to find the blog online, I ran across the second story. (The first story can be found here. The second story can be found here). In the first blog, a mother wrote about how she was not an MD, but she was an MoD, (mother of a diabetic). She shared her stories of her “normalcy” which ironically enough, is anything but normal. She justifies her feelings:
“Maybe it’s the life and death calls I make every day. Every hour. Sometimes every minute,” she writes. “It’s easy to pretend it’s not like that. It’s easy to push it away and forget. It all gets so routine. But it’s not routine. Not having to inject your child with something so that she can stay alive. So… I may not have a fancy medical school degree hanging on my wall … But I AM a doctor. I AM a nurse. I AM a pancreas. Like it or not.”
My mother was this way. I remember her waking up in the middle of the night to check my sugar or to turn on the light and see me react. I remember her packing my diabetic bag before we left the house, no matter how long we planned to be gone. She always had snacks, glucose tabs and juice boxes everywhere. She put up with the blood and the tears and even the whines. And she did it with every grace in the world.
I don’t remember my mother ever being upset over having a daughter with diabetes. I don’t remember ever seeing her cry, other than my initial diagnosis. I don’t remember her throwing up her hands and saying, “I quit,” as I wanted to do the other day. I only remember her patience and her consistency. I only remember her encouragement and her ability to push me when I didn’t think I could be pushed anymore. I only remember her standing up for me at school and in other arenas when I wasn’t treated fairly. (She’s also the reason my old high school serves Diet Coke).
It’s those memories that made my tears continue to fall as I read the second blog post. You can read it here, but it’s an imagined conversation between God and his angels deciding which woman will be given which child. God explained why he chose a particular mother to give a diabetic child. Here’s an excerpt from the post:
“I don’t want her to have too much patience, or she will drown in a sea of self-pity and despair,” the author writes imagining God’s voice. “Once the shock and resentment wear off, she’ll handle it. I watched her today. She has that feeling of self and independence that is so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I am going to give her has his own world. She has to make the child live in her world and that’s not going to be easy.”
My mother is that woman. My mother is the perfect combination of qualities, virtues and Christian faith, and I truly believe, it’s why she was chosen to be an MoD, Mother of a Diabetic. I only hope that I show my mother through my life and my actions how much I appreciate her.
I am fortunate enough to have a good handle on my disease. I don’t let it define me, and I rarely (usually only on my diagnosis anniversary) have a pity party or a sad moment about having diabetes. I am strong, and I am confident. I look for its positives, and I advocate for a cure and for awareness. I am this way because my mother was this way. I was chosen by God for this because he knew I could handle it. But more importantly, he knew my mother could, too. My mother is an MoD, and a darn good one.